#not entirely sure if coroner is the right word ? he did autopsies.

[leiawritesstories]

PART SEVEN: JULY

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: swearing, so so much scheming, pissy Rowan, snarky Aelin, innuendo, references to sexy times, breaking and entering and other criminal behavior, Maeve, violence, and a splash of angst

enjoy...? @house-of-galathynius i did an oopsie 😈

Masterlist

Read on AO3

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In the absence of Captain Westfall, Lieutenant Whitethorn has been made temporary head of the investigation into the Orynth Assassinations. 

Rowan knew for a fact that multiple people in Orynth PD were fucking pissed about that memo, but it was jointly signed by the Chief of Police and Commander Gavriel Ashryver of the Terrasen Special Forces, so nobody could complain. Chaol’s murder had, apparently, been something of a kick in the ass to both the police and the TSF, and as a result, the special forces had openly partnered with PD in an effort to solve the case, arrest whoever was behind the murders, and put the Shadow Assassin behind bars. 

In the meantime, Rowan had an entire investigative team now turned to him for directions, and he didn’t fucking know where to start. 

The morgue was supposed to have the results of Chaol’s autopsy an hour ago, and he hadn’t heard a damn thing from them. He could allow a bit of extra time, but if he didn’t have autopsy results in his hand by the end of the day, he was going to be fucking angry. That autopsy was key to uncovering who had slaughtered Chaol, and once he had that information, Rowan could finally set into motion the part of his plans where he laid a trap for Celaena Sardothien. 

Right on cue, someone knocked on his door. 

“Come in,” he said brusquely. 

Borte stuck her head into his office. “Autopsy report for you, Lieutenant.” 

“About time.” He took the papers from her. “That’s all, Borte.” 

“Sure thing.” She turned to leave. “Coroner should have his report in a week or so.” 

“A week?” Rowan snapped. “What the hell?” 

Borte’s dark eyes narrowed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the coroner’s office is a little fucking busy at the moment. A week is the fastest he said he could get this case done, and only because it’s Westfall.” She’d never been one to take anyone’s shit—years of working as the medical examiner for Orynth PD had thickened her skin. 

“Fucking hell.” Rowan ran a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. A week it is.” He turned to the autopsy report in his hands, barely hearing the door click shut as Borte left. His eyes scanned the lines of text rapidly, noting the key observations from Borte’s examination. Some of it was expected—he’d found Chaol’d body, after all, so he knew the condition it had been in. Some things, though, made him stop for a moment and question his own thinking. 

He’d been expecting the M.O. to match up with the string of homicides for which he believed Celaena Sardothien to be responsible, but the M.O. of Chaol’s murder was completely different. 

Mentally, he slapped himself across the face. Get a fucking grip, Whitethorn! He should have known from the second he saw that note on Westfall’s forehead that it wasn’t Sardothien. She was brutal, but she never left a fucking calling card. Still, he couldn;t shake the part of himself that insisted there was some kind of connection between this Queen of the Night name and Celaena’s criminal outfit.

Maybe that was what she called herself to her crew.

Either way…if there was even a small possibility that Celaena was involved in the murder of Chaol Westfall, then Rowan needed to go meet with Aelin. Because there was a distinct possibility that with Chaol gone, the Shadow Assassin had decided there was no longer any reason to keep her cover, and that meant that Aelin could be in danger. 

And Rowan would die before he let the Shadow Assassin threaten the woman he loved. 

~

Near-invisible earpiece settled in her ear, Aelin paced across her office, gesticulating wildly as she yelled at Nox over the encrypted line. 

“The fuck do you mean, can’t do anything about it? Owens, this is bad fucking news!” 

“It’s too risky, Boss,” Nox retorted from the other end of the call. “He’s gonna be in the PD morgue by now, and we can’t take the risk of breaking into fucking PD.” 

“Like hell we can’t,” Aelin snapped. “Owens, you’re a smart man. You know at least some of why I’m losing my shit over Chaol Westfall’s death. Tell me why.” 

Nox paused for a short moment. “Well, I know he’s your inside man in PD. I know he’s been feeding you info on the investigation. And I know Maeve had him killed, because she left a goddamn note like she always does.”

“That bitch,” Aelin grumbled. “Keep going, Nox.”

“It sucks that he’s dead, but I don’t know what the big fucking deal is, Boss,” Nox admitted. “Maybe we don’t have an inside man anymore—so what? Maeve is the number one target now, yeah?” 

“Do you know how we were able to get an inside man in PD?” 

“I’m assuming you knew Westfall and…uh…convinced him?” 

“Let me tell you something, Owens.” Aelin huffed out a tense breath. “Westfall isn’t actually Westfall. He’s Ren Allsbrook.” 

There was a long, incredulous silence. 

“What…the fuck?” Nox breathed. 

“Ren Allsbrook. Internationally infamous spy, probably one of the most wanted persons in the world. Remember how he escaped prison way back in January? Yeah. That was me. I had a job for him, and he does—he did—that job admirably fucking well.” 

“Bloody fucking hell. Westfall was your inside man.” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” Aelin twisted the ring around her right middle finger. “If and when PD finds out that Westfall wasn’t actually Westfall, they’re gonna start actually investigating shit.” 

“And we can’t have that happening,” Nox said, voicing the unspoken end of her sentence. 

“Definitely not.” She went quiet for a moment, thinking. “Owens?” 

“Yeah?” 

“What security system does Orynth PD use at their headquarters?” 

“Uh…” Keys clicked in the background on his end of the call. “It’s an Axis system, most recently updated last year, so probably a current model, which tracks to CCTV and phone networks. I’d bet that a number of higher-ups have phone access to the footage.”

“Axis…they’re not known for subtle devices, are they?” Aelin asked. 

“Nope, they’re more into wall-mounted stuff. Some of it is smaller-scale, but you can pretty much always visually locate it…wait a goddamn minute.” Nox’s tone slipped towards the accusatory. “Why am I telling you all this, Boss?” 

Aelin shrugged, though Nox couldn’t see it. “Just curious.” 

He scoffed. “And I’m the queen of Spain. Who the hell are you sending to PD?”

“Haven’t decided yet, but thanks for the info on the security system,” she said lightly. “Oh, and Owens?” 

“What?” 

Her voice was bloodied steel. “Question my thoughts again and I’ll hang you by your intestines.” 

“That’s pretty fucking gory,” he deadpanned. 

She sighed, knowing he only wanted to support her schemes. “I’m not squeamish, Owens.”

“Don’t I know it.” His keyboard resumed its clicking. “That all, Boss?” 

“That’s all.” She ended the call with a click. 

She took a deep, controlled breath, releasing it with a drawn out hiss of frustration tinged with fear. Fuck. For the first time in…possibly ever, she felt a surge of real terror knife through her blood. If Orynth PD discovered that the body in their morgue was clothed with a synthetic substance that absolutely nobody should know about, she would have real problems. 

Which meant that she needed to get the SecondSkin back before they found it. 

~

Three nights later, on silent feet, Aelin crept around the shadowed corner of the Orynth Police Department’s downtown headquarters, the brick exterior rough beneath her gloved hands. Reaching the edge of the bright floodlights that illuminated the property, she paused for a moment, reached into one of the pockets of her fitted charcoal-black cargo pants, and pressed a small button on a tiny remote. She waited for exactly fifty-two seconds, counting each one in her mind, and pressed the button again. 

The eyes of every single security camera perched on the Orynth PD building, light posts, fences, even the ones hidden in the trees, blinked twice and returned to normal. 

Aelin smothered a triumphant grin. Yes! The cameras would be on a loop of those fifty-two recorded seconds for the next hour, giving her exactly sixty minutes to slip into the building, find the morgue, locate Ren’s body, detach the SecondSkin, and return everything to its exact location before she left the building. Easy—right? 

Not giving herself time to wonder, she darted forwards, still clinging to the fraction of shadowed space directly against the walls, located the nearest basement-level door, found the ID reader mounted next to the door, slid a generic fake police ID out of her pocket, and pressed it against the reader. The tiny red light flashed green, and the door unlocked with a muted clicking noise. She pushed it open just far enough to slip inside the building and carefully closed the thick metal door behind herself. 

She was in. 

Luckily for her, Orynth PD had convenient signage posted around their building, so she easily located the morgue—on the basement level, as she’d suspected—and keyed in the combination that she may or may not have hacked into the PD database to find. The morgue door unlatched with a hiss. Again, she smothered her smirk and ducked through the doors, bracing herself against the sudden chill, then turned to the…task at hand. 

If her count was correct, she had forty-two minutes to extract the SecondSkin. 

Thankful for the black half-mask that both obscured her face and filtered out some of the smell, Aelin crossed the sterile, eerily silent room and located the row of stainless steel doors. She forced her emotions to the back burner, flicking that mental switch that turned her from CEO to heartless criminal, and scanned the row of doors. Westfall. There he was. 

She reached for the door’s handle and suddenly froze, overcome with the reality of what she was about to do, of who was inside that door, of how brutalized Ren Allsbrook’s body would probably be. 

All of a sudden, Celaena Sardothien felt a spear of terror, of weakness, of…humanity. 

Then she shoved it down, pulled open the door, and watched impassively as the high-tech cryo table slid out with a mechanical hiss and unfolded its legs from the bottom of the shelf. When the table was stable, she snapped a pair of sterile latex gloves on over her protective leather ones, exhaled a short sharp breath, and reached for Ren Allsbrook’s still, silent body. 

The SecondSkin peeled away surprisingly easily, and it only took her about twelve minutes to remove all the pieces. She tucked that little fact into the back of her mind—Nehemia would definitely want to know that body temperature had an effect on how easily one could apply and remove SecondSkin. The fact that Ren had only been wearing the synthetic substance on his hands, face, and feet probably made the process faster as well. When every bit of the SecondSkin had been removed, she checked his body once more, still impassive to the wounds that marred his pale, cold skin, and tucked the pieces of synthetic material into a plastic bag that she then hid in yet another pocket. 

Then, Aelin gently laid her gloved fingertips against Ren Allsbrook’s still, silent face and said a quiet goodbye. May we meet again in the next life. 

Steeling herself, she pushed the button on the side of the table, and it retracted its legs and slid back into its slot. In her mind, she made a final goodbye, the ancient words of farewell that were uttered at every funeral coming easily to her tongue. When the door concealing Ren’s body clicked shut, Aelin took a fortifying breath, turned, and walked back out of the morgue. 

She wove her way back through the halls of the building until she came to the same door she’d come in, and after checking to make sure there were no cops strolling down the halls, she tapped the fake ID to the reader, opened the door, and left Orynth PD headquarters. As she turned to make sure the door closed completely behind herself, she felt the slightly scooped neckline of her shirt dip, the back of the neckline dipping towards her shoulder blade. She ignored it, knowing she wasn’t on camera anyway and she could fix it when she was safely in the shadows. 

Barely sure if she was breathing, Aelin crept back around to the same shadowed corner where she had reset the security cameras, and just as she had done to loop the feeds, she reached into her pocket and tapped the tiny remote once. The cameras blinked back into their usual motion, back on their normal recording circuit. Aelin watched them for a full minute before she nodded, exhaled, and turned on her heel, melting into the darkness of the night as she headed back towards her shitty apartment in the industrial sector. 

She didn’t notice the tiny, near-invisible blue light blinking at her from a tree directly opposite the door that she had used. 

~

Back at the Gal Inc. labs the next day, Aelin carefully logged each piece of SecondSkin that she had retrieved, checking it three times against the records. She breathed a soul-deep sigh of relief when she finally confirmed that it was all there, that nothing had been left behind at the Orynth PD morgue. 

“Good news, Miss CEO?” Nehemia’s question broke into Aelin’s thoughts. 

“Yeah.” Aelin closed the concealed door of the secret locker that held the SecondSkin. “All of it is there, nothing missing.” 

“Well, that’s a good thing.” The engineer sat down on the stool opposite Aelin’s. “And you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Are you doing okay, Aelin?” 

Aelin tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m fine.” 

Nehemia gave her a flat look that screamed, bullshit. “I’ve known you for too damn long to accept that as an answer, boss lady.”

“Fine.” Aelin blew out a sigh. “I shut myself off last night, Nemi. It…it was like I turned off my humanity, for fuck’s sake. But I had to.”

“And you feel torn up about that, yeah?” Nehemia’s voice held no judgment, only sympathy. 

“Pretty much, yeah,” Aelin said. “Ren was…I’d known Ren since we were kids, Nemi. It doesn’t feel right that he’s gone.” 

“I know.” The chief engineer reached over and tucked her hand over Aelin’s. “I know.” 

Abruptly, Aelin stood up and fiercely hugged Nehemia. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. 

“Always,” Nehemia whispered back. She gave Aelin a small smile tinged with sorrow as they parted. “I’m here whenever, Ae.” 

“I know.” As she walked out of the labs, Aelin expelled a deep breath, winding her emotions back into control. She hadn’t been quite herself since last night, partly from what she had done and partly from the tiny, niggling feeling that she couldn’t quite shake. The odd sense that something was off about her break-in, that the whole thing had gone too smoothly. 

She shook her head. Everything is fine, Galathynius. She’d been in the business for so long that she might be embarrassed if she couldn’t pull off a simple break-in. It was probably just the unsettling reality of what she had done—taking the SecondSkin off of Ren’s body. There was something so wrong about that situation, something so tragic about seeing an old friend dead. 

That lingering sliver of doubt was just her unsettled emotions. It had to be. 

Besides, it would no doubt go away when all hell broke loose at Orynth PD, and she couldn’t fucking wait for that to happen. 

~

When he had seen the notification from his security camera, Rowan had initially dismissed it as nothing important. The near-undetectable camera that he’d installed outside a back door of Orynth PD headquarters when he came onto the investigative team was just an extra measure for his own comfort; he was completely confident that the advanced CCTV system at the building was just fine. He simply liked to have a camera feed that went only to him. 

He didn’t think anything of the notification—the system sent him occasional notifications at random times, and they were typically nothing more than something blowing across the field of the camera’s vision—until a couple of days later, when he happened to open the app and notice the alert. 

Almost out of habit, he tapped on the notification and half-watched the footage, until a flicker of movement snapped his full attention to the video feed. He backtracked, slowed the playback speed, and watched the video like a fucking hawk, second by second, until that blurred flicker of movement came onto the screen again. 

It was a person. 

Fucking hell. 

Rowan paused on the single, half-second clip of the person, scrutinizing their form and stance and any detail he could pick out from that tiny glimpse his camera had caught. He could tell from the person’s figure that it was a woman, dressed in dark, fitted clothing, with a cap and mask obscuring her face. She was a bare flicker of movement before she disappeared into the shadows, and…wait a goddamn fucking minute. Disappeared. Into. The. Fucking. Shadows. 

He’d captured video footage—brief as it was—of Celaena Goddamn Sardothien. That had to be her—the clothes, the movements, the sheer speed with which she dodged the cameras’ range. He knew of absolutely no one else with that level of skill. 

Burning hell. That meant…Rowan reached for his radio. “Luca.” 

“Sir?” Luca answered instantly. 

“Get the CCTV footage from July 6th night onto the monitors. I’m going over it with the team.” 

“Give me two minutes.” As always, Luca was dependable and quick. 

Two and a half minutes later, Rowan stormed into the bullpen, his jaw locked in a rigid line. He glanced at the monitors, where Luca had indeed projected the footage from July 6th. He’d managed to pull all the footage, which was perfect, but Rowan was primarily concerned with the cameras that had been recording the back of the building. 

He cleared his throat. “On the sixth of this month, someone broke into this building.” 

Gasps of shock rippled around the room. 

“Luca, pull up just the cameras from the rear of the building.” Luca nodded and tapped rapidly on his keyboard, reducing the camera feeds down to six different angles. “Now, I have a suspicion of what we’re going to see, but I need all of you to watch. Hit play.” 

Luca started the recording. The entire investigative team watched in utter silence as the CCTV footage played seamlessly, a seemingly perfect recording of absolutely nothing but the exterior of Orynth PD headquarters at night. 

“What you don’t see is the criminal who waltzed right the fuck into our building and did gods know what before leaving without a trace.” Rowan’s jaw flickered as he gritted out the words. “I need analysis of the segment from 0330 to 0410 ASAP. Get it done.” 

“Yes, sir!” Three of the team members clustered around one monitor. 

Rowan turned and stalked out of the bullpen, heading back to his office to examine his camera’s footage, again, in the hopes that it would distract him from seething over the completely clean footage from the night of the break-in. He slowed the speed down even further, scrutinizing every tiny breath of time as the figure of Celaena Sardothien flickered across his screen. 

A knock on his door interrupted his analysis. “Sir?” 

“What.” 

Luca popped the door open and stuck his head in. “Results, sir.” 

Rowan went back to the bullpen. “Analysis? What’ve you got?” 

Rem, one of the few women on the team, fiddled with her badge. “Well, it’s not good, sir. We found nothing in the recording, not even with different rates of playback.” 

“Inconsistencies?” Rowan snapped. He didn’t give a shit about being rude—Rem had been trying to get her fake nails into his pants since the day he’d walked onto the investigation. 

“None.” Her face tightened in irritation. “We suspect a loop, but no timing matches an ordinary loop. It’s too natural—no cyclical marks, nothing that crosses the screen at exact intervals, nothing.” 

“Fucker,” Rowan grunted under his breath. “Did any of you even bother running a stopwatch to track if there’s any breaks in the footage?” 

Rem’s bright pink lips turned downwards into a scowl. “Sir, there aren’t—” 

“Fifty-two seconds, sir,” Luca interrupted. “Watch.” He slowed the camera footage to an excruciatingly slow pace and started a timer. At exactly the fifty-two-second mark, a near-seamless line blinked across the screen, almost completely undetectable unless the playback was slowed this far down. 

“Shit,” Rowan hissed. “Good work, Luca.” He turned on his heel and left the bullpen, thoughts and theories flying around his head at the speed of light. On his phone, the blurry image of Celaena Sardothien’s back glared up at him, taunting him, as if the goddamned Shadow Assassin was laughing at him from wherever the fuck she was. 

He glared at his phone, glared at the devious, black-hearted woman in the footage. It was so damn fitting that she’d choose to wear black clothing to match her heart. But that small sliver of skin revealed that she was human, no matter what the rumors said. 

Sliver of skin??? 

Rowan zoomed in as close as he could, scrutinizing the grainy, blurry image. He hadn’t been mistaken—in that frame, the back of Celaena’s shirt had dipped a tiny bit, exposing a sliver of her back. 

Exposing the licks of ink tattooed onto her spine. 

Rowan’s mind abruptly went dead fucking silent, the cacophony of his thoughts and the noise of the police building cut off into throbbing, terrifying, heart-stopping silence. 

Because those flicks of ink looked like fucking flames. And he knew exactly one person in the whole of Orynth—hell, in the whole of the fucking world—with tattooed flames licking up towards her hairline. He knew exactly one person with both the audacity and the personality to pull off a spine tattoo that boldly artistic. 

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. 

Aelin. 

His Aelin. 

What…the fuck?!

Rowan jerked himself out of his chair, shook his head sharply, let his gaze dart around the room, and couldn’t seem to see straight. Crack! The harsh slap of his palm against his own cheek yanked him back into something resembling sanity, and he shook his head again before turning back to that goddamn image frozen on his phone screen. 

Even paused—especially paused—the image was grainy and blurry, as if Sardothien had been moving so fast that the camera physically couldn’t keep up with her speed. Blinking, Rowan squinted harder at the blurry image, his mind churning through all the possibilities. First—and he could kick himself for jumping to conclusions so damn fast—how the fuck did he know the tattoo was flames? So many people had tattoos; clearly Sardothien was just one of many. Knowing what he did about the elusive criminal, it was probably some kind of fucked-up depiction of her torturing one of her victims or some depraved shit like that. He couldn’t see clear details from the grainy image, so he had absolutely no right whatsoever to jump to some half-crocked conclusion about Sardothien’s tattoo. 

Still, knowing that she had a tattoo on her back was crucial information; it was one more definite physical descriptor that could identify her if she was caught. When she was caught.

As his breathing and heart rate returned to normal, Rowan dropped back into his chair, tapped out of his security camera app, and went to log the new findings in his notes. With the knowledge that Sardothien had broken into the fucking building, this investigation had taken on a new, more urgent tone. Clearly, the Shadow Assassin had moved into a new phase of action, one that targeted the police, which made it all the more urgent to get her behind bars. 

If only the damn morgue would get back with Westfall’s scans and the coroner’s report, he would have a decent idea of where to go to hunt down Celaena Sardothien. 

~

“How,” Rowan seethed, “in the fucking FUCK?!” 

Every door in the hallway rattled on its hinges as he slammed open the meeting room’s door and stormed down the hall, a dangerously murderous gleam of rage lighting up his eyes. His hard, heavy steps burst into the bullpen, where every single person there snapped to attention as he slammed the coroner’s reports down on the table. 

“We have a fucking problem.” His voice was deadly calm, tight with barely-leashed fury. A muscle ticked rapidly in the corner of his jaw. 

The coroner’s report, its final version dated July 14th, contained extensive information on the postmortem state of Chaol Westfall, down to DNA analysis in case it was needed. Rowan typically found coroner’s reports to be incredibly helpful pieces of information, but this one…this one contained a little nugget of detail that had his head spinning in so many directions he didn’t know which way was up. 

Luca broke the tense, shivering silence. “Sir? You received the report before any of us.” 

Rowan flicked a bladed glare at the papers sitting on the table. “Look at the top one.” 

“Of course.” Luca picked up the sheet, looked it over, and dropped it, his jaw falling open as if it had been unscrewed. “Holy fuck.”

“That’s about right,” Rowan grunted. “Like I said, we’ve got a fucking problem.” 

The team clustered around the table, passing around the paper. Whispers, gasps, and murmured theories and ideas rippled throughout the room as more people discovered the new information that had turned Rowan’s brain into a goddamn washing machine on a spin cycle. The thoughts he’d been toying with—the ideas about Sardothien’s tattoo—flew out his mental window, lost in the maelstrom of finding out that Chaol Westfall was not Chaol Westfall. 

Under the heading “DNA Analysis,” the coroner’s report had listed the DNA identification of Chaol Westfall’s body. But the name and identity given was not Chaol Westfall. 

“DNA analysis finds identity of the subject to be Ren Allsbrook, 31M. Height 183cm, weight 81.6kg. Dominant hand: Left. Eyes: hazel. Hair color: brown.” 

Ren Allsbrook. 

All hell broke loose.

“He’s been in maximum-security federal prison for the last twenty-two months!” hissed one of the officers, his brows furrowing in utter confusion. 

Luca snorted. “Did you forget the headline from January, dumbass? Allsbrook broke out.” 

“And broke right the fuck in to Orynth PD,” Rowan muttered under his breath. He refused to acknowledge the part of his brain that was astonished at the sheer ingenuity and capability of Ren Allsbrook—the man’s reputation as the best spy in the world was clearly deserved. Fuck, the man had been waltzing around in plain sight as Police Captain Chaol Westfall since January, and every single member of the highly trained, highly skilled investigative team had even once questioned Westfall’s alibi. 

“God-damn,” Rem whistled, sneaking what she thought was a sly look over to Rowan. “That’s six whole months with a fake Westfall here. I wonder why?” 

“You don’t get paid to fucking wonder,” Rowan snapped. 

Rem flushed with embarrassment, her icy blue gaze turning pouty. “That’s literally my job, I’m a detective.” 

“That’s—” 

“Connect the obvious fucking dots, Remy,” Luca interjected, cutting Rowan off before he could say something truly awful. “Allsbrook was a spy, the best one in the world if we believe his reputation. He’s been posing as Captain Westfall since January, which was when Lieutenant Whitethorn joined this investigation. That was also when we went public about the investigation.” 

“So he was working for the special forces?” Rem frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense, because why would the TSF want to hire a spy if they already publicly gave us one of their men?” 

“Wrong track,” Luca said. His dark eyes were alight with a look that Rowan recognized as frantic joy, a look that meant he’d formed a new hypothesis that he couldn’t wait to share. “What else happened in January? Hamel’s murder, among other murders. The Wilkins lot explosion, at which we found a mysterious scrap of fabric that lab analysis told us was completely foreign. Followed by more murders, more known criminals turning up brutally murdered or disappearing entirely, and a whole fucking lot of our trails going cold.” He paused for breath and raked his fingers through his frizzy curls. “We eventually identified a suspect in the homicide investigations, but that didn’t happen for months. Why? Because that suspect was the person who hired Allsbrook. That person was making sure we didn’t find her. Can’t you see?’ He spread his arms wide. “The Shadow Assassin hired Ren Allsbrook! He was her spy in the police department, making sure we stayed off her trail for as long as possible. He was Celaena Sardothien’s inside man.” 

Even Rowan stared, slack-jawed, as Luca concluded his half-wild rant and caught his heaving breath. The younger man looked over to Rowan, hopefulness muted beneath his eager gaze. “What do you think, sir?” 

“I think,” Rowan said slowly, “that you’re a goddamn genius, Luca.” 

Luca beamed. “Really?” 

“Absolutely.” Rowan nodded, latching onto Luca’s theory and immediately seeing how all the pieces fit into place. “We’d been locating the bodies too soon after Sardothien made her murders, and she needed a way to keep us delayed so that she could kill more and more people. The homicides did trail off; we haven’t had one in a few months. However, that does not mean she’s done killing. If anything, she was just using the time to get us all caught up in the murder scene analysis, probably working with Allsbrook to make sure we didn’t see any new developments until too late.” 

“But…but what about Allsbrook’s murder?” Luca asked. “I can’t figure out why he’s dead, if he was working so closely with our suspect.” 

“Because our suspect has an antagonist.” Rowan paused, waiting for that to sink in. “The note on Allsbrook’s forehead, nailed there after he was murdered, was stamped with the insignia of a criminal known as the Queen of the Night.” 

Luca gasped. “She left a sign-off? She hasn’t done that in over a year; we all thought she’d fully shifted to the drugs and arms trafficking part of her, uh, business.” 

“Well, she clearly decided to get back into this side.” Rowan’s tone was grim. “I think she’s working against the Shadow Assassin, but I can’t be sure. For all I know, they’ve joined fucking forces.” 

And gods help them all if that was the case. 

~

Maeve Ond, Queen of the Night, had always been drawn to the darkness. The lack of light spoke to some ancient part of her soul, calming her when she grew angry. The darkness had been her solace when she was young, and the darkness had quieted her rage when Celaena Sardothien killed her lover, Arobynn, and threw the world into loud, messy chaos. 

Darkness was her shield, and as she sat in her darkened office, the deep purple floor lights casting eerie shadows behind her, and waited for her newest soldier to come in, Maeve felt calmness wash over her mind after the last few hectic hours. 

With a discreet knock on the door, Fenrys entered the office, pausing briefly to let his eyes adjust to the dark. 

Maeve smiled as the blonde man approached her. “Hello, Fenrys.” 

“Ma’am.” He dipped his head to her. “How can I be of service?” 

She tapped her violet acrylic nails on the edge of her desk. “I was impressed with how quickly you executed Farran, Fenrys. Even more so when you took care of that smug little police captain.” 

Fenrys’s lips twitched towards that charmingly ruthless smile of his. “I pride myself on swiftness as well as skill.” 

“I liked the touch with the note nailed to his forehead,” she said. “Creative. I admire creativity.” 

“I was hoping you’d like it.” 

She smiled. “And I did. I liked it so much that I want you to do it again.” 

He blinked. “I…I can’t exactly kill a man twice, ma’am.” 

“Of course not.” Maeve steepled her fingers, drawing out the pause before she hit Fenrys with his newest target. “I need you to kill Celaena Sardothien.” 

His jaw slackened. “With all due respect, ma’am, I think she’d kill me before I got close.” 

“I don’t.” Maeve had learned long ago that the best way to encourage men to do her bidding was to stroke their egos. “That snarky bitch might think she knows everything, but she isn’t invincible. You’re going to prove that to her.” 

“Hmm.” Fenrys hummed, ideas glimmering behind that handsome, scheming face. “I may not be able to do that as quickly as I got to the police.” 

“Most likely not,” Maeve agreed. “So, in the meantime, I have a smaller mission for you. Are you familiar with Galathynius, Inc.?” 

“Of course.” Fen chuckled. “Who doesn’t know of that company?” 

“Good.” She let her smile bloom, delighting in the way Fenrys recoiled just a bit at the threat of violence in her crimson smirk. “Their laboratory complex has a protected room that contains a secure locker. In that locker is something that Galathynius, Inc. is developing. I need that substance.” 

“And you need me to get it for you?” 

“Indeed.” She handed him a small flash drive. “Here are the blueprints of the lab complex.” 

Fenrys gasped. “How the hell did you get these?” 

“Arobynn,” Maeve replied simply. “They are complete, current, and contain all the details you need to get into the lab complex. I need results by the end of the month.”

He whistled softly. “I’ll do my best. What if I can’t get in by the end of the month?” 

She shrugged. “With Connall’s assistance, I am sure you can.” She let him form the beginnings of a hopeful conclusion, then continued. “Connall stays with me, as I’ve grown appreciative of his skills.” 

Fenrys’s face shuttered, going completely blank. “Of course, ma’am.” 

Ah, the look of pure submission. She did love it when men looked at her like that. “End of the month, Fenrys. Dismissed.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded deferentially and left her office. 

Maeve leaned back in her chair, let the dark silence of her office wash over her, and smiled. Her plans were coming together so beautifully now. Soon—so soon—she would avenge her lover. 

~

Fenrys’s heartbeat was thundering. 

The moment he was out of the Night Owl, he hopped onto his motorcycle and sped off towards a safe part of the city, down to the banks of the river, and he parked his bike and headed off down an old, half hidden, familiar path. He reached the edge of the river and dropped onto the grass. 

Fucking hell. 

First Chaol Westfall. Now…Celaena Sardothien. The very woman for whom he was already working. The very woman on whom he was supposed to be reporting to Lieutenant Whitethorn. 

And if he couldn’t do what Maeve demanded of him, his brother was in danger. 

Fucking hell. 

On impulse, he reached for his burner phone and dialed Rowan’s contact. His head was spinning with everything that had just happened, and he needed to get at least one piece of information out before he went goddamn insane. 

Rowan picked up after six rings—an uncharacteristically long time. “What.” 

“Well hello to you too. I thought you were going to let me go to voicemail.” 

“Don’t be a jackass,” Rowan grunted. God, it was too easy to push his buttons. “Info?” 

“She’s going to make a move on the Galathynius labs.” Fenrys deliberately kept his words vague enough that Rowan could form his own conclusions about which “she” he was referring to. 

Rowan swore. “When?” 

“By the end of the month.” 

“That’s in ten fucking days, Moonbeam.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” Fenrys snapped. “She just told me.” 

On the other end of the call, Rowan exhaled a tightly controlled breath that meant he was on the verge of his temper snapping. “All right. Anything else?” 

“She mentioned something about a room with a hidden locker in it.” Fen had known Rowan for long enough not to be confused by his rapid subject changes. “It wasn’t that clear to me.” 

“Room with a hidden locker,” Rowan echoed, probably writing that detail down. “Fine. Keep me posted.”

Fenrys rolled his eyes. “Of course, Lieutenant,” he simpered. 

“In any other context, I’d beat your ass for that,” Rowan said, completely serious. “But you’ve given me a hell of a—” 

“God above, do not finish that sentence!” Fen all but shrieked. “I’m not your damn girlfriend!” 

“Jackass.” Rowan snickered. “You got me a new lead, Fen. Good work.” He hung up. 

Fenrys sighed as he tucked the phone back into his jacket. He strolled casually down the street, taking a meandering path through the neighborhood before he headed back to his dingy little apartment down by the shipping district. With any luck, he’d be able to hear Sardothien’s conversation through the floor—if she was home. He could have sworn that she wasn’t home too often, but that made sense. She had a criminal empire to run. 

And he had a criminal to catch. 

~

“There’s so many more new leads unfolding that I don’t know which direction to go.” Rowan flopped onto his back with a deep sigh. 

“I’m so sorry, love. That must be infuriating.” Aelin rolled onto her side, facing Rowan, tugging the rumpled sheets with her so the soft cotton laid against her bare skin. 

He huffed in agreement, pushing himself up so he sat back against the pillows. “I still feel like my head’s about to explode every time I walk into work.” 

A wry grin tugged at the corners of her lips. “We should swap offices for a day; you can have all of my employees drive you up the damn wall and I can try to deal with your cop squad.” 

“Sounds bloody brilliant.” Rowan tugged Aelin into his lap, sliding his arms around her middle beneath the sheets. “If only that was allowed.” 

She tucked her head comfortably into the crook of his shoulder. “Seems like we both need a day off. Maybe I should have Ells ‘clear my schedule,’ yeah?” 

“I wish,” he mumbled, absentmindedly tracing his fingers up and down her spine, following the intricate paths of ink that made up her dragon tattoo. “For now, are we still on for Saturday?” 

“Absolutely.” She kissed the spirals inked just below the corner of his jaw. “Don’t you even think about rushing off to another crime scene.” 

He chuckled deep in his chest. “Love, you know I don’t control that.” 

“Yes you do, you’re the head of the investigation.” 

“It doesn’t exactly work like that.” 

She grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling. “Ruin your girlfriend’s dreams, why don’t you?” 

“I’d rather ruin something else.” His smirk turned devious, and he turned her around so she was sitting in his lap, her back flush with his chest. The sheets tumbled away from her body, and he murmured in admiration, tilting her head forward to kiss the inked flames that licked towards her neck. “Yes?” 

“Yes,” she moaned, deliberately exaggerating the sound because of how feral it made him. 

As if on cue, his dick stiffened beneath her. “You drive me fucking crazy, Fireheart,” he groaned. One hand brushed her loose, messy hair away from her back, allowing him to drink in the full, unfettered sight of the fire-breathing dragon screaming up the length of her spine. “Funny—you once told me this tattoo makes a lovely contrast with your sheets, and I’ve never seen that contrast.” 

In response, she shifted to face him and caught his lips with an eager, heated kiss, giving his lower lip a little nip just the way he liked. “That’s because you’re always too fast to notice.” 

His eyes darkened. “Are you sure about that, love?” He wrapped his free hand around her jaw, angling her head so he could take possession of the kiss. “What was that you were screaming just a little while ago, hmm?” The hot, heavy words brushed against her swollen lips. 

“More,” she said. She pulled away and splayed herself on her stomach, arms folded beneath her chin, legs bent up at the knees with her ankles delicately crossed. With her hair scattered across the pillows and her wicked grin painted across her face, she looked to Rowan, waiting for his control to snap. 

Jaw dropping, he stared at her, his burning pine gaze nothing short of possessive. “You…Aelin, love, you are fucking stunning.” 

A soft pink flush brushed her cheeks. 

Rowan traced the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone and down to her lips. “Now be a good girl and stay still for me.” 

~

Covered head to toe in SecondSkin, the material of her suit snug against her limbs, Aelin slipped into one of the bland security rooms at the Gal Inc. labs, sat down at a computer, and keyed in an access code. She’d deliberately chosen a room where no one else was on duty, but she worked quickly anyway. It was her company’s lab, but for all anyone knew, she was a feared criminal, not an honest CEO. 

The security system’s menus unfolded across the screen, and she scrolled through the lists of files and titles and drop-down boxes, clicking and tapping her way through the maze of code until she came to the little black box that held the system shut-down function. It was only accessible by admin privileges, so she keyed in her admin password and waited for the system to boot up. It took a couple of minutes, but eventually, one single line of green text popped onto the screen. 

Temporarily Disable System?

She pressed enter.

The screen blinked off and back on, and Aelin smiled. Until she turned the system back on, the safety measures that protected her lab complex would be disabled. The security cameras would still be on, of course, but the numerous hidden traps—hallways that turned around, dummy doors, even a handful of booby traps near the room where the SecondSkin was kept—would be inactive until she turned them back on. It was nothing short of an invitation to anyone willing to brave the maze. 

And she knew—because Fenrys had told her—that Maeve was sending someone into that maze by the end of the month. And it was July 31. It had to be today. 

Aelin quickly navigated back out of the menus, unmasked the server IP address, shut off the computer, and slipped out of the room. She checked the hallway, making sure it was empty, then darted a few feet down the hall, pushed aside the grate covering the nearest airshaft, and climbed into the smooth metal shaft. She replaced the grate, checked to make sure no one else was taking the sneaky route down to the SecondSkin room, and then she started crawling. 

When she reached the air vents above the SecondSkin room, she turned her wrist over and tapped the inside of her forearm twice. A small, darkened screen strapped to her arm illuminated, bringing up a feed from the security cameras outside and inside the room. When she was satisfied that it was clear, she crept over to a vent, pushed aside the grate, and swung herself out of the airshaft and into the steel rafters that crisscrossed the ceiling of the simple, sterile lab room. 

Aelin crept through the rafters until she came to a spot where three beams crossed, forming a kind of makeshift seat that was far enough away from the door to obscure her in shadows but central enough to give her a decent view of the room. She crouched down into a seated position, tapped her forearm screen on, and waited. 

Sure enough, she’d been watching and waiting for less than an hour when the door cracked open and a dark-clad, masked, hooded figure ducked into the room. For a moment, her mind flashed back to a near-replica of this exact scene, almost eight months earlier. 

~

She knew they would try to come for her tech. 

The moment she had reached a stable, functional form of SecondSkin, Aelin knew that the rest of the criminal world would want to get their grubby little hands on her tech. She suspected that the first person to make a move would be Arobynn Hamel, leader of the Assassins, supposedly the most ruthless,  dangerous, heartless killer in the known world. It would be on brand—Arobynn had never been able to stomach the idea that anyone could outsmart him. 

So, Aelin rigged a deceptively simple trap. 

She armed the locker where she kept the SecondSkin with tranquilizer darts that would go off the moment someone opened the door, unless the combination that only she knew was keyed in. There were a few other combinations that opened the lock, but only she had the one that disarmed the trap. She drew up vague, enticing plans to that room, making only a few broad notes that she knew would have the entire criminal world foaming at the mouth when they discovered what she was working on. 

She “accidentally” leaked those plans in the bowels of the dark web. A few hours later, she took down the plans, but they had been up just long enough for Arobynn to get his filthy hands on them. 

Not even two weeks later, he made his move. 

The plans that she had “leaked” were confidential, but the blueprint of her lab complex was public domain, since she had filed the permits with the city like any normal businesswoman would do. Naturally, Arobynn had gone and checked the plans and used them to carefully plot his path to her supposedly secret room. What he didn’t know was that she had planted a lot more hidden traps along that path, but just for him, the traps were disabled. Arobynn strolled into the SecondSkin room bold as brass, thinking that he’d finally get to pull one over on Celaena Sardothien, the youngest crime boss of Orynth, the woman who had humiliated him in front of his close circle of assassins and crime lord buddies the last time they had crossed paths. 

And the instant he opened the locker, the tranquilizers skewered his neck. 

The last thing Arobynn Hamel ever saw was his dream of victory slipping right through his greedy, slimy little fingers. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true—the last thing he had actually seen was the inside of Aelin’s river warehouse, where she’d kept him for two and a half weeks, letting her men work on him, before she treated him to a full day with just her and her weapons for company. At the end of that day, he was dead. 

After Arobynn had been…dispatched, Aelin made some changes to the trap on the SecondSkin locker. The first thing she did was re-rig the tranquilizer darts, but this time with poison, since they had worked so well before. She reorganized the traps leading up to that room, even spread some of them down other halls to deceive anyone else who thought they could get smart and try to break into her lab. 

The other change she made was a small addition to the trap on the SecondSkin locker. She emptied the locker, moving the SecondSkin to a different one in the same room, and replaced the canister with an identical one, except that the new canister contained a precisely measured dose of modified hellfire suspended beneath a trigger chemical. The instant that locker door opened, the trigger would drop, and the hellfire would explode, ripping through whichever scum tried to steal Aelin’s tech.

SecondSkin would never get into the hands of anyone who would abuse it. Not on her watch. 

~

From her perch in the rafters, Aelin tracked the movements of the man who had entered the SecondSkin room. As expected, he glanced around the room and crossed over to what he thought was the locker containing the SecondSkin. His gloved fingers danced along the edge of the panel until he found the tiny, hidden spring, and he pressed it down and slid aside the masking panel. He glanced at the back of his hand briefly, then pressed a series of keys on the electronic combination lock that secured the locker. On her screen, Aelin zoomed in on the combination, smirking when she saw the same sequence of numbers that Arobynn had used. 

Maeve thought she was better than her former lover, but her man had taken the same route.

The lock blinked green, and the man paused for a moment, then gingerly reached out and took the handle. He was a little smarter than Arobynn; he at least anticipated some kind of trap. Aelin smothered her anticipation—she knew something that the man didn’t know. She knew that no matter how slowly or carefully that door was opened, the hellfire would be triggered. It didn’t matter if this man opened the locker by micrometers. The explosion was inevitable. 

With a short, sharp breath, the man pushed open the locker door. 

BOOM. 

Aelin didn’t need camera footage to see the blindingly bright burst of blue-white flame blast out of the locker, crashing right into the man’s upper chest, throat, and head, obliterating his clothes and probably melting his skin. He barely had a millisecond to scream before the poisoned darts embedded themselves in his throat, and his body dropped to the floor with a thump. 

Aelin counted to twenty, and right on time, the powerful fire extinguisher system flicked on and doused the body and the ruined locker with white foam. A blast of water followed, rinsing away the foam, and she tapped her screen back on so she could see the intruder’s corpse in more detail. She zoomed in on the body, her gaze skipping over the charred remnants of his chest, and scanned his mangled masked face. The mask had melted into his skin with the force of the explosion, and his features were partially destroyed but still somewhat distinguishable, and she saw the faint lines of twin scars…

Twin scars slashed down his ruined cheeks. 

Aelin’s blood turned to ice. 

“F-Fen?” she breathed, one gloved hand shakily floating up to cover her mouth. “It—no—it can’t—Moon Moon?” 

She stared at the footage, frozen numb with shock and horror. “M-M-Moon Moon? Fenrys!” 

What had she done?

~~~

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[engiespy]

Tenth Class oc who I wasn’t really satisfied with. The Butcher, a man who’s family runs tuefort’s local slaughterhouse and was working as a coroner before getting hired. He deals with disposal of bodies and prepping meat for his team. There hasn’t been any mix up though whether or not he uses different blades for the two tasks is... questioned.

[nxtchios]

Ambivalent (Dean Winchester x OFC) - pt.1

prompt: llya and Nicky, a pair of amateur hunters have an interesting encounter with the legendary winchesters,

wc: 2k

-I’m just getting back into writing so constructive criticism would be very nice. 

----

Nicky watched Ilya yank her sneakers off with a scowl. Her baby pink socks were a stark contrast to the grimy asphalt, but this didn’t seem to catch her attention as she began knocking her hand on the back of her shoes. “I don’t understand how I could have possibly ended up with rocks in both shoes! We haven’t even walked anywhere rocky!” Nicky didn’t say anything. He leaned back against the brick wall of the library and watched as she grumbled to herself. “Aha!” The rocks in question tumbled out of the shoe after a particularly brutal hit and Ilya’s freckled face beamed with satisfaction. Her smile didn’t waver as she leaned against the wall across from her companion to balance as she slipped her shoes back on

 The two didn’t really understand each other and they didn’t have much in common, but it was moments like this that made him think that it didn’t really matter. Their differences and quirks made for good entertainment, even if it means standing outside in the cold while they were supposed to be researching. With both of her shoes back on, Ilya finally stood up straight with a sigh. “You ready?” Nicky nodded, and with that they shuffled inside.

The pair had become something close to friends throughout the last few months. Their meeting had been about as confusing as any of their other interactions, if not a bit more traumatic, and since then, they were like shoe strings and belt loops. Ilya was a walking juxtaposition and thinking about her for too long and too hard left Nicky with a headache on most days. She was a pretty flower with thorns, and in their short time together Nicky had gotten pricked more than once despite his best efforts to stay out of the way.

Ilya was quick to take the lead once they pushed through the doors. The wrinkled little lady behind the front desk glowered at her as she sped by without so much as a hello. Nicky followed closely behind, and within minutes they were seated in the back behind an ancient looking desktop.

“Jesus, I know funds are low but these things are older than me!” Ilya ignored the glares that were shot her way as she continued to complain about the state of the computers. “The lady, what was her name again?” Nicky pulled his phone from his back pocket and started searching through his notes. “Hold on…” Ilya grunted and tapped impatiently on the mouse. “Any day now would be nice.” Nicky rolled his eyes at her and continued scrolling. “Ah! Her name was Avery Sampson.” Ilya straightened up and started typing.

“Avery, Avery…Aver- Aha! Avery Sampson. Found dead in her apartment four days ago. Her neighbor reports seeing her well and alive earlier that day despite an autopsy showing she had been dead for weeks! I think this is our kind of thing.” Nicky shoved his phone back in his pocket and leaned back into the hard plastic of his seat. Regardless of if it was ‘their kind of thing’ or not, he knew she wouldn’t let up so he figured he’d just agree. “Sounds like it.” Ilya grinned. “Ok. Gimme a second to find her address, and we should be set. Sounds like it could be a skinwalker to me.” Nicky didn’t say anything, but Ilya didn’t seem to mind. After finding what she was looking for, she leapt from her seat, and the pair made their way back to their motel.  

           The first thing Ilya did when she walked through the door of the dingy motel room was snatch her suit from her bag and lock herself in the bathroom. Nicky used the time he had alone to start getting ready.

         Inside the dingy restroom, Ilya turned the squeaky handle. The shower head spluttered angrily before spitting out a harsh spray of water. Within minutes the bathroom filled with steam and Ilya, her mind racing a mile a minute, stripped down and stood under the water.

         After their first few hunts together Nicky had realized that Ilya made it a point to shower before any major investigative step or confrontation. After asking her about it, she had simply said that it helped her get in the ‘zone’ and to ground herself. Despite her own words, she scrubbed anxiously at her skin.

         She had been excited to find another job, but she couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something was off. The whole case just seemed too easy to find, like it was dropped into her lap. Ilya had been hunting long enough to know that most things that seemed easy were anything but. She was being set up, and she knew it. The only problem was that Nicky, although he was pretty intuitive, wouldn’t take ‘a gut feeling’ as a good enough reason to go running. After all, he had his own reasons for doing what they did, and despite how passive he let himself seem, he was determined in carrying out his goal. 

She turned off the water, and got dressed quickly before meeting him at the table in the middle of their shared room. “Here you go” He handed her the fake FBI badge and pocketed his own before straightening himself out one more time and making his way towards the door. Ilya glanced at the plastic image of herself and sighed heavily before following behind her partner. 

  Clarissa Madison, Avery’s neighbor,  insisted that there was no way in hell Avery had been dead for as long as the coroner had suggested. “I swear to God I saw her. And it wasn’t just an out of the corner of my eye sorta’ thing. I mean I saw this girl head on, she looked me right in the eye! And then the cops are lighting up the entire block at 2 in the goddamn morning, and I’m thinkin that Morgan, the old lady down the street finally croaked or broke her hip or something, anything but Avery being dead! It literally makes no sense. And the poor girl, she went so brutally, I can’t even imagine how her boyfriend is gonna feel when he gets back.” 

Clarissa flopped back into the red leather of her couch with a dismal sigh. “She had a boyfriend? Where is he?” Ilya leaned forward with her elbows digging into the flesh of her thigh. She had been on edge since they pulled up to the house. If Nicky had noticed, he didn’t say anything about it, and Clarissa was too far gone off a strawberry margarita mix to pay anything any mind.  

  “Yeah, they didn’t tell you? Kid’s name is Aiden. I can’t remember his last name right now, but he’s a sweetheart. Was head over heels for that girl. He’s gonna be so so so upset when he hears.” Nicky scribbled her words down quickly, and Ilya huffed. They had been there for three hours, and all they had gotten from her was senseless babbling with the occasional crumb of helpful information. “It is sad, but I think it’s be really helpful if we knew where he was so that we could talk to him a bit and find out if he knows who would want to do something like this.” 

Clarissa pushed her dark hair from her face and pouted over her drink. “Well, Agent...McMahon was it?” 

“McCall.”

“Agent McCall, I really don’t know. All she told me was that his poor mother was having some issues and he went up to visit her. I’m just not so sure on where ‘up’ is.” Ilya’s jaw clenched and she pushed herself up quickly. “Well, Miss Madison, thank you so much for speaking to us today.” Nicky followed suit and stretched out his hand for her to shake while Ilya showed herself out.  She was halfway down the driveway when he cut her off and stared down at her suspiciously. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you so agitated all of a sudden?” 

She grunted before dragging him towards the car. He squeaked in protest as Ilya pushed him forward and got into the passenger seat. For a minute, he stood outside glaring at her through the windshield before he huffed angrily and threw himself into the drivers seat roughly. “I have a bad feeling about this hunt. It was too easy to find.” Nicky shoved the key into the ignition and started the car. “You didn’t seem to think anything was wrong earlier. So what if it's easy, it's a job. Plus, nobody’s out here trying to sabotage a bunch of random hunters. You're being paranoid.”

“I’m not being paranoid, I’m acknowledging a gut feeling. And I didn’t tell you initially, because I didn’t notice until earlier, plus I knew you’d respond like this. Your stubborn ass only cares about one thing.” She grunted angrily and turned away from him to peer out the window at the passing trees. Nicky scoffed. “So what, you wanna just leave and ignore the whole situation? Isn't the whole point of this gig to help?” 

Ilya didn’t say anything, and the rest of the ride was silent until they made their way back to the library. 

“I should really invest in a laptop.” The library was packed with kids who had trickled in after school, and the pair stood impatiently against a back wall as they waited for a computer to free up. “It’d probably be quicker to go buy one and do what we need to do than wait here.” Ilya grunted, “That sounds plausible until you consider the fact that we are very, very poor.” 

Nicky couldn’t argue with her there, so he  stayed quiet as they waited. 

It was another half an hour before they got what they needed, and were back on the road. “The boyfriend only lives a few blocks from the motel. Do you wanna check it out now, or do you think we should wait until tomorrow? You seem a little high strung.” Nicky only meant to soothe Ilya’s growing agitation, but she just grunted in response.

“We should go now. I don't wanna drag this out any more than we need to, plus we don’t know when he’s’ coming back.”

By the time the pair had changed and driven to the house, the sun had set. Ilya parked the car at the end of the street and she and Nicky strode up to the driveway. Just as they had expected, it was empty. Nicky made quick work of picking the front lock, and within minutes, the two were inside shining their lights throughout the dark halls. 

The rooms were neatly made up, and what little paperwork was left out was stacked neatly where they sat. “Looks like he was a little bit of a clean freak.” Nicky grumbled in response and continued on past the kitchen and towards the back porch. Ilya watched him go before walking into the master bedroom. 

The door groaned on its hinges as she pushed it open, and she cringed as she stepped past the threshold. She passed the light across the room, finding it in pretty much the same condition as the rest of the house, pristine. Before she could get any further though, the familiar sound of a gun cocking stopped her in her tracks. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes met a shadowy figure to her right. She cursed herself as she realized he had been hiding behind the door. She started to move the flashlight over to get a better look at him, but he was quick to stop her. “Don’t move. What are you doing here?” Ilya opened her mouth and closed it again. If anything, she should be asking the same thing. “I’m a friend of the owner, Just looking for a sweater that I left here before he left.” The figure scoffed, “Bullshit. Don’t make me ask again, what are you doing here?” 

Fair enough, she thought. “Why should I tell you?” He reached for his pocket and Ilya tensed, but quickly relaxed as he pulled out what looked to be a badge. “I’m FBI.”

Ilya couldn’t stop herself before a laugh bubbled past her lips. “You’re a hunter!” Now it was the man’s turn to tense up. “Oh, thank god, a burglar would’ve sucked.” 

The man lowered his gun tentatively, and Ilya took the opportunity to shine her flashlight at him. 

The man was insanely tall with dark hair that reached his shoulders, and at closer examination, Ilya decided that he was quite handsome, Had the situation been any different, she probably would've been smitten. “You here about the skinwalker situation?” The man squinted at the light in his face, and nodded. “I’m Sam by the way, I’m here with my brother, Dean.” Ilya moved her light away from him. “I’m Ilya, I’m here with my friend, Nicky.” Sam nodded. “I guess we should go meet up with them. I can’t promise that my brother’s introduction will be as nice.” 

“Fair enough.” With that, Ilya lead him out back towards her partner.

[scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy]

Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter Three

Chapter One here.

Chapter Two here.

Teso Dos Bichos (Season Three)

Scully had been awake for more than forty hours. 

It hadn’t been a good forty hours either. The last two days had careened from bad (partial rat body parts littering the car engine of a suspected murder victim) to worse (bloodied entrails dripping from bare tree branches onto Mulder’s oblivious face) to so appalling they competed with only a few choice cases for worst X-File ever (getting mauled in the face by a domestic short hair while negotiating the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the Boston Museum of Natural History). 

By the time she and Dr. Winters had finished the autopsies on Doctors Horning, Bilac and Lewton, as well as Mona Wustner (conclusion: animal attacks), she’d lost all track of time, and certainly all count of the number of coffees she’d consumed in an attempt to keep her wits about her after an entire night with no sleep. 

Killer cats? Sure, fine, whatever. She was too exhausted - and too not Mulder - to even attempt to raise his amaru curse theory with the coroner. She downed one last cupful of caffeine for the drive back to the motel then lifted her weary limbs out of her aquamarine scrubs and back into her trusty gray short-sleeved ribbed sweater and by now slightly limp black suit, draping her purple overcoat over her forearm instead of donning it. It would be better to be a little cold; it would keep her more alert for the journey. She cracked the window and cranked the heating down to the lowest setting she could tolerate on this late-winter north-eastern evening. 

Pulling out of the morgue’s underground parking structure, she called Mulder to give him the rundown of their postmortem findings, and to make sure she remained awake. She probably should have called a cab; her brother had cautioned her more than once that her pride would get her killed one day. What a waste to fight tooth and nail for truth and justice, to return from the brink of death after her mysterious disappearance, to achieve the Pyrrhic victory of avoiding the assassin’s bullet meant for her brain, only to flip over into a ditch through plain old fatigue. 

She rolled her shoulders and bounced her left knee, turning the heat down another notch. She guided the car steadfastly to the right of the centerline, closed one eye then the other for momentary reprieve, sighed with relief as she pulled into the motel parking lot and shut off the engine, wishing Mulder goodnight and hanging up with a satisfying beep.

She stumbled into the room with her eyes half closed already, leaning down to loosen the laces on her utility boots before toeing them off as she walked, making a beeline for the bed. She flopped backwards onto the comforter, intending to rest for a moment, but her eyes flickered shut and she drifted off unawares. 

Dank, dark, echo-filled. Flashlight beams zigzagging off metal walls, the hemoglobin tang of which she can taste in her mouth. A snarling tangle of tabbies and tortoiseshells pursuing the two of them along corridors, dropping down through open vents and scratching viscously at the feeble barrier of an ancient wooden door. Dr. Bilac’s body blocking the only route of escape. Stuck. Turning to face the meowing horde as it descends on her and Mulder, miniature canines sinking into their flesh like a thousand shamanic cuts. 

She stands to run and finds herself alone in an abandoned hospital corridor, her reflection staring back at her from the polished, squeaking floors. She inches forward with growing trepidation, readjusting the Kevlar pinching at her waist, too-swiftly reaching the entrance to room 128. The room she has been entering over and over for weeks on end. 

The unwitting unconscious participant in the scene lies in a bed to the right, Mulder and Modell sit at the table to the left, enacting the tableau she’s feared since her ever-reckless partner donned the ‘Eyes and Ears’ kit in the mobile surveillance unit outside.

‘It’s designed for bomb disposal work to keep only one officer at risk.’

She’d felt nauseated. Didn’t everyone know that only one of them dying was actually the worst case scenario? She wished neither of them ever had to risk their necks, but if this particular one of them had to, she’d always rather be right alongside him. 

Modell talks Mulder into pointing the gun across the table and pulling the trigger. She balks. But nothing happens. No flesh is punctured, no spark ignites the pure oxygen in the canisters by the bed: no bullet in that chamber. She watches in horror as Mulder lifts the barrel to his temple without hesitation. His finger squeezes, and the world goes into slow motion as the bullet sails out of the pistol and through his skull, exiting above his left eye, leaving a volcanic crater that erupts blood and bone and gray matter onto the ceiling, walls, and floor. Onto the underside of her uplifted arms as she shields her face and roars her pain, falling, screaming, to the ground.

Scully jerked awake, her heartbeat pounding in her alternately flushed and arctic chest. She sat up on the edge of the bed and collected herself, rubbing at her sweat-moistened face. She checked her watch: one seventeen a.m. She patted her torso. Still dressed. Her mouth tasted atrocious. She must have passed out before getting ready for bed. 

Her bladder was full to bursting; the inevitable after-effect of her overzealous caffeination. She fumbled with buttons and zippers and stepped out of her pants on her way to the bathroom, flinging her suit jacket onto a nearby table, littering the room with rumpled attire. She almost tripped on what might have been one of her boots as she struggled to pull the sweater over her head, finally managing to extract her elbow and shake the top to the ground behind her as she grabbed for the bathroom door handle and yanked it open. God, it’s cold in here, she thought, as the door clunked shut behind her. She tucked her fingers into the waistband of her underwear and opened her eyes to locate the toilet.

Oh, shit. No, no, no, no, no. 

She whirled around and hammered at what she now realised was the front door to her motel room. The outside of the front door. Firmly locked shut. 

She clawed at the handle in desperation, twisting it uselessly as she clenched her Kegels and cast her gaze about her, checking for any witnesses. No one was about, thank god. She now sported only her underwear, her investigate-the-missing-archaeologist-underwear; not even a matching set, she thought, laughably, as though being trapped outside her motel room in her bra and panties would be somehow more acceptable in coordinated undergarments. 

She remembered she’d left her overcoat in the car, and was briefly and euphorically buoyed by the idea of grabbing it to preserve her modesty, before recalling that she didn’t have any keys on her; if she did, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She had two options here: wake up the proprietor in her underwear or wake up Mulder in her underwear. She was caught between a rock and a hard place. Dashing herself against either lithic precipice did not appeal, but needs must. 

She did the best impression of herself she could muster in her current state of undress, and mulled it over rationally. One of these options had already seen her half naked. He’d handled it like a gentleman then; she knew she could trust him to do it again now. Also, he was currently in possession of a bathroom, and she was about to make a puddle on the floor if she didn’t get access to one. 

She padded swiftly along the bare cement to Mulder’s door.

* * *

Scully runs a feline gauntlet towards him, advancing along the seemingly endless corridor foot by interminable foot. Every few steps, she is thrown off balance by a squalling creature flying at her face from a novel direction. He watches helplessly while she wrenches each furry attacker from her tattered skin, hurling them behind her as she approaches the barrel of his raised pistol. 

Sweat beads on his forehead and cheeks, pooling at the small of his back beneath his white undershirt. 

Scully looks at him with wounded disbelief as his forefinger teases the trigger. She is still approaching him, the cats now vanished, her ivory visage inexplicably pristine. “Mulder,” she whispers, “you don’t have to do this.” Tears form on her lower lids, and she stops, finally halting her feet and simply looking at him. 

“Scully, run!” he warns her, as Modell grins at him, thumping the tabletop and urging him on. But she just stands there, staring, tears starting to spill down her cheeks.

“Mulder,” she pleads again, and he fires. 

The bullet pierces the base of her neck just above her vest; a pointless piece of armour, he despairs, if it leaves the cranium and jugular so exposed. The boom of the gunshot ricochets off the walls and pounds at his eardrums several times. Her eyes go wide and she grabs at her throat in horror, never breaking eye contact as she collapses, gurgling, to her knees. Crimson lifeforce pulses through her dainty fingers as he hears another bullet leave the chamber, and she opens her mouth to speak once again. The word leaves her lips at a strangely loud volume for a death rattle.

“MULDERRR!!!” 

Further shots stutter out in the distance.

He looks into Scully’s unrelenting gaze as she finally drops to the linoleum. 

Mulder gasped himself awake, perspiring like he was still back at Fairfax Mercy. He pinched his brows laterally with one hand, reaching over to the nightstand for his glass of water, and heard a pounding at his door.

“Mulder!” Scully’s inimitable hiss came from the other side of the wall. She knocked again, sounding frantic. “Mulder, wake up and let me in! Please!”

He turned on the bedside lamp as he launched himself out of bed, throwing back the covers and leaping across the threadbare carpet in his underwear, heading in the direction of her voice and continued hammering, and pulled open the door.

He was met with the sight of Scully on the concrete walkway. Rather a lot of Scully. Scully in white briefs and a light pink, underwired bra, plain but for a satin ribbon rosebud nestled deep in her cleavage. Her considerable cleavage, as shaped by this heroic garment, he thought. He barely had time to register this surprising turn of events before she flew past him, her thighs pressed oddly together as she walked, heading directly for the bathroom. 

“Don’t look at me, Mulder!” she chastised, hurtling across the room. 

“Scully, what-” he began to query, but she interrupted him before disappearing through the open doorway.

“Grab me a shirt!” she growled, “I need to use the bathroom.” The door slammed shut behind her.

Mulder played with his lower lip, twirling it between thumb and forefinger, and startled. He’d remembered the copy of Hanky Panky he’d left sitting atop the tank. Well, how was he to know he’d have company tonight?

He heard the toilet seat clatter down and, after an interval, a flush, followed by the faucet running. He rooted around in his duffel bag, seeking a spare, clean T-shirt as per Scully’s instructions, and stood awkwardly by the side of the bed in his boxer briefs as he awaited her return.

She soon opened the door with a sigh, drying her palms on a fresh hand towel. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Reading girlie magazines on the can? Nice, Mulder.” 

He held onto the shirt. 

She finished with the towel and remained in the doorway, holding the terry cotton rectangle to her stomach. She looked up at the ceiling, shaking her head, and he took the brief opportunity to appraise her figure. He knew he shouldn’t, but she was standing right in front of him with more skin than clothing on display, and her curves and bones undulated and jutted so appealingly he couldn’t tear his eyes from her gently leaning form, propped as it was so improbably on his motel bathroom door jamb at one thirty in the morning. 

She huffed out a breath, her chin pushed to the side, her eyes locked on the stipple. “I keep having this dream, Mulder,” she announced, apparently not about to address her noisy and insistent arrival, apropos of nothing, at his door in her underwear in the small hours. “Since Modell.”

“Uh huh?” he answered, vaguely, roaming his gaze over the delicate skin and rolling muscles of her upper thighs before snapping his eyeline up to meet hers as she tilted her chin down from the ceiling. 

“You aim the gun at your temple and pull the trigger, just like you did, only the gun goes off... and you die.” Her voice jumped an octave on the last three words, a piccolo flute floating on a whisper.

Next, she looked at the floor, her head tilting towards the door frame.

He didn’t tell her about his recurring nightmare of shooting her. Instead, he mumbled at her while taking in the dip and swell of her waist as it dropped down to her left hip, pushed out to one side. She rested one bare foot atop the other, absentmindedly rubbing one arch against the knuckles of her opposite toes. There was something so unguarded about her posture, something he would have found endearing and appealing even if she were wearing a hazmat suit. As it was, with her gracing his sleeping quarters in an as yet unexplained state of semi-nudity in the middle of the night, his body had started to respond in an inappropriate, if predictable manner.

“I thought you didn’t want to let him take up another minute of our time, Scully?” he said, shifting the so far unproffered T-shirt in front of his groin.

She looked up at him then, her doe eyes watery and wide, and folded her arms across her middle, squeezing her breasts together as she gripped opposing elbows for comfort. “It was a one in five chance, Mulder, after you aimed at Modell. You could easily have killed yourself. Without a moment’s hesitation.”

He hung his head in shame, for the ease with which Modell had subdued his free will over his own mortality, and for the growing problem in his underwear that Scully’s little self-hug had exacerbated.

“I couldn’t resist him, Scully. I tried, but I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You didn’t shoot me,” she countered, her voice pure susurration now.

He nodded, holding her gaze. Her dainty face was so open, almost entirely make-up free, with the exception of a few smears of eyeliner around one eye, and the remnants of two-day-old mascara clinging to a few lashes.

“It was easier,” he murmured, “to fight harder. For you.”

She scoffed, lifting her hands to her hips, the towel hanging over one thigh, the new stance offering him an unobstructed view of her taut stomach, the intimate sight of her belly-button punctuating her torso, and his erection twitched beneath its makeshift shield.

“Why?” she pressed, with some disdain. “Because I’m a woman?!”

“No!” he insisted. “Not at all.”

She looked down at herself and seemed to only now recall her sartorial condition. Or lack thereof. She tutted and reached out, gesturing for him to toss the shirt.

He stalled for time, frowning at her as though he didn’t understand; as if they didn’t have four years of honing their unspoken communication under their belts.   

“Mulder,” she said, irked by his apparent obtuseness. “Give me the shirt.” She looked at him like he was crazy. Like she wasn’t the one who had burst in here half naked, demanding items of clothing and access to the facilities.

“What happened to you?” he asked, reluctantly throwing the bundle of distressed white cotton in her direction and turning to perch on the end of the bed in an attempt to hide his own indiscretion. With great relief, he surmised from her complete lack of reaction that she hadn’t seen it. He averted his gaze as she turned away from him to tug the T-shirt over her head. Too little, too late, Fox, he thought, ruefully.

“I locked myself out,” she stated, matter of factly.

“In the middle of the night? In your underwear?”

She rolled her eyes, although whether at him or herself, he couldn’t tell. 

“I was half asleep, I got disoriented and opened the wrong door. And I drank so much coffee yesterday; I woke up having to pee so bad, and ended up outside. It would have been a complete disaster if you hadn’t woken up, finally.” She placed great emphasis on the last word and eyed him with playful annoyance.

“You surprise me, Scully. Your sleepwear choices are usually a little more formal,” he grinned, risking a look back at her now that she was safely ensconced in his borrowed shirt. It fell just beyond the tops of her thighs, resting on her right leg just where her smooth muscles gave way to soft, rounded flesh.

Her lips tightened into an almost smile. “Yes, well, I didn’t quite make it that far. I pretty much passed out as soon as I got back. I haven’t brushed my teeth or washed my face or anything.”

“Oh, try the top drawer,” he said, indicating behind her into the bathroom with a nod. “I think I saw some complimentary travel toothbrushes in there next to the soaps and shampoos.” 

She disappeared into the tiled anteroom for a moment and he heard the sound of little-used wheels rolling along rusted runners.

“Mulder, my hero,” she called out, and he heard a warmth in her voice that didn’t do much to alleviate the situation in his shorts. Listening to the sounds of her nightly ritual, he tried to think of something that would make it go away, but was always terrified to venture into any surefire turn-off territory lest he found himself in the horrific scenario of picturing his mother while sporting a raging hard on. He settled on mentally listing the groceries he’d try to remember to pick up when he arrived home in Alexandria. It worked, thankfully, and he could safely shift to the top of the bed and lie back against the pillows by the time she returned, her smeared eyeliner now completely wiped away.

“So,” he ventured, his fingers interlaced over his bare stomach, one thumb playing with a swirl of hair just above his waistband, “Do you want me to throw something on and run over to reception to find the owner? Get someone to let you back into your room?”

She sighed. “You could, I guess. It’s just so late. I’d hate to bother anyone. And I’m still not really presentable.” She looked down at herself, four fifths of her bare legs still on display.

“I can lend you some pants,” he offered. “You’ll look like Charlie Chaplin. Very fetching.”

She smiled properly now, laughing lazily through her nose. “I’m so tired, Mulder,” she whined goodnaturedly. “Can I just crash here? You already saw me in my underwear; it can’t get any worse.”

Mulder silently questioned her word choice. He was no writer, but he was pretty sure the term he would have used was ‘better’. 

“Sure,” he agreed, lifting the covers back and patting the side of the bed he wasn’t occupying. He fluffed the pillow for her and curled over onto his side to face her as she clambered in, demurely keeping her knees pressed together as she slid them beneath the comforter. She turned to face him too, tucking one hand beneath her cheek and using the other to encircle her wrist. She blinked across at him. He took in the claw marks on her face, including a couple of particularly bad ones that had been disinfected and covered with band-aids by a paramedic, despite Scully’s insulted protestations. She’d removed the bandages now, and he could see the cuts were beginning to heal over nicely.

“So why was it easier?” she murmured, her feet rubbing together absently beneath the sheets.

“Hmm?” He’d forgotten what they were talking about.

“With Modell. You said it was easier to resist shooting me.” The particular blue of her eyes always reminded him of his childhood marble collection at this close range: the elegant swoops inside delicate and beautiful, untouchable.

He swallowed, nodding, biding his time. “Well,” he said softly. “It wasn’t because you’re a woman.”

She made a subtle shrugging motion, mostly with her lips; a halfhearted defense of her earlier assertion.

His toes reached out across the cool expanse of linen that separated their feet, and he touched them to her nearest sole, stopping her fidgeting. “It was because it was you.”

She moved her other foot so that she had his toes trapped between her own, and they gripped one another like jungle primates. She held his gaze for a moment then curled her toes even tighter around his as she closed her eyes and whispered, “I could have lost you, Mulder; so easily. Too easily.”

He covered her hand with his own, his fingers easily encompassing her fist as well as the wrist they were wrapped around. 

“But you didn’t,” he stated, and rubbed her knuckles with one thumb.

Her only answer was a chaste kiss on his little finger, the closest one to her mouth. She pressed her lips to a phalanx or two and held them there, her eyes clamped shut.

“I know you probably think I shouldn’t have gone into the hospital at all,” he continued, and she opened her eyes and lessened the pressure of her affection, but her lips remained a hair’s breadth from his finger, the warm air from her nostrils tickling and warming his skin. “But I can’t sit back and let others take the risk if I’m the guy who could make all the difference. Someone like Modell, most people just won’t listen to him. I really thought I could talk him down. I’m sorry.”

A subtle darkness clouded her expression, and he wondered if she, like him, was thinking of Duane Barry. “No, Mulder,” she said, disentangling her thumb from his grip and braiding it over his own. She held his eyeline without blinking, her voice hushed. “It’s okay, I understand. I know that’s just who you are. Your stubbornness; it’s why I-” she stopped herself there, her eyes flitting over his face. “I really admire that about you.”

He went to pull his foot back to his own side of the bed, but she tightened the grip of her toes and held him in place. He darted her a look of surprise, but acquiesced, relaxing his heel back into position. Scully continued to stare at him, and he was waiting for her to say something else when he felt her begin to move her feet once more. Only instead of rubbing her own arches together, she was now very deliberately gliding the sole of one foot over his ankle and down to his toes, and back up again. Repeatedly. Without breaking eye contact.

She held his gaze and brushed another peck against his pinky, and that little problem he’d managed to take care of earlier began to reassert itself.

He cleared his throat, growing nervous. “And anyway, you came right into that hospital after me, knowing Modell was armed.”

She nodded, her breathing deep and calm, her expression unreadable. Her eyes slid from his irises down to his lips, as he’d noticed they often did. When they flitted back up, her face had changed, certain muscles contracting and others relaxing, so that he felt eerily like a solitary marsh deer grazing in the brush, head uptilted at the crack of a twig beyond the treeline.

She extracted her hand from beneath his now slightly sweaty palm and placed a cooling caress on his cheek, her fingertips scraping over his unshaven whiskers and down to his lower lip, where she let her thumb rest for a second or two before cupping his jaw. Her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she looked at him with what he could only describe as bedroom eyes.

His straining cock throbbed and pressed against the fabric of his boxer briefs, and he had no idea what to do. 

Well, he had some ideas.

But he settled on his old faithful, and made a joke out of it.

“Are you coming on to me, Scully?” he managed to croak out through dry, constricted vocal cords.

She blinked once, took a breath, and pounced.

She was all over him before he knew what was happening. One hand in the hair above his ear, another pawing at his chest, the weight of her torso twisting him awkwardly onto his back from the waist up. Her hot, spearmint mouth pinned him to the pillow, her tongue laving against his, and he sucked in sips of air as he gathered his wits. 

Scully was kissing him.

Scully.

Kissing him.

He had to get his act together. He had to take back a modicum of control. 

He reached up and held her face in both of his hands, her autumn tresses cascading forward, falling down like an auburn mane over his outspread digits and framing her features twice over.

“Scully, what’s happening?” he asked, checking in, making sure. “You didn’t pilfer any of that yajé from Dr. Bilac’s place, did you?”

She smiled wide, flashing her teeth at her chosen prey. “Go with it, Mulder,” she breathed, and kissed him again. 

This time, he matched her intensity, still supporting her skull in his palms. He lifted his head from the pillow, meeting the force of her mouth with equal pressure, and ran one hand down her neck, resting his index finger gratefully at the dip of her clavicle, where he’d watched her bleed out in his dream.

She loomed above him, her breasts rising and falling with her rhythmic panting, their hips side by side, the extent of his enthusiasm as yet unrevealed to her. He wanted to pull her to him, press the hard length of himself against her, show her that he appreciated her with his body just as much as he always had with his mind, but first, he wanted to be sure that’s what she wanted, too.

“Wait,” he mumbled against her writhing lips.

She sat up and away from him, holding herself up with one hand on his pillow. Her lips were pink and swollen, a sheen of mixed saliva glistening in the lamplight.

“What’s the matter, Mulder, don’t you want to?” she asked, but without waiting for an answer, she moved her other hand and delicately peeled back the covers, hunting for a non-verbal response to her question. 

Mulder watched her face as she slowly lifted up the sheets, delaying the moment of revelation when she would be absolutely certain that this was an ambush he did not want to outrun. He was the weakest of the herd, separated off to the side, just begging to be taken down, dragged off to the nearest tree and devoured. She drew back the comforter the vital final inches, and knew it. The sizable ridge in his boxer-briefs told her so.  

She peered back at his face with a look of lustful delight, practically purring. “It’s back,” she grinned, and he blushed, wincing. 

So she had seen it earlier. 

It was his turn to shrug, this time half in apology.

“Come here,” he instructed, his flush fading, and she leaned down to kiss him again, lifting her leg to climb on top of him, but he grabbed her behind the knee and rolled her onto her back, settling himself between her thighs.

She laughed, then gasped as he rolled his hips into hers, grinding himself against her sex through layers of thin cotton, feeling the tantalizing soak of desire between her legs. She drew up her quadriceps and pulled him into her froggy embrace, folding her elbows behind his neck and groaning into his mouth as his tumescence rode the wet seam of her panties.

He lifted himself backwards, grateful for his daily discipline of morning push ups, and watched Scully as her eyelids batted open and closed in response to the varying amounts of pressure he was applying to their languid frottage. She peered up at him now, squeezing his hips with her adductors, and tangled her fingertips in his chest hair, trailing down until she reached the elastic banding around his hip flexors. She tilted them both sideways on the mattress and dipped one delicate palm beneath the fabric at his waist, the pads of her fingers grazing the tip of his erection then taking firm hold of his aching girth, stroking him with a fluid twist of the wrist, feathering kisses along his slack jaw all the while. His balls jumped at the sensation of her hand on his shaft, her confidence and dexterity making him even harder.

But this wasn’t right. 

Mulder gently reached for her arm and stilled her movements. She pulled away from his face, frowning.

“Mulder, I thought you wanted-” she began, but he stopped her with a shake of his head.

“I do,” he assured her. “But ladies first.” 

With that, he guided her onto her back again, and took advantage of his position at her side to trace his right hand up beneath the hem of his loaned T-shirt and down into the soaked valley of flesh beneath her plain cotton briefs. It was nothing he hadn’t done before: it was high school and college and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, it was back row at the movies and spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven; it was kid stuff, really, to slide - yes, slide, he was deliriously happy to note - into third base and pleasure a woman manually. 

But tonight, it felt like a revelation.

The heat of her engulfed his third and fourth digits, the rest of his hand brushing against soft curls and cushioned by flesh and liquid yearning, and she spread her knees to allow him room to work. His wrist stretched the fabric of her panties, and he circled his buried fingers within her, polishing the smooth roof of her inner walls and tugging upwards with each carnal circumference.

Scully rewarded him for his efforts with heavy panting and the occasional muted whimper, her mouth falling open and her right hand creeping up his back, her nails scratching at his rhomboids. Her other hand fussed at the top sheet, and she flexed and stretched her legs as he worked. 

She turned her face towards him to resume their kissing, and he covered her mouth with his own, lifting his thumb from its position limply resting against her upper thigh, and applying pressure to her clitoris, matching the circles of his fingers within. Scully moaned now, an open throated release, the sound of her pleasure reverberating down his larynx, and he felt his own need begin to drip out of his sensitive tip, marking the inside of his underwear.

“Oh my god,” she rasped, lifting her hips to draw him deeper inside her, and the angle gave him the chance to slip his index finger alongside his working digits, all three now soaked to the third knuckle. 

Scully thrust her head back into the pillow, ceasing their heavy petting in order to tilt her chin up and frown, crying out. Her right hand scraped the skin of his shoulder blade and she threw her left elbow over her eyes, covering her face as she mumbled and moaned and tossed her face from side to side, bucking her hips to the rhythm of his insistent pumping. 

“Oh god,” she shuddered, “I’m gonna-” 

But she didn’t need to tell him that, because she froze beneath him for a divine moment, a curse on her lips and a breath caught in her throat, and convulsed and flowed around his hand, his knuckles trapped in a pleasurable vise, and then she was panting and twitching and clutching, feral, gasping his name and seeking his mouth with her own, and he saw that seven minutes was the real kid stuff: this was a heaven he wanted to lock himself inside forever.

Their mouths fumbled for one another in her post orgasmic melee of limbs and spent lungs, and she held his mandible like a precious archaeological find, treasuring his nearness, weak with gratitude. He laid down beside her and gingerly removed his hand from between her legs, but she grabbed his retreating arm and rested his palm over the top of her underwear, cupping her lust-warmed sex. She started at the renewed contact with her apparently still sensitive clitoris, and nestled her forehead against his cheek on the pillow. Her eyelids drooped shut.

“Hey, Scully,” he teased, “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?”

But she already had.

He looked down upon her scratch-marked face, her proud but delicate nose curving gently above her lips, which were slightly parted and dewy. A soft snore rippled her tongue. 

What a time for a cat nap, Mulder mused with considerable regret.

He tucked an errant strand of red hair behind her ear with his little finger, and went off to solve a problem in the bathroom. 

Scully needed her rest. He could only hope she’d be on the prowl again tomorrow night. 

I wrote a whole cat-based smut fic, and not once did I manage to make a pun on the word pussy. I’ll show myself out.

AO3 link here.

[tacitwhisky]

Jon of the Kingsguard: Story Autopsy

While not the first jonsa story I posted, Jon of the Kingsguard is the first I wrote. The initial concept isn’t original to me: I can’t find it now, but an ask reblogged by asoiaf university offhandedly mentioned Jon joining the Kingsguard and how it would complicate Joffrey and Sansa, and that immediately got me thinking. Jon going south is such an interesting context for him, and the way he interacts with being in the capital and the more southern view of knighthood and duty, while still being fundamentally being the same person, was really intriguing to me.

Another driving idea behind the story was the concept that Jon and Sansa both start in this fic and canon not valuing the other: Sansa is status conscious and looks down at Jon because of his birth while Jon is dismissive of her feminine pursuits (there’s a good meta here that talks about how Jon is very supportive of tomboys like Arya or Ygritte, but tends to not like traditionally feminine women because of Catelyn). That duality of the two, their mutual dislike for superficial reasons, was really fascinating to me, and I liked the idea of their arcs mirroring each other as they learn to value the other (I quote the relevant part of a related meta here, if you’re interested).

I also made the decision early on to ignore the parts of asoiaf canon that weren’t conducive to the story: no white walkers, no war of the five kings, no Hound, no Petyr or Renly or Stannis. Partly this was a decision I made just for my own sanity, but mostly because paring down and narrowing the scope of the world was the only way to truly let the premise of Jon joining the Kingsguard breathe and develop fully.

The Original Vision: Or, No Plan Survives First Contact With The Page

My original vision for the story was as one of those lyrical oneshots that gracefully dip in and out of events and time, and that’s how I originally started out writing it. It was one of those stories that just gripped me and wouldn’t let me work on other stuff until I’d gotten it out of my system. I wrote the first third of it in about a week, the words just flowing one after another.

I got as far as the first time Joffrey hits Sansa, but then realized I wasn’t quite happy with how Jon and Sansa’s dynamic had developed so far. Ironically enough for a jonsa fic, I felt like the two hadn’t interacted enough. By that point I’d run out of steam for the story though, and decided to just set it aside with the vague idea of maybe turning it into its own original story at some point.

(Which, for the record, wouldn’t work: there’s simply too many things specific to the asioaf world in the story, and a lot of the background of the plot would have to be expanded for it to make sense on its own. Joffrey, for example, would need actual scenes of him being horrible earlier in the story rather than only showing up onscreen right before the end, Danaerys kind of reads like a deus ex machina, etc.)

I let the draft sit for almost a year, until I’d gotten over my hesitation over spending writing time on fanfic and written and posted Tipsy in a Red Push Up Bra (have I ever mentioned that I dislike that title? Because I do, but could never come up with something better). At that point I decided to take a look at Kingsguard again, and fix the things I didn’t like in what I’d already written before moving forward.

Adding The Jonsa Spice

Most of the process of second drafting was simply adding more interactions between Jon and Sansa. Which again, is odd that I didn’t do in the first place, but whatever. I’ll run through a few here.

“Do you know where Arya is?” Sansa tosses her hair, the red-bronze sheen of it flashing in the light, a quiver wobbling the edge of her voice. “She’s going to ruin everything.”

Jon sighs and whistles Ghost to him. It will be worse for Arya if she’s late. “I’ll help you look.”

Originally Arya popped up before the second paragraph above, and Sansa dragged her off and that was the end of the scene. I’m not really sure what I was thinking, because the story inherently needs a scene at the start to show the status quo of Jon and Sansa’s relationship where they actually interact and talk. It’s just a basic tenet of writing.

They reach the stables, and Nymeria pads out to nose Ghost and Lady. Sansa’s nose wrinkles at the sudden scent of horse and hay, and she lifts the hem of her skirts above the churned earth and mud. And where is your prince now, he thinks darkly, or is trudging through mud a job only for bastards? 

I find it endlessly hilarious how extra Jon can be, and the general saltiness between Jon and Sansa in these first few chapters was a huge amount of fun to write. This scene also emphasizes Sansa’s initially chivalric view of the world. I love any fic where Jon and Sansa are cast as knight and lady, and here they go on essentially a quest, even if it’s a mundane one. That’s what this is about:

Once out in the yard again Sansa makes to walk off, but abruptly turns on her heel and gives Jon a swift courtesy. “Thank you for your aid, Jon.”

It’s also just a nice character beat for her: Sansa never forgets her courtesies even if only to Jon.

Chapter two also had a couple scenes added and expanded. The scene with Jon and Sansa in the sparring yard was entirely added in the second draft both to give them more interaction, and to punch up Jon’s sense that something is going on between Sansa and Joffrey that he doesn’t understand. That feeling finally blossoms in the wedding scene, which is also the emotionally largest addition to the second draft: the bedding.

Carefully, Jon lowers her into the bed, and only then does Sansa look at him again, eyes trapped, the line of her jaw clenched and sharp and fragile as a shard of glass. The night’s wine has left Jon’s mind murky and slow. “Your grace,” he mumbles, tongue thick, meaning to step back. Her hand flashes out, fingers clutching his sleeve. “Don’t call me that,” she whispers, eyes pleading, “please don’t call me that. I’m still Sansa.”

In the original draft Jon lays Sansa on the bed and just… leaves. Really odd decision on my part, and even just this short interaction pulls the whole chapter together and solidifies what Sansa’s going through in a tangible way. It’s honestly one of my favorite moments in the story now, and really sets the groundwork for their relationship.

Alayaya

Maybe the biggest addition in terms of word count I made in that second draft oddly enough doesn’t include Sansa. The entire second half of chapter three where Jon visits Chataya’s brothel with Tyrion is a second draft edition. Part of the decision to add the scene was pacing: once I gave up on the idea of this fic as a oneshot, crash cutting from Jon deciding to join the Kingsguard to Joffrey’s coronation felt really jarring.

The other part was to just explore Jon’s headspace: in canon Jon is a tightly wound ball of expectation and duty, and piling knighthood and it’s hangups around sex on top of that would ony make it worse. Which itself ended up being a larger part of the story than I initially planned. 

Jon flushes. The girl is beautiful, freckled and lushly curved, with long red hair brushed to a copper sheen that reaches to her hip. As if she can feel his eyes on her the girl glances up at him, a slow, wicked smile turning the corners of her lips. There is nothing of her but for the red of her hair that is like Sansa, yet her smile coils something sick in Jon’s gut, and for a moment he can again feel Sansa’s fingers tangling in his sleeve, the fragile weight of her in his arms, the way her eyes had pled with him

Jon wrenches his gaze away. I am no Joffrey. He downs the goblet in a single swallow, tongue barely recognizing the smooth ripple that marks it as Arbor Gold. “Not her.”

I’ll talk more about this in the next section, but I wanted Jon’s feelings for Sansa to be ambiguous here, especially with how tangled up they are in ideas of chivalry and duty and westerosi patriarchy. You can read this scene as Jon shying away from attraction to his sister, as Dancy being a figure of temptation for his honor, or as Jon simply still being traumatized by the bedding and worrying he’ll be like Joffrey.

“I am bastard too counted your Westorosi way.” Alayaya tilts her head to the side as she returns to where he stands. She hands him his cup. “My father was a summer islander like my mother, a sailor passing through Kingslanding on his way to Braavos. But among my people there is no shame in bastard birth, for the gods made not only us but our desires too, and in that way we bastards are a gift of the gods.”

“I’ve never felt a gift.” Jon laughs, the sound more hollow than he expected.

I hadn’t originally planned for it, but Alayaya’s views on her own bastardry (which aren’t canon, but are a reasonable extrapolation) are a great contrast with Jon. Here she’s offering another way of viewing his bastard identity, a way of freeing himself from its shackles, but Jon just isn’t there. Stories are all about contrasts and foils, and Alayaya is a great one for Jon. Not to mention what surprisingly good chemistry they have.

To Romance Or Not To Romance?

In the notes for the first chapter I wrote:

I went back and forth quite a bit on whether this should be under the Jon/Sansa tag or not. Ultimately I did decide to put it there (for now), because I think if you’re into Jonsa you’ll enjoy it, but do note that the romantic elements of this story are not at all overt, so fair warning.

This pretty accurately reflected my initial mindset on how explicitly romantic the story was going to be. Being the first jonsa story I wrote, I think I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the incest facets of it (to be honest it’s still not an attractive part of the pairing to me), and they think of each other as brother and sister for most of this story. Even without any romance I was still driven to write the story: I generally find intimate platonic relationships as interesting as romantic ones.

As I finished retrofitting old chapters and writing new ones, more and more feelings started to show up between Jon and Sansa, until I realized that there was really no holding it back: this was going to be a fic where they had romantic feelings for each other far before they find out their cousins. Still, vacillating back and forth on how blatant to be about their attraction to each other is something that hounded me as I moved past the material I’d originally written, and kept moving itself earlier and earlier into the story.

Relationship Progression

The story can actually be broken into several distinct periods in the evolution of their relationship. The status quo when the story starts is Jon and Sansa are mostly salty at each other because of how few things they have in common and their general disdain and resentment. Neither of them have anything really like attraction for each other, but the underlying situation is there: they’re simultaneously too distant to really feel like siblings, but also too close to see each other as potential romantic interests.

The saltiness begins to give way as Jon begins to see more than just the image Sansa projects (her crying into his shirt over Lady), comes back a little bit in chapter two, and then gives way even more as he begins to see how not-perfect her life is.

“Joffrey is to break lances with Ser Loras.” There is something queer in Sansa’s voice, an uncertain edge to it that Jon cannot place. “He asked I watch.”

He bites his lip, but does not know what to say. Since she’d been old enough to curl up in old Nan’s lap Sansa had dreamed of marrying a lord like Joffrey, a shining prince with flashing blue eyes and gold hair. This is the song she’s always wanted: and she is not his sister in the way Arya is, in the way where he can ask her what troubles her. 

It’s still very opaque to him though until the end of chapter two:

The gale of voices of the ladies holding Joffrey aloft in the corridor is louder now, the sound pulsing in Jon’s blood. He reaches up and wraps his hand around Sansa’s fingers, and it takes all the will he has not to kneel in that moment and swear to her by the old gods and the new that he will protect her from Joffrey and the Lannisters and all the realm. But this is not a song and he is not a knight, not any more than he has ever been a Stark. Carefully, he untangles her fingers from his sleeve and gives them a tight squeeze. “Sansa,” he says meeting her eyes, and later he knows he will tell himself it is the wine that makes him step forward and brush his lips against her forehead. “Sansa Stark.”

This interaction is the start of an underlying, recurring tenderness in their relationship that will only grow over the course of the story. On a side note, this scene is also yet another invocation of the knight and maiden motif, and how Jon’s sense of duty is conflicted by his bastard identity.

Jon and Sansa’s relationship is kind of on hold for chapter three (Jon visits the brothel) and four (Arya leaves), and then picks up again in chapter five (Joffrey first hits Sansa), though they’re still not particularly close in that chapter, still at a sort of wary distance. The attraction element is beginning to strengthen though, like in this moment:

Sansa blinks and looks away, out to the window. For a moment she looks so like a maiden from a song waiting in her tower for some brave knight to come save her that it cuts Jon to the bone.

Which is a bit much for your sister.

Chapters six and seven are the next stage, when Jon and Sansa are drawn closer because of the situation they’re going through together: they’re really the only other person either of them can depend on and trust. But just as much as that kind of situation can forge a bond, I also wanted to show just how ugly abuse can be in tearing people apart.

Not to get pretentious, but one of the inspirations for that and the scene I’ll go into next was a section in Anna Karenina where she and her lover are shunned from society, and she starts to cling and become jealous of him even as he begins to resent her. Desperation and loneliness aren’t always pretty, and often don’t forge a bond.

Trauma and Abuse

Sansa giggles. “What do you think, Jon? Would fucking me keep you true?”

The words catch Jon like a slap. He drops her hands. “That isn’t funny, Sansa.”

This scene is a really pivotal one, bringing to the front a lot of the underlying elements of the story so far: how abuse can tear people apart, the latent attraction in Jon and Sansa’s relationship, and showing the emotional toll Joffrey’s abuse has taken on Sansa.

Ironically for such a pivotal scene though, it isn’t one I originally planned. I don’t remember how the idea first came to me, but I do remember that I initially rejected it for being too shippy and clashing too much with the tone of the story. But the idea stuck with me, and in execution I just tried to make it clear that Sansa isn’t so much jealous as simple insecurity and desperation: as much as Jon has been beside her, he isn’t the one undergoing abuse, and Sansa is very, very aware that he has a choice in whether to stay with her. As she says, he can leave the tower whenever he wants even as she’s trapped there.

She rolls her eyes. “I could make you happier than she makes Jaime, you know. All the court says I’m more beautiful than her. I’d treat you gentler too, let you use me like one of your whores and never once complain. I’m sorry I have all these bruises, but you can give me one of your own if you want. Would doing that make it easier for you? Would it make fucking your sister sweeter? I want it to be sweet for you, Jon, truly I do, so sweet you’ll never leave me, so sweet you’ll strike me at even the thought of another man in me.”

This is Sansa, in a moment of desperation beginning to lose her grasp on what a normal relationship is, conflating abuse with love, and embracing the idea that her only value to men, even Jon, is her appearance. It's a bit of a nod to what Cersei in canon tells Sansa tears aren’t a woman's only weapons, that she also has one between her legs. Just as later Jaime will be a good foil for Jon when it comes to why the knight saves the maiden (which I’ll go into in a bit), Cersei is the other side of the coin from Sansa. Not exploring that dynamic between Sansa and Cersei in actual scenes is actually something I kind of regret not doing, though I didn’t think of it till too late; if I was ever to expand or turn this into an original story it’s something I’d definitely include.

There is a dull roar in Jon’s ears as he reaches up and clasps Sansa’s face between his hands, jerks her eyes back to meet his. “I will never strike you.” The words are sharp, short, harsh, but Jon needs her to understand, needs her to know beyond the flicker of a doubt. “And I will never leave you, Sansa. I swear that, swear it before the sight of gods and men, swear it by the old gods and the new. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever, not until I draw my last breath and the life leaves my body and the crows come to feast on my eyes. You are my heart, Sansa. You are all I have. Never doubt that. Never.”

This is really the only way I ever thought about writing Jon react. There are other ways that might make sense, but needing to give Sansa comfort in that moment is the only thing that felt truly right to me.

Would Fucking Me Keep You True?

One of the techniques Martin uses a lot in asoiaf is a short phrase that gets stuck in a character’s head and repeats whenever they’re feeling a particular emotion. This is a technique that really works for me because it’s something that happens to me in real life (hurrah for mental illness), and “would fucking me keep your true?” is the one that crops up the most in this fic. Mostly it’s because it’s just such a good shorthand for the for the tangled and complex feelings Jon has for Sansa and his sense of duty and understanding of knighthood.

That tangle of feelings is what marks the next section of Jon and Sansa’s relationship through till the last chapter; as indefinable as it is, it’s the only solid and true thing in their lives, and it’s what Jon clings to after he leaves Sansa and sets off to find Dany and bring her back.

---

This post got much longer than I thought it would, so I’m going to break this off here and finish it up in another post down the line.

[franklyshipping]

The Price of Buffness (Part 2) ~ A Jacksepticeye Ego Fanfic

Well, this is a part 2 to THIS fic because when I finished it my mind was whirring with ideas....evil ideas. Just so you know, this fic includes very intense tickling BUT there will be a lot of care! AND ALSO: DESPITE INTENSE TEASING THIS IS A CONSENSUAL TICKLE SCENARIO! However, if you don't like intensity, you don't have to read on! Don't you guys worry! LET'S DO IT!

The man stirred....slowly....very slowly....as if his subconscious was dragging out the process of his awakening. Soon however, Chase Brody was.....awake....and struggling. He was strapped down, immobilised to a metal table by his ankles, by his wrists at his sides, and there was even a strap across his forehead. Chase's eyes were wide as it also transpired that he was only in his underwear, and the chill of the table was already causing goose-bumps to rise on his pale skin. Chase let out gasps as he tugged and squirmed, but he barely budged one millimetre. Chase still had his voice though.

'Hey! HEY! GET ME OUT OF HERE S-SOMEONE GET ME OUT!!'

Chase voice echoed in the whitewashed room....and as Chase flicked his eyes about....a pang in his stomach gave him this sense of familiarity. He'd seen this room before.....but how-?

'Oh quiet down little boy, your stupid cries are pointless.'

Chase flinched at the new sudden voice, and gulped when he heard footsteps getting closer to him. Another reason as to why he'd paled was because of how the sharp, unforgiving voice was distinct....and well-known to Chase. Therefore, Chase wasted no time in glaring when the sneering Dr Schneeplestein leant over him into his eye-line. He spat his words at the doctor.

'What the HELL are you playing at man?! This is fucking wrong! LET ME OUT!!'

At Chase's animosity, Schneeplestein merely let out a derisive laugh through his nose, before gripping Chase's jaw as he replied.

'If you know what's good for you, you'll shut your mouth. Unless you want to be gagged.'

Chase's eyes widened up at the doctor as he tried to move his head, but the doctor's grip was secure, it was only when Schneeple released his jaw that he could then turn his head away from him; he could only do it by a fraction though, thanks to the forehead strap. Chase had gulped. He very much wanted to keep the use of his voice, so he continued to glare up at the doctor. The doctor snickered.

'Well, well, at least you can follow orders. That only makes you MOSTLY useless, instead entirely useless like I've always thought.'

Chase quivered, Schneeple's words stinging him and making him purse his lips. He wouldn't let the doctor get to him. He wouldn't. Schneeple grinned, his teeth gleaming as he crooned at Chase like someone might croon at their pet....except without kindness.

'Everyone knows that the only thing usable and useful about you is how sensitive you are. With sensitivity everywhere, you are the perfect test subject. It's only good manners that you give yourself up to me....although, it's not like you really have a choice.'

Schneeple let out a string of high pitched, slightly insane-sounding chuckles, which sent fearful chills down Chase's spine. All Chase could do as Schneeple laughed was struggle and struggle and struggle. He knew damn well how ticklish he was....and with how malevolent the doctor seemed to be, Chase knew that he was going to torture him, go to extremes...he could see those flames in Schneeple's eyes. That craving. That craving to make someone cry out and beg mirthfully for mercy. The sadistic tickler inside Dr Schneeplestein was known to very few....and Chase was unlucky enough to be one of those few. Chase whimpered from his own thoughts as the doctor wheeled in a tray of apparatus....none of which Chase was able to see; damn restraints. Before Chase could try and beg, try and appeal to the kindness that was inside the doctor, oil was being drizzled all over his bared torso.

'You might as well enjoy this part, while you can.'

Schneeple sneered as he watched Chase gasp and squeak at the coldness....and then fail to repress his hums when Schneeple's warm hands rubbed it all in, working deep into his torso. No part of Chase's torso was untouched...and much to Chase's embarrassment, it felt beyond lovely and calming, which was something he wasn't expecting to feel in this situation. Thus, he knew it wouldn't last long....this was the last opportunity he had to try and get himself out of this.

'Schn-neeple.....a-ahpleaseplease.....f-f-friend....p-please....'

Chase's eyes were wide and puppy-like, and under normal circumstances anyone with a hint of morality would have succumbed, released Chase, and made him a nice hot cocoa. However.....Chase was not dealing with someone with morality. Schneeple had warned him to keep his mouth shut, but with this disobedience Schneeple figured it was time to get things going.

'I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO SHUT YOUR MOUTH?!'

Chase jumped, then shrieked magnificently. Schneeple's blunt fingernails had initiated a scribbly assault in Chase's, now slick and soft, underarms. The oil, of course, increased Chase's sensitivity by A LOT. That meant....he was DOUBLY insanely ticklish.

'AHAHAHAHA SHIHIHIHAHAHAHA SAHAHAHAHARRY SAHAHAHARRYYYY!!!'

Chase was cackling wildly as he squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed at how he was instantly brought to hysterics....this was going to be torture. Thankfully, Schneeple didn't intend to spend long at that spot, he just wanted to give his test subject a little warning. Soon, Schneeple removed his hands and went to dry the oil off them as Chase panted and tried his best to recover. However, even though he got his breath back....his flustered nerves only increased as he saw what the doctor did next. Dangling right above Chase was a microphone, like the sort that coroners would use to record their actions and findings during autopsies. Schneeple pulled it towards him, tapped it, and spoke into it.

'This is Doctor Henrik Von Schneeplestein MD, PhD, MVP, FFS, engaging in research into sensitivity of humanoids of....basic intelligence....'

Chase whimpered and blushed when Schneeple flashed him a smirk; the doctor then continued addressing the microphone.

'So far I have determined that the subject can be coerced into obedience from sporadic stimulation to the surface of the axillae, but now I am going to investigate the reactions to intense, focused stimulation to the thoracic vertebrae and the surrounding flesh.'

Chase squirmed and quivered as he watched the doctor let the microphone dangle in the air; thoracic vertebrae? What the fuck was he going to do to him? Chase cursed how the doctor had restricted his head movement....but soon Schneeple revealed precisely what Chase was going to have to endure. The doctor held a round headed electric toothbrush....in EACH hand. Two focused sources of vibrating, torturous bristles. Chase's eyes widened as the buzzing filled the air and Schneeple's sadistic grin filled his view.

'D-D-Doctor....w-we c-c-can take ab-bout this c-can't we-EEEEEEE!!!'

Well....at least Chase now knew what his thoracic vertebrae were, aka, his ultra-sensitive ribs. The doctor had set the brushes at the top ribs either side of his ribcage and were rubbing them against the bones, making Chase arch his back desperately. Schneeple meanwhile was relaxed and musing, observing Chase as he commented to the air.

'High sensitivity once again, however true results can only be collated by testing each vertebra fairly, so 10 seconds will be dedicated to the stimulation of each one.'

10 seconds......per rib. Fuck. That.

'STAHAHAHAP AHAHAHA FAHAHAHACK STAHAHAPPITSTAHAPPIT AAAHHHHH!!!'

Chase's laughter was loud and of a medium pitch at present, which meant that he thankfully wouldn't go hoarse from this stage of experimentation. Chase unfortunately didn't have the focus to do the mathematics of his endeavour, but thankfully I can. Ahem: With two brushes going at once and working in synchronicity, they would be working at TWO ribs at the same time. Two ribs every 10 seconds. Therefore if we take the total amount of ribs a person has, 24, and thus divide by 2, that makes 12 ribs; 12 stages of rib tickling. Therefore, 12 multiplied by 10 is 120 seconds. Two minutes. Only two minutes of tickling at his ribs. If Chase had known that then perhaps it would have made it easier...but then again, when you're being tickle tortured....two minutes can feel like two thousand.

'Oh but we have such a long way to go.....I've always liked how there are just so....many....ribs....'

Schneeple taunted in a cool voice as his tools moved down to the next pair of bones, making Chase wail and cry out in mirthful despair. He let out similar cries at the third, fourth, fifth AND sixth pairs. By the half way point I think he was ready to sell his soul for just an ounce of mercy. The bristles had no hindrance at his skin...that damn oil....Chase was going to make it his life's work to make sure NO kind of oil was created EVER again.

'IHIHIHIH CAHAHAHAN'T!!! PLEHEHEHEEEASE PLEHEHEASE HEHEHENRIHIHIK!!!'

Chase was gazing into the doctor's eyes weepily, his eyes glistening whilst Schneeple's remained as hard as weathered granite. Then....for one shining moment....there was a glimmer of mercy. Schneeple removed the tools and Chase gasped for relief....but soon, Schneeple was leaning over him, their faces inches away. Chase had never felt more intimidated. Chase felt like the doctor was looking into his very soul, boring into him. Then Schneeple spoke calmly....but not to Chase.

'It seems....that my subject thinks that by using my name, he can appeal to some glimmer of humanity he believes is inside my soul....'

Chase. Had. Goosebumps. His voice....despite his words, was so damn kind. That was what had struck Chase into a revered, obedient silence. Somehow....Schneeple leant down closer to Chase....did their lips brus-NO JEEZ CHASE! Chase chastised himself for his.....wishful thinking. He couldn't stop the hot crimson burning at his cheeks though, and he could have sworn he saw Schneeple....wink after he purred.

'In my....professional opinion....that is adorably naïve.'

Aaaaand Chase was screaming once again, the doctor was not planning on leaving the rest of his ribs un-tickled, for research purposes of course.

'OHOHOHOH C'MOHOHOHOHOHAHAHAHAAAN!!!'

Chase whined amidst squealing laughter; the bottom half of his ribcage had softer flesh, which made it rather more sensitive...and more fun to tickle. As Schneeple progressed with stage after stage after stage, he grew more and more teasing rather than bothering to maintain his stoicism. What could he say, he enjoyed his line of work.

'Poor little thing, even after a break you just tumble right back into hysterics....this must be agony for you....'

Chase whimpered as he tried to nod, but only managed a few twitches of his head as the vibrating bristles made his body jolt constantly.

'IHIHIHIT IHIHIHIHIIIISSSS AHAHAHAAAHHH DOHOHOHOHOHOC!!!'

Chase was thrashing as much as his bonds would allow as Schneeple's menacing chuckles reverberated around the room....but then....it all stopped. Two minutes, complete. Chase was shocked for a few moments, his mind still trying to convince him that he was being tickled....but he soon realised that this was a window of mercy. It was a large one too. It was silent for a while as Chase slowly but surely breathed, gasped, breathed, gasped...and breathed. He was sweating and glistening all over as his eyes fluttered shut a few times; it was only thanks to the good night's sleep he'd had last night that he didn't fall asleep for a nap right then and there. Chase doubted the doctor would have even allowed that to happen though. Speaking of whom....

'Awww.....is my little subject going to cry like a little baby?'

On top of everything else....he just HAD to fucking croon at him. Chase averted his eyes...which were starting to water....but he wouldn't give in. He pursed his lips and mumbled.

'....n-no....'

Schneeple raised an eyebrow, then snickered.

'I'll soon fix that.'

The bottle of oil was in one hand, and the hanging mic was in his other hand as he moved....to sit in his desk chair. His desk chair, that was next to Chase's bare feet. Chase gulped and scrunched up his feet when he felt the oil being drizzled down his soles, then squeaked and whined when Schneeple forced his toes back so he could get the oil underneath AND in-between them....then he rubbed them. Firmly. I relate to Chase's reaction....mine would be the same. For a lot of people, their feet can be a place of unimaginable relaxation and weakness, which is why Chase came to be purring and gasping and smiling with unadulterated happiness. The doctor's firm touch felt so good and even though Chase tried to chastise himself....it was impossible not to succumb. As you can imagine, Dr Schneeplestein revelled in this.

'Well, well, well, look at that. It seems a certain subject likes having their feet touched....heh, no wonder they're so pampered. I bet you like to flaunt them about don't you?'

Chase tried to protest and disagree, but found that his voice had abandoned him. That left the doctor to tease and taunt as he kept up the rubbing, his grin filled with mad glee as he purred.

'You're loving this....it feels so good for you doesn't it? To have your vulnerable feet played with and given attention....I bet you're starting to like this whole thing. I bet you'd BEG for tickle torment if it meant you got this sort of treatment for your precious feet.....'

Chase sniffled, Schneeple was doing a damn good job of humiliating him right now. He couldn't help that it felt so lovely! Chase's face was dark red and his vocals were reduced to soft whimpers and sniffles of embarrassment....as tears rolled down his face. The doctor smirked, now growling menacingly.

'To note: Talking about the subject's liking for affection at his feet reduces him to tears.....now I shall test if unorthodox stimulation will coax out the same emotional response.'

Chase didn't have time to wonder what the doctor meant by unorthodox...before it happened. Chase felt something soft, warm and....wet, slide up his sole. He let out a squeal of ticklishness and shock when he realised....it was the doctor's tongue.

'E-EHEHEW EHEWNONONO GEHET AWAHAY!!'

Schneeple chuckled amusedly at Chase's reaction as he wiggled the tip of his tongue up and down Chase's foot at a rapid speed; he was enamoured by Chase's haphazard squeals and hysterical giggle fits....and glistening tears.

'I....am so happy that these ticklish feet are aaaaall mine.'

Chase wailed when he felt his other sole being assaulted by Schneeple's tongue....it was a sensation that was so strange....and yet, despite its tickliness, it wasn't making Chase uncomfortable. It was just a new type of evil.

'THEHEHEY AHAHARE NAHAHAT!!'

Schneeple paused....then flicked his tongue over all the pads of Chase's toes as he snarled.

'What was that?'

Chase screamed, eyes bugging out of his sockets....it was so intense....his tongue was just flicking about and yet....it was indescribable.

'AHAAHAHAHASHIHIHITFUCKFUCKFUCK!!'

Chase's face was scrunched up in mirth as the doctor sighed, then decided to truly go in for the kill. His patient clearly had no mind for manners or respect, I mean, this was an honour! To be a subject for such important research for humanity! If Chase couldn't see that....then Schneeple resolved that he would need to be broken....completely, and without mercy. His teeth nibbled and nipped at Chase's toes now.

'I asked you a fucking question!'

Schneeple spat....but Chase was losing his ability to comprehend anything. It just tickled. All of it. All of it tickled. It tickled. Tickle torture tickle torture tickle torture....

'AHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA IHIHIHIHI AHAHAHAHAHA!!!'

Schneeple sighed...a long, drawn out, sigh.

'So fucking weak-'

'AAAAAHHAHHHAHAHAHA BUHUHUHHUUUFFFFFFF!!!'

The doctor stopped, jumped to his feet, and removed every single restraint binding Chase to his medical table......I mean come on.....do you really think that none of this had been meticulously planned, right up to the safe word? Role plays can get pretty damn convincing I can tell you that. After their past playful altercation, both men realised that they trusted each other....and had cravings related to tickling. It was simple, consenting, and so much damn fun to talk about and put together. As soon as he was free, Chase's first instinct was to reach for the doctor as he wept and let out soft coughs, and the doctor was swift to pick him up and carry him to a nearby couch. Said couch was laden with soft towels and pillows.

'There, there I have you....I have you, you did so good you're so strong Chase....you're so strong that was just....remarkable....'

Schneeple was whispering delicately into Chase's ear constantly, providing him with much needed praise and reassurance as he carefully laid the man's body down onto the aforementioned soft haven. Chase couldn't speak quite yet, but he just needed a little time. The doctor set about taking up a previously set aside wash cloth and bowl of cool water, and he delicately wiped down Chase's moist brow and the parts of his body that had been victims of the oil. Not only did this clean Chase, but it soothed him into a calm state of mind where Chase knew he had no more tickling to anticipate.

'I've got you, lets clean off this pesky oil hmm? I'm amazed you managed to handle it....I know I'd have started offering up all my worldly goods if I'd been in your position....'

As Schneeple looked to Chase with a wide smile, Chase giggled happily. He was so happy. He was so happy that this had happened. Even though it was weak, Chase flashed the doctor a cheeky grin as he mumbled.

'G-Guehess that makes me s-stronger than yooou....'

Schneeple smiled down at Chase affectionately, the doctor was happy too. He was so happy that Chase had wanted this, and had given him permission to be so intense....however, he was filled with an unpleasant amount of anxiety. I think you can guess why.

'Yes....b-but.....a-are you sure that I didn't go too far? I-I g-got into the cruel teasing quite a bit a-and you were crying quite a lot s-so are you quite certain that I didn't go overboar-'

'Shhh.....doc....doc listen....'

Schneeple was cut off in his nervous speech as concern inhabited his being; Chase was going to change that. His eyes shone as he gazed up at Schneeple, before gently pulling him down by his shirt so he could plant a kiss on his cheek.

'It was perfect.....if I hadn't liked what you were doing, then I would have safe-worded. Besides, I told you the things that were too much for me in our chat beforehand....you did so good doc.....'

Schneeple softly blushed, feeling more bashful than nervous now as Chase hugged him and basically forced him to snuggle. The doctor was happy with that though. He nestled into Chase's chest, the feel of the man's breathing soothing him as he whispered.

'Really?'

Chase smiled, and nuzzled the doctor's temple playfully. Chase didn't care how unorthodox it was, but he'd LOVED the intensity and cruelty....because he always ultimately knew that he was safe with his doctor.

'Really.'

He murmured, before dropping off into a much needed slumber. The doctor ended up snoozing with him....but not before he put his hand to his cheek....his thumb tracing where Chase's lips had touched. Schneeple's cheeks turned one shade darker, before slumber enveloped him. You all may....interpret that how you will.

WOOOOPPPPP DONE HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS SEQUEL WOOOOP LUV YOUS XX

[thewnchstrs]

Yellow Fever

Pairing: DeanXsister!reader, SamXsister!reader

Disclaimers: minor mentions of depression and suicide, blood, vomit, heart attacks

Word Count: 10.7K

M A S T E R L I S T

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

My chest burned with the pressure of my racing heart as I pumped my arms and legs, propelling myself forward and away from the incessant barking coming from behind me.

I chanced a look over my shoulder, fear inching its way through every bone in my body as it chased me, figuring this would surely be the end if I couldn’t pick up my pace.

I rounded a corner down the long, dark alleyway I’d been running down when suddenly I was crashing to the ground after having collided with a shopping cart full of trash. I groaned, flopping onto my stomach as I pushed myself to my feet. My eyes bounced up to the man whose cart I’d fallen over, “Run! It’ll kill you!”

The man looked from me and down to where I was pointing where the small Yorkie looked back up at me with those beady, dark eyes. The pink bow nestled in between its ears could’ve fooled anybody- but I could see right through it. I could picture it now: the minute it got a hold of me, it would tear me apart. I’d be dead within minutes.

Quickly, and with adrenaline still pumping heavily through my veins, I turned quickly on my heels and began to sprint in the opposite direction, desperately trying to outrun that tiny, vicious ball of evil.

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

Rock Ridge, Colorado.

43 Hours Earlier

“Agent Tyler, Agent Perry, Agent Kramer, meet Frank O’Brien.” the coroner said as he unzipped the body bag, revealing the face of a middle-aged white man.

“He died of a heart attack, right?” Sam asked.

The coroner nodded, “Three days ago.”

“But O’Brien was 44 years old and, according to this,” Sam opened up the manila folder in his hands as he read from it, “a marathon runner.”

“Everybody drops dead sooner or later,” the coroner simply shrugged, “it’s why I got job security.”

“Yeah, but Frank kicked it here.” Dean said, “Now just yesterday, two perfectly healthy men bit it in Maumee...all heart attacks. You don’t think that’s strange?”

“Sounds like Maumee’s problem to me. Why’s the FBI give a damn, anyway?”

“We just want to see the results of Franks autopsy,” I said, nodding to the coroner who gave me a confused look.

“What autopsy?”

I smiled the best polite, fake, smile I could, the one that suggested he really didn’t have a choice in the matter, “The one you’re gonna do.”

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

Sam, Dean, and I watched on as the coroner began the first incision, beginning at the base of the chest cavity and down to the middle of Frank’s abdomen. “First dead body?”

“Far from it,” Dean said as he watched on, his arms crossed. They always seemed so unfazed by the entire cutting open of a dead person gig. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

“Oh, good,” the coroner said as he pulled back the sides of Frank’s stomach, unsettlingly reminding me of the time I had to dissect a frog in high school, “’cause these suckers can get pretty ripe.” the coroner nodded toward the metal table next to me, “Hey, hand me those rib cutters, would you?”

My hand hovered over the tools when I spotted the one that most resembled a pair of pliers, handing them over to the coroner. I winced as he broke numerous ribs in order to get through to Frank’s chest.

The coroner pulled out layers of muscle, piling it up in his hand as he looked to me again, “Hold this for me.”

“Oh, I’d really rather not-”

Before I knew it, I had a handful of muscle as Sam and Dean smirked at me as I held it far, fat away.

“Is this from a wedding ring?” Dean asked as he eyed Frank’s hand where, sure enough, a small patch of skin on his ring finger looked as if he were still wearing it, “I didn’t think Frank was married.”

“Ain’t my department.”

Sam picked up Frank’s arm, revealing his skin that looked as if it’d been burned off. However, as I looked closer, they weren’t burn marks at all. They were scratches.

“You know what? When you drop dead, you actually tend to drop. Body probably got scraped up when it hit the ground...huh.”

“What?” We said in unison as the coroner peered inside the body.

The coroner shook his head, “I- I can’t find any blockages in any of the major arteries.”

We watched as the coroner then stuck nearly his entire forearm into the chest cavity. My eyes went wide with horror as he felt around for something and, when he successfully grabbed a hold of it, tore it from the body, eliciting a wet and cracking sound. He held Frank’s heart up under the spot light.

I gagged slightly, covering my mouth with my upper arm in an attempt to keep my lunch down, the muscle in my hands feeling heavier than ever.

“Heart looks pretty damn healthy.” the coroner said, looking to Dean as he held the heart out, “Hold that a second, would you?” Suddenly, he shoved the heart into Dean’s hands, making him look to Sam and I in confusion.

I smirked at him this time, mocking him for making fun of me. Sam smiled beside himself at the picture of Dean and I as the coroner went back to work, cutting something deep in Frank’s chest when is spurted upward and directly into Sam’s eyes.

“Oh, sorry.” The coroner apologized, “Spleen juice.”

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

Sam, Dean and I sat in the police station silently as the lower-ranking officer sat across from us at a large desk, smiling as if to distract us from how long we’d been waiting to speak to the Sheriff.

“Hell’s bells, Linus, have you seen my-” the Sheriff asked, poking his head from his office, stopping as he spotted the three of us. Sam, Dean, and I stood from our seats. “Who are they?”

“Federal agents, I uh-”

“And you kept them waiting?”

“You- you said not to disturb-”

“Come on back, agents.” The Sheriff said, ignoring him as he motioned us inside, stopping us before we could enter his office. “Shoes off.”

We raised our eyebrows at the odd request, but, nonetheless, kicked our shoes off on the welcome mat outside the door. The office was lined with showcases of trophies and medals, framed achievement awards and a file cabinet. He obviously kept busy.

“Al Britton,” he introduced, shaking each of our hands. “Good to meet you. Take a seat.”

Pulling the chairs out on the opposite side of his desk, we sat down, watching as he pulled a large bottle of hand sanitizer from his desk drawer, pouring a generous amount into his hand, watching the three of us in uncomfortable silence before he finally decided to sit down. “So. What can I do for Uncle Sam?”

“Well, we’re looking into the death of Frank O’Brien.” Sam said, looking to Dean and I before looking back to Al. “We understand a few of your men found his body.”

Al’s face fell slightly, “They did...me and Frank, we were friends. Hell, we were gamecocks.” Dean wheezed slightly, quickly closing his mouth as Al raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s our softball team’s name. They’re majestic animals.”

I nodded slowly, “So, uh, how long have you known Frank?”

“Since high school. To be honest, I just this morning got up the strength to go see him. Frank was...he was a good man.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “big heart.”

“Bigger muscles,” I confirmed, nodding as Al nodded along in agreement.

Sam quickly interjected, “Before he died, did you notice Frank acting strange, maybe, scared of something?”

“Oh, hell yeah.” Al said as he clasped his hands together on his desk. “Real jumpy.”

“You know what scared him?”

“No. Wouldn’t answer his phone. Finally, I sent some of my boys over to check on him, and, well, you know the rest.”

Al coughed twice into his hand after that, a labored cough that nearly sounded like someone who’d been smoking for years, at least. We watched, eyebrows cinched together as he poured more hand sanitizer into his hands, vigorously rubbing them together. “So, why the feds give a crap? You don’t really think there’s a case here?”

Dean looked to us, opening and closing his mouth, unsure of what to say, “No, no. It’s probably nothing. Just a heart attack.”

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

“No way that was just a heart attack.” Dean said once we exited the police station.

“Definitely no way.” I said, shaking my head, “Three victims, all with those same red scratches, all went from jittery to terrified to dead within 48 hours.”

“Something scared them to death?” Sam joked. “Alright, so, what can do that?”

“What can’t?” I clarified. “Ghosts, vampires, chupacabra, it could be a hundred things.”

“Yeah, so, we make a list, start crossing things off.”

“Alright. Who’s the last person to see Frank O’Brien alive?:

“Uh, his neighbor, Mark Hutchins.”

As we continued down the sidewalk, I caught sight of the group of people in front of us, huddled together at the end of the road. I quickly grabbed Sam and Dean’s arms, pulling them back, “Hang on.”

“What?”

I glanced from them to the ground, trying not to make eye contact with the group, “I don’t like the looks of those teenagers down there. Let’s walk this way.”

Before they could intervene I quickly darted across the road, keeping my head low as I approached the other side of the street, crisis averted.

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

“Tyler, Perry, and Kramer,” Frank’s neighbor, Mark Hutchins said as he stroked the long garden snake that was resting over his shoulders, “just like Aerosmith.”

“Yeah, small world,” Sam said. Mark’s living room was littered with every animal known to man. Small ones and big ones, skinny and fat, long and short, scales and tongues that darted out against the glass enclosures they were encased in. I caught the eye of a lizard who whipped his head to mine, making me jump slightly, returning my attention back to Mark, “so, the last time you saw Frank O’Brien?”

“Monday. He was watching me from his window.” Mark gestured with his head toward the window across from us, “I waved at him, but he just closed the curtains.”

“Did you speak to him recently? Did he seem different...scared?”

“Oh, totally. He was freaking out.”

I wrung my hands together as I side-eyed the small crocodile in the tank next to me, his beady eyes always watching me, trying to keep my focus on what they were talking about while fear pumped through my veins.

“Do you know what scared him?” Dean asked as he crouched down to look at a bearded dragon.

Mark thought about it before answering, “Well, yeah, witches.”

“Witches?”

“Well, ‘Wizard of Oz’ was on TV the other night, right?” Mark began. He gestured wildly with his hands and I kept my eyes trained on the snake around him. “And he said that green bitch was totally out to get him.”

Sam, Dean and I raised our eyebrows at the odd accusation, nodding slowly. This Frank guy was beginning to sound bat shit crazy, “Anything else scare him?”

“Everything else scared him. Al-Qaeda, ferrets, artificial sweetener, those Pez dispensers with their dead little eyes, lots of stuff.”

As Mark listed everything off, I began to bounce my leg in anxiousness, unconsciously cracking my knuckles as I surveyed the area around me, my heart picking up more and more speed as I noticed a new animal each time I looked around the room. A tarantula, a bullfrog, a chameleon that constantly changed colors.

“So, tell me, what was Frank like?” Sam asked.

Mark hesitated, “I mean, he’s dead, you know? I- I don’t want to hammer him, but he got better.”

“Got better?”

“Well, in high school he was- he was a dick.”

“A dick?”

“Like a bully.” Mark clarified, “I mean, he probably taped half the town’s butt cheeks together,” I couldn’t help myself but laugh lightly at the thought of it, quickly snapping my mouth shut when Mark gave me a deadly glare, “mine included.”

“So he pissed a lot of people off,” I said, “you think anyone would have wanted to get revenge?”

“Well I don’t...” Frank paused, eyes darting across the floor before looking back up at us, “Frank had a heart attack, right?”

Dean came back around the room after having examined each reptile before sitting back down in a chair next to Sam, “Just answer the question, sir.”

“No...I don’t think so.” Mark shook his head in confusion, “Like I said, he got better. After what happened to his wife.”

“His wife?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow to Sam and I, “So he was married?”

“She died, about 20 years ago,” Mark said, sadly, “Frank was really broken up about it.”

I grimaced at the snake that now laid still in Mark’s arms, feeling as if at any moment it could strike. I sat on the edge of the couch, trying to settle my racing heart. Mark looked at me, confused before laughing, “Don’t be afraid of Donny. He’s a sweetheart. It’s Marie you gotta look out for. She smells fear.”

As if on cue, a fat, yellow spotted python began to peek over the couch, its body slowly slithering over the cushions next to my shoulder. I snapped my head forward, inhaling sharply as I felt it nudge my arm, its head nearly the size of my fist. I watched Sam and Dean in desperation, took scared to move as the snake came down over my shoulder and down across my lap.

My eyes trailed to Mark pleadingly, my words coming out in short bursts of air, “Little help here.”

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

I sat in the back of the Impala, repeatedly itching my inner arm mindlessly as Dean read through article after article in the front when he dramatically groaned, “Y/N would you stop scratching that thing already?”

My hand suddenly stopped, not realizing how loud the material of my jacket was. “I’m telling you Dean, it was one of those dumb animals.”

Sam pulled the car door open then, sliding in next to Dean, “Any luck at the counter clerk’s office?”

“Not sure I’d call it luck.” Dean said as I scooted to be in between their shoulders as Dean passed me a printed copy of an article of a missing woman, “Frank’s wife, Jessie, was a manic-depressive. She went off her meds back in ‘88 and vanished. They found her two weeks later, three towns over, strung up in her motel room- suicide.”

“Any chance Frank helped her along to the other side?” Sam asked, nicking the article from my hands.

“No, Frank was working the swing shift when she disappeared.” Dean turned the engine over, the Impala rumbling to life, “Airtight alibi.”

Dean immediately sped off down the road, making me grip the door handle as I watched him fly down the road with no regard to the speed limit. I swallowed roughly, my heart beginning to race again. What if he got into a wreck? What if he hit someone walking across the road?

I tried my best to push all of the bad thoughts out of my head and tried to focus on something else, “How was Frank’s pad?”

“Clean,” Sam said, “searched it top to bottom. No EMF, no hex bags, no sulfur.”

“So probably no ghosts, no witches, no demons.” Dean said, “Three down and 97 to go.”

As we entered the city limits, Dean began to go faster, the cars and buildings on the other side of the road looking like smudges as he gassed it. I gripped tighter onto the door, “Dean, you’re gonna get us killed.”

Sam turned halfway in his seat to look at me, his eyebrows cinched together in confusion as Dean’s eyes darted to mine through the rearview mirror. “I’m going five over.”

“Is safety a crime now?!” I nearly shouted, “And why doesn’t this damn car have seat belts, anyway?”

Dean widened his eyes slightly as he shook his head, coming to a stop at an intersection. I nearly stuck my head out of the window to see the oncoming traffic.

“Y/N, get back in the car!” Dean nearly shouted as he slammed on his breaks. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Dean, were you really going to make a left-hand turn onto oncoming traffic!?” My wild eyes darted to Sam who stared at me in confusion, “Is he suicidal!?” I sat back against the seats as Dean turned anyway, as I held my breath, thinking about what I’d said. “Did I just say that? That was kind of weird wasn’t it?”

As we pulled in front of the motel room, a low whining came from the front seat, almost like static, making Sam look around the car, “Do you hear something?”

Dean and I looked over to Sam who felt around his jacket pockets before pulling out the EMF detector, holding it out for us to see, the lights on top going crazy as he moved it over him and Dean, the lights disappearing. However, as he hovered it over the backseat, the red lights lit up like a Christmas tree.

My heart fell as I stared at them, wide-eyed. “Am I haunted?” When Sam and Dean didn’t say anything, I began to panic, “Am I haunted!?”

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

I laid against the Impala’s seats, the warm sun beating down on my face through the back window. Sam and Dean had gone across the street to get breakfast, but the last thing I was going to do was walk across a busy street just for some donuts and possibly encountering a bakery robber? No thanks, I wasn’t insane.

Eye of the Tiger began filtering through the car speakers, the bass rumbling beneath me as I started to play the drums along with the beat, getting ready to belt out the chorus when two rhythmic slaps on the roof of the car made me fly up in my seat. I muted the music, laying a hand over my chest, Sam and Dean watched me in confusion from outside the car.

I quickly threw the door open, “You guys, look at this.” I rolled the sleeves of my shirt up, revealing three short scratches on my inner arm that almost looked like they’d come from a cat.

“I told you to stop itching that thing, Y/N,” Dean said, cocking an eyebrows as he grabbed a donut from the box in his hands. “We talked to Bobby.”

“And?”

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, having one of their silent conversations, “It’s ghost sickness.”

“Ghost sickness?”

“Yeah.”

I leaned back against the car, sighing, just the name of it giving me the creeps, “God, no...” I shook my head, “I don’t even know what that is.”

“Some cultures believe that certain spirits can infect the living with disease, which is why they stopped displaying bodies in houses and started taking them off to funeral homes-” Sam began, but I really wasn’t interested in a history lesson at this point.

“Okay, get to the good stuff.”

“Symptoms are you get anxious,” Dean began, his voice muffled as he spoke around the donuts coating his mouth, “and scared, then really scared, then your heart gives out. Sound familiar?”

I ran my tongue over my teeth, watching the two of them, “Yeah, but, we haven’t seen a ghost in weeks.”

“Well I doubt you caught it from a ghost. Look, once a spirit infects that first person, ghost sickness can spread like any sickness through a cough, a handshake, whatever. It’s like the flu.”

Dean threw the box of donuts into the open window of the car, licking the powder off of his thumb, “Now, Frank O’Brien was the first to die, which means he was probably the first infected. Patient zero. Our very own outbreak monkey.”

“Right.” Sam confirmed. I switched my attention to him, worrying my lip between my teeth now, “Get this- Frank was in Maumee over the weekend. Softball tournament...which was where he must have infected the other two victims.”

“Were they Gamecocks?” I asked, thinking back to the Sheriff.

“Cornjerkers.” Dean clarified, rolling his eyes at the name.

I sighed, “So, let me get this straight. Ghost infected Frank, he passed it on to the other guys, and I got it from his corpse?”

“Right.”

“So now, what, I have 48 hours before I go insane and my heart stops?” I asked, already feeling my impending doom.

“More like 24.”

I nodded, “Super...how do we stop it?”

“We gank the ghost that started all this. We do that, the disease should clear up.” Sam said, making it sound like a simple task.

“You guys thinking Frank’s wife?” Dean asked.

“Who knows why she killed herself, you know?” Sam shrugged. I ran both of my hands through my hair as I crossed my arms over my chest.

“What are you doing waiting out here, anyway?” Dean asked, eyeing me.

My eyes bounced up to his and then to the motel behind us. I stared up at the tall building, the numerous floors. Just the thought of being all the way up there made me queasy, “Our room’s on the fourth floor. It’s uh...it’s high.”

Sam and Dean laughed lightly, raising their eyebrows at me, “I’ll see if I can move us down to the first.”

“Thanks.” I said quickly, shaking my head as I slid back into the Impala, ready to get rid of this sickness.

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

I sat at a table in the motel room, an open lore book sitting in front of me. I was supposed to have been reading it while Sam and Dean were out talking to victims families. Now just the idea of having to get into that hunk of metal Dean called a car looked more like a moving death trap to me.

I desperately tried to focus on the pages but I found myself reading and rereading the same three sentences over and over again because the clock above me continued to tick, tick, tick as if it were reminding me just how little time I had left.

I stared at the clock, shaking my head as if to clear the noise. I looked back down at the book which now seemed to be on a completely different page. Two graphic images looked back up at me, a man, vomiting pools of blood onto the ground and the other, a woman’s chest looking as if it’d been ripped from the base of her throat to the middle of her stomach.

I coughed twice, my throat suddenly feeling raw. As I leaned in closer to the book, where in the middle of a sentence, the words, You’re dying. stood out among the page. I cinched my eyebrows together as I continued to read. Again. I rubbed at my eyelids, I was just tired. Yeah, that was it.

I looked back down at the pages. You gonna cry? I pushed the book away, my heart racing as the ticking of the clock above me seemed to become louder and louder until it sounded like atom bombs dropping. I covered my ears with my arms, clasping my hands behind my head but the ticking only increased, faster and faster, I could nearly feel myself fading away-

In one swift motion I flew up from the chair, nearly knocking it to the ground as I punched a fist right through the middle of the clock, glass scattering as I threw it onto the floor, the ticking finally ceasing.

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

I laid across the couch, staring at the dirty motel ceiling, my hands clasped over my stomach, enjoying the silence when they came back. I felt their eyes on me as they looked from the shattered clock on the floor to where I was put up.

“Everything okay?” Dean asked, setting plastic bags of takeout onto the table.

“Oh yeah,” I sighed, “just peachy.” I sat up on the couch, throwing my legs over the side as I held my head in my hands, “Find anything?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, coming to sit across from me, “Jessie O’Brien’s body was cremated, so we’re pretty sure she is not our ghost.”

“Hey,” Dean said, nudging my foot that was propped on the coffee table now, “stop picking at that.” I looked down to where I’d been subconsciously scratching at my inner arm, my hands falling to my sides. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Awesome,” I smiled sarcastically, “it’s nice to have my head on the chopping block again. I almost forgot what that feels like.”

“We’ll keep looking.”

I raised my eyebrows slightly as I began to cough again into my hand. Bringing it away, it was splattered with blood, my eyes going wide as I continued to choke, bringing my hands to my chest as I punched a closed fist around it.

“You okay?” Dean asked, the two of them at the edge of their seats now. “Hey!”

I gagged, unable to answer them from something blocking my airways as I ran to the bathroom, the two of them close on my heels as I hovered over the sink, my hands gripping the counter. I dry heaved multiple times, desperately trying to get air past the thing clogging my throat when suddenly, it flew from my mouth.

Sam, Dean and I stared at it as I picked it up, rinsing the blood away under the faucet as I held it up. A small, rectangular wooden piece with strange engravings on the front.

Sam examined it closely, “We’ve been ignoring the biggest clue we have...you.”

I rolled the block in my hand, “I don’t wanna be a clue.”

“Sam’s right,” Dean said, eyebrows raised in understanding. “The abrasions, this, the disease...it’s trying to tell us something.”

“Tell us what?!” I nearly shouted, holding up the block, “Wood chips!?”

Sam laughed halfheartedly, “Exactly.”

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

Dean drove up in front of the rundown lumber mill, throwing the car into park. As we filed out, I stared up at the abandoned building, running my teeth over my bottom lip as I surveyed everything that could go wrong in there. Bodies, ghosts, one scratch against a rusty nail and one of us could get tetanus.

“I’m not going in there,” I said, shaking my head as I turned to them.

“We need you in there, Y/N,” Dean said as he rounded to the trunk, pulling open the weapons arsenal, “c’mon, it’ll be good for you!”

I scoffed slightly, rolling my eyes as I stuffed my hands into my pockets, “Yeah, real good.” I watched as Sam and Dean each pulled out their guns as they passed mine to me. Usually, I would’ve taken it with no hesitation, but this time, a feeling of dread washed over me at the sight of it, “Oh, I’m not carrying that.” Sam and Dean cocked their eyebrows at me, “It could go off!” My eyes raked over the trunk before reaching for what looked the safest, holding it close to my chest, “I’ll man the flashlight.”

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

I followed close behind Dean who lead the way into the lumber mill, sandwiched between him and Sam. I made sure to keep a firm grip on the back of Dean’s jacket. The last thing we needed was to get separated. I shone the flashlight over the high walls and outdated machinery that sat unused for what had to have been more than fifty plus years.

We made it nearly a hundred feet into the building when the EMF detector in Sam’s jacket went off, the lights going crazy as he held it out in front of him.

“EMF’s not gonna work with me around, is it?” I asked, slightly hopeful they’d send me back to wait in the car.

“You don’t say,” Sam said as he pocketed the EMF detector, “come on.”

I groaned slightly as we walked deeper into the dark when suddenly, Dean stopped, the quick movement making me jump. He leaned down close to the ground as he picked up a small, silver ring, reading the engravings, “To Frank, Love Jessie.” He looked to Sam and I, “Frank O’Brien’s ring...What the hell was Frank doing here?”

“No idea,” Sam shrugged as we pushed ourselves up off of the ground as we rounded a corner. It was much darker down this hallway, the only light coming from small windows high up on the walls.

We seemed to be walking aimlessly, randomly picking which doors to go through and which to avoid. It was an extremely dangerous method if you asked me, but I couldn’t find it in myself to mention that to either of them.

“You know, this isn’t so bad-” I began when, as if on cue, a loud rattling came from fifty feet ahead of us, the noise nearly making me jump out of my skin. I gripped Sam’s shoulder for leverage as I watched with wild eyes, Dean walking toward the source.

A row of lockers sat in a small, square room where the noise seemed to be getting louder, my heart rate picking up as I watched Sam slowly reach for the locker. I whimpered lamely as he counted down from three and I suddenly wished I’d taken them up on that gun.

“One...” Sam began counting, “two...three!”

In one swift motion, Sam yanked the locker open, a cat flying from the top shelf, making me scream horror, my voice incredibly high, the screeches echoing through the small room. Both Sam and Dean watching me with wide eyes as I panted, my hands resting on my knees as I caught my breath, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I looked at them, “That was scary!”

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

The next room was littered with loose papers, fallen bookcases and empty desks. It looked like it could’ve been an office at one point. We surveyed the area, checking out the everything we could that could lead us to the ghost we needed to get rid of in order to cure me.

“Luther Garland,” Sam said from one side of the room after examining an ID. I looked over his shoulder, shining the flashlight on the picture of the man.

“He’s creepy.”

“Hey!” Dean said from over a desk. He was holding up a drawn portrait on yellowing paper, “This is...this is Frank’s wife.”

“Plot thickens,” Sam said, the two of us coming to look at the picture, comparing it to the missing persons article Dean had in his pocket.

“Yeah, but into what?”

Dean ripped the portrait up from the table when a loud noise filtered through the building, like machinery coming to life. I jumped, turning around as I flashed the light over the room, once, twice-

My flashlight stopped at a figure in the corner, my blood instantly running cold, my heart stopping. He was facing away from us, a big, bald man. My hands shook, I tried to call out to Sam and Dean but to no use. I slowly brought my free hand up to Sam, hitting his arm. “G-ghost.”

Sam and Dean quickly turned around, training their shotguns on the ghost, “Hey!” Dean shouted, “Hey, asshat!”

I saw this as my chance. I dropped the flashlight onto the ground and sprinted out of the revolving doors, pumping my arms and legs until I was outside, quivering as I squatted down low behind the car, but not before snagging Dean’s bottle of whiskey he kept in the driver’s side door, quickly gulping it down, letting the alcohol wash over me.

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

“This is the Garland file,” the deputy said, handing Sam a manila folder. It was the same deputy, the young one who wouldn’t let us see the Sheriff for nearly an hour. Dean and Sam examined the file as I stood back, not wanting to get any glance at the bloody crime scene photos. The deputy’s eyes traveled past Dean’s shoulder and over to me where I was fiddling with my suit jacket, “Is...is she drunk?”

“No,” Sam said quickly as he motioned for me to sit down.

“Deputy, according to this,” Dean said, pointing to a document in the file, “Luther Garland’s cause of death was physical trauma. What does that mean?”

“They guy died 20 years ago- before my time. Sorry.”

“Can we talk to the Sheriff?”

“He’s out sick today.”

Sam nodded slowly, “Well, if you see him, will you have him call us? We’re staying at the Bluebird.”

“Sure thing,” the deputy said as Sam and Dean began to head toward the exit. I shifted on my feet, smiling at him.

“You know what?” I slurred slightly before pointing at him, “You’re cute.”

The deputy blushed, smiling, “Uh, thanks. You too.”

I smiled sheepishly, stumbling before Dean grabbed me by the back of my neck and forced me out of the police station.

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

“I can’t believe you drank half of that bottle,” Dean said as we walked through the nursing home where Luther Garland’s brother was said to be living.

“I can’t believe you keep alcohol in your car,” I said, rubbing my aching head as the alcohol began to wear off. “This isn’t gonna work.” I shook my head, “These badges are fake. We could get busted, we could go to jail!”

“Y/N, shh!” Sam reprimanded, stopping me in the middle of the hallway, “Calm down. Deep breath, okay?” Sam demonstrated the deep breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth. “There. You feel better?”

I slowly shook my head in fear as Dean grabbed the two of us, “Just- come on!”

Dean lead us into the nursing home’s rec room where a nurse said Garland spent most of his time. Sure enough, at a table by himself, a man with long, thinning hair in a wheelchair sat next to a tall window.

Sam cleared his throat, getting the man’s attention, “Mr. Garland.” He looked up at us, eyebrow cocked, “I’m Agent Tyler, this is Agent Perry and Agent Kramer- FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother, Luther.”

Mr. Garland sat back in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him, “Let me see some ID.”

I whipped my head to Sam and Dean, shakily opening my badge as we handed them to him. Mr. Garland studied them closely before eyeing the three of us.

“Those are real.” I assured, “Obviously.” Dean cleared his throat, giving me a deadly glare. “I- I mean, who would pretend to be an FBI Agent, huh? That’s just nutty!”

Sam stomped lightly onto my toes making me stop mid sentence as I grimaced at Mr. Garland who handed the badges back, “What do you want to know?”

Sam held up the folder given to him by the deputy as we all pulled out chairs across from Mr. Garland, “Well, according to this, your brother Luther died of physical trauma.”

Mr. Garland scoffed, shaking his head as Dean raised his eyebrows at him, “You don’t agree.”

“No I don’t.”

“Well, then what would you call it?”

Mr. Garland ran a finger over the rim of his coffee mug, “Don’t matter what an old man thinks.”

“Mr. Garland,” Sam said, “we’re just trying to get the truth on your brother. Please.”

Mr. Garland hesitated, reaching across the table toward the file as he plucked the ID we’d found in the lumber mill, “Everybody was scared of Luther. They called him a monster. He was too big, too mean-looking. Just too...different.” Mr. Garland ran his thumb over the picture as he described his brother, “Didn’t matter he was the kindest man I ever knew. Didn’t matter he’d never hurt no one. A lot of people failed Luther,” he said, tears brimming his eyes, “I was one of ‘em...I was a widower with three young’uns, and, I told myself there was nothing I could do.”

Sam nodded sympathetically as he unfolded the portrait of Frank’s wife, “Mr. Garland, um...do you recognize this woman?”

"It’s Jessie O’Brien,” he confirmed, “her man, Frank, killed Luther

I raised my eyebrows as Dean took the words right out of my mouth, “How do you know that?”

“Everybody knows. They just don’t talk about it.” Mr. Garland looked to the three of us, and when he realized we wanted the full story, he sighed at the memory, “Jessie was a receptionist at the mill. She was always real nice to Luther, and he had a crush on her. But Frank didn’t like it. And when Jessie went missing, Frank was sure that Luther had done something to her. Turns out the old gal killed herself, but Frank didn’t know that...they found Luther with a chain wrapped around his neck. He was dragged up and down the stretch outside that plant till he was past dead.”

“And O’Brien was never arrested?” I asked, finding it hard to believe someone could get away with doing something like that.

“I screamed to every cop in town. They didn’t want to look into Frank. He was a pillar of the community, my brother was just the town freak.”

“You must’ve hated Frank O’Brien,” Dean said.

Mr. Garland nodded, “I did for a long time, but, life’s too short for hate, son. And Frank wasn’t thinking straight. His wife had vanished. He was terrified. A damn shame he had to put Luther through the same, but...that’s fear.” Mr. Garland’s gaze settled on me, as if he knew what was happening in me, “It spreads and spreads.”

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

“Now we know what these are- road rash,” I said as we exited the nursing home, motioning to my inner arm, “and I’m guessing Luther swallowed some wood chips when he was being dragged down that road.”

“Makes sense,” Sam said, setting the case file onto the top of the car, “you’re experiencing his death in slow motion.”

“Yeah, well, not slow enough, huh? I say we burn some bones and get me healthy.”

“Y/N, it won’t be that easy,” Dean cautioned.

“No, no. It will be that easy.” I clarified, my eyes darting between him and Sam, “Why wouldn’t it be that easy?”

“Luther was road hauled. His body was ripped to pieces. He was probably scattered all over that road. There’s no way we’re gonna find all the remains.”

My breathing quickened at Sam’s logic, steadying myself on the car, “You’re kidding me.”

“Look, we’ll just have to figure something else out.” Dean said as he pulled his keys from his pocket. I slowly pulled the backdoor open before slamming it shut again.

I shook my head, taking off away from the car, “You know what? Screw this.”

“Woah, woah!” Dean nearly shouted, him and Sam following me, “Come on-”

“No! I mean...come on, you guys.” I stared at them both wide eyed, feeling lost and confused and angry because I didn’t want to die. Of all the ways I thought I’d go out, dying of an illness was not one of them. “What are we even doing!?”

“We’re hunting a ghost,” Sam said slowly as if to help me better understand.

“A ghost! Exactly! Who does that!?”

Dean squinted his eyes at me as if trying to figure out if it was a trick question, “...us.”

“Us? Right.” I panted, feeling like I was going crazy. Every detail of our lives hitting me like a train, “And that- that is exactly why our lives suck! I mean, come on. We hunt monsters! What the hell!?” Sam and Dean watched me closely as I ranted but quietly listened nonetheless, “I mean, normal people, they see a monster, and they run but not us- no, no, no, we- search out things that want to kill us. OR EAT US! You know who does that? Crazy people! We, are insane!” I began to walk circles around the car, ticking off everything on my fingers as I rambled, everything I’d kept inside about our lives finally bubbling up, “You know, and then there’s the bad diner food and then the skeevy motel rooms and then the truck-stop waiter with the bizarre rash, I mean, who wants this life?! Do you actually like being stuck in a car with me eight hours a day, every single day? I don’t think so! I mean, I get car sick and I belt out the same five albums over and over and over again, and I’m annoying, I know that. And you two- you’re gassy! And it’s not just Dean, either, Sam, you eat half a burrito, and you get toxic! I mean, you know what, you can forget it.”

I panted, throwing my hands in the air as I walked toward the sidewalk, away from the car as Sam and Dean called after me, “Where are you going?”

I quickly turned on my heels, pointing at them, “Stay away from me! ‘Cause I am done with it. I’m done with the monsters and- and- and the hellhounds and the ghost sickness and the damn apocalypse. I’m out. I’m done. Quit.”

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

I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I fell down on top of the motel bed. That damn dog from hell with it’s damned pink bow chased me all the way back to the Bluebird, giving me no choice but to come back.

The motel door was thrown open, Sam and Dean confused but relieved nonetheless at the sight of me, “We looked for you everywhere, Y/N! How the hell did you get here?”

I ground my teeth, trying to keep the dog out of my head, “Ran.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Dean warned, pointing to me as him and Sam came to sit on the beds.

We sat in silence, knowing our options were slim-to-none. I glanced at the two of them, “What do we do now? I got less than four hours on the clock...I’m gonna die.”

“Yeah, you are.” Sam agreed, Dean nodding his head along with him. I sat back slightly, cinching my eyebrows together, “You’re going back.”

“Back?”

“Downstairs, Y/N. Hell,” Dean clarified, not a trace of sadness in his voice, “it’s about damn time, too. Truth is, you’ve been a real pain in our ass.”

At his words, Sam and Dean looked to me, Dean’s eyes pitch black while Sam’s were glowing yellow. I quickly stood from the bed but was thrown back against the wall, a pressure on my chest so strong I could hardly move my fingers.

“Get out of my brothers!” I yelled, only eliciting a laugh from them, “Bitch!”

Sam and Dean stood to their full heights as they smiled, “No one’s possessing us, Y/N. This is what we’re going to become.” They drew closer until they were inches from my face, “This is what we want to become.” Sam laid a hand on my shoulder, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I can take this from here,” Dean said this time, coming to stand where Sam was as he suddenly gripped me around the throat, squeezing, cutting off every airway-

“Hey, hey, hey! Y/N!” Dean shouted and suddenly, I could breathe again. I scratched at my throat, my eyes flying up to him as I pushed them both away slightly, their eyes back to their normal colors. Sam and Dean watched me closely, “You’re okay. It’s alright.”

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

*Sam’s POV*

I leaned against the Impala, waiting for Bobby to bring me the lore book he said could be of some use. Y/N was too scared to even stay alone in the motel by herself, the threat of a burglar in the middle of the day too big of a threat for her that she insisted Dean stay with her.

The low rumble of a car came up behind the Impala where Bobby came to a stop, “Howdy, Sam.”

“Hey, Bobby. Thanks for coming so quick.”

“Where are the other two?” Bobby asked, referring to Y/N and Dean.

I laughed lightly, trying my best to make light of a pretty dark situation, “Uh, home sick.”

“So, have her hallucinations started yet?”

I nodded, thinking back to how she’d freaked out on Dean and I, “Few hours ago.”

“How we doing on time?”

“Well, we saw the coroner about 8 AM Monday morning,” I checked my watch, the realization of just how little time he had hitting me, “so just under two hours.”

Bobby nodded as he handed over the lore book, a small, blue leather bound. “’Encyclopedia of Spirits’, dates to the Edo period.”

I flipped the book open, staring at the foreign lettering, “You can read Japanese?”

“Not the point,” he said, “this book lists a kind of ghost that could be our guy. It uh, infects people with fear. It’s called Buruburu.”

“It say how to kill it?”

“Same as usual: burn the remains.”

I sighed, fearing he’d say that, “Wonderful. Is there a plan ‘b’?”

“Well, the Buruburu is born of fear. Hell, it is fear. And the lore says we can kill it with fear.”

“So we have to scare a ghost to death?” I asked. This job just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

Bobby shrugged, “Pretty much.”

I nodded slowly, “How the hell are we gonna do that?”

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

*Y/N’s POV*

I sat at the edge of the chair I was in, mindlessly scratching my inner arm over the gauze Dean had wrapped over it, blood seeping through the bandages.

“How many times do I have to tell you to knock that off?” Dean asked from the other end of the couch.

I groaned, rolling my eyes as I watched the cartoon on the small TV, smiling slightly when the cartoon donkey was wrung around the neck by a rope, getting dragged away by a buggy.

I grimaced slightly, snatching the remote off of the table, “Not helping.”

Dean’s phone began to ring, Sam’s caller ID lighting up. Dean quickly reached for it, putting it on speaker, “Hey.”

“Hey. So, uh, just have Y/N ride out the trip, okay? She’s- she’s gonna be fine. We got a plan.”

I cocked an eyebrow skeptically as I switched the TV off, “What is it?”

“Uh, just a good plan, alright? Hang in there.”

Sam ended the call, leaving Dean and I to helplessly look at one another, praying it would work.

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

*Sam’s POV*

“This is a terrible plan.” Bobby said as he loaded the rock salt rounds into his shotgun at the trunk of the Impala. We were back at the lumber mill in the hopes we’d be able to get rid of Luther Garland’s ghost once and for all.

“Yeah,” I said, pocketing the phone, “tell me about it.”

“I know I said ‘scare the ghost to death’, but this?”

“Hey, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m listening.”

Bobby shrugged, shutting the trunk as he followed me into the mill, walking aimlessly around the ground floor, waiting for Luther to make an appearance.

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

*Y/N’s POV*

I ran a hand down my face, trying to block out the sound of my racing heart and the sound of the dogs barking-

Dogs barking?

I quickly looked around the room, the sound eerily similar to that of Hellhounds. I gripped the sides of the chair, mentally cursing Dean for leaving me here to get food from across the street.

My heart rate quickened, listening as the sounds of the snarling dogs seemed to come closer and closer until the motel door began to shake as if the dogs were pounding on it.

I lowered myself onto the floor, hiding behind the chair I’d been sitting in. I watched the door as it shook and shook and shook until it was kicked inward, splinters of wood flying into the room.

This is a hallucination, I’m hallucinating. I told myself but it was all too real when Sheriff Britton stepped into the room, his chest heaving. I slowly stood, “Sheriff? what are you doing here?”

My eyes traveled down to his hand where he was holding a gun, making my body freeze in panic.

“Why are you looking into Luther Garland’s death?” Al asked, his eyes feral.

I opened and closed my mouth, trying to think of something to say when I spotted his arm, his uniform sleeve coated in blood. “Hey, hey, you’re- you’re sick. Just- just like me, okay? You gotta relax-”

Suddenly, Al swung the butt of the gun into my temple, making me momentarily see stars. I shuffled backward against the wall, holding my head.

“Frank O’Brien was my friend.” Al said, “So he made a mistake. So I didn’t bust him. So what? And you’re gonna bring me down over that!?” I rested my head against the wall, balancing myself as he pointed the gun at me, “No, ma’am.”

Without thinking, I smacked the gun out of Al’s hand just from the fear of looking down its barrel. We both stood, slightly stunned that’d actually worked. I only had a few seconds before I was forced against the wall, Al’s arm pressed against my throat. I groaned, pushing his face away from mine, but doubled over in pain as he relentlessly punched my stomach, once, twice.

Focus, Y/N!

I shook my head as if clearing away a fog and took the opportunity when Al’s side was exposed, punching his abdomen with all of my strength, but he was too strong for me.

Al banged my head against the brick one more time, my vision spotting but before I had the chance to black out, I took notice of his now black eyes. It was enough for me to throw his body off mine, sending him crashing onto the glass coffee table next to us.

I stood back, watching hesitantly as Al writhed on the floor, gripping his chest, “Get away from me!”

“Al, you gotta calm down!”

“Step back!”

I watched helplessly as his struggling became worse when suddenly, his movements stops, his fingers unfurling from his shirt as he laid motionless on the floor.

“Y/N!” a voice yelled from the hallway, Dean skidding to a stop in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of Al and then looking to me, “Are you okay? What happened?”

I hesitated, the severity of the situation feeling worse than ever. My eyes raked over his lifeless body before looking to Dean, “He’s dead.”

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

*Sam’s POV*

I entered the next room, shotgun held out in front of me when Bobby’s voice came over the walkie-talkie at my hip, “Any luck?”

When I figured the coast was clear I let the gun fall beside me, bringing the walkie-talkie to my mouth, “I don’t know what’s wrong, Bobby. Last time he came right at us. It’s almost like he’s, uh...” I thought about it, really thinking about the kind of person Luther’s brother painted him as when it hit me, “it’s like he’s scared.”

I looked down at the gun in my hand, slowly lowering it to the ground as a sign that I wasn’t a threat to Luther, hoping my thoughts were true.

“So now what?”

I sighed, “Guess I gotta make him angry.”

I ran up to where Dean had found the first portrait of Jessie, remembering how Luther came when Dean had accidentally ripped it. Rummaging through each desk drawer, I found a pile of drawn portraits, all of them of Jessie.

I picked one up, “Hey Luther!” I shouted as I tore it down the middle before crumpling it into a ball, ripping each one multiple times. I began to hear the familiar sound of machinery starting up, the whirring of electricity as it came to life, “Come on, Luther! Where the hell are you!?”

I searched through the desk one last time before finding the last portrait. It was the largest of them all, and by far the most detailed. This was my last chance to get Luther where I needed him. My last chance to save Y/N. I breathed in deeply as I tore that one down the middle, too.

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

*Y/N’s POV*

I sat at the end of my bed, ruthlessly scratching at each of my arms, blood and skin beginning to pool under my fingernails when Dean came back into the motel room, panting after having gotten rid of Al’s body.

“Hey, hey.” Dean said, coming to squat in front of me, gently taking my hands away from my arms. I looked down at him, scared out of my mind as their words echoed in my head.

“You’re going back.”

“It’s about damn time, too.”

Dogs barking.

Pounding heart.

Dean’s ticking watch.

I looked down at Dean’s wrist, “Take it off.”

“What?-”

“I said take it off!” I nearly shouted, making Dean throw the watch into his duffel bag under his bed but I could still hear it, the ticking of the seconds hand winding counting down the moments until my heart stopped beating.

I covered my ears, doubling over so my head was hovering above my knees. I opened my eyes, spotting a black book poking itself out from under the bed frame. I slowly pulled it out, the Bible staring back at me as if to tell me even God couldn’t help me now.

Regardless, I brought the book close to my lips, closing my eyes as I did the one thing I hadn’t done in years: I prayed. I prayed until I could no longer hear the ticking, my heartbeat drowning out when I heard a young voice that shook me so deep into my core my eyes flew open, my heart sinking.

“Hi, Y/N.”

I slowly turned toward Lilith who sat on the bed next to me, “No. No.” I growled as I gripped the Bible tighter, looking around the room for Dean who seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Yes!” She said, “It’s me, Lilith.” Suddenly, she grabbed me on my shoulder, hugging me, “Oh, I missed you so much! It’s time to go back now.”

I slithered out from under her grasp, standing from the bed, “You- you’re not real!” 

“What’s the matter, Y/N? Don’t you remember all the fun you had down there?” I couldn’t even look at her, just her voice was something that haunted me years after I was dragged out of the pit. Lilith stood from the bed, walking toward me, “You do remember. Four months is like 40 years in Hell. Like doggy years. And you remember every second.”

For every step she took toward me, I took one back, trembling when a sharp pain reverberated in my abdomen, making me double over, “You are not real.” I gasped out, clutching my stomach.

Lilith yanked my head up so I was looking into her now all-white eyes, “It doesn’t matter. You’re still gonna die. You’re still gonna burn.”

I gritted my teeth, “Why me? Why’d I get infected?”

Lilith pulled her hands from my face, bringing her hands to her hips as her eyes rolled back to normal, “Silly goose. You know why, Dean. Listen to your heart.”

“What?” I asked, watching her.

“Ba-boom.” she said making me flinch in pain at the sudden sharpness in my chest. “Ba-boom.” I gasped in pain, falling onto my side, my hand clutching my shirt as my heart began to pound faster and faster, “Ba-boom. Ba-boom! Ba-boom!”

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

*Sam’s POV*

Luther threw me to the dirt floor, kicking my side in. I groaned in pain, reaching for the shotgun just out of arm’s reach but he picked me up by my heels, dragging me farther and farther away.

Luther flipped me over onto my back, rhythmically pounding me into the floor, almost to the beat of a heart.

The third time he threw me to the ground, I reached behind me, grabbing hold of anything I could when I felt an iron chain. Bringing it over my head, I quickly wrapped it around Luther’s neck, his eyes going wide. 

“BOBBY! PUNCH IT!”

I heard the rumble of the Impala outside of the mill doors as the car roared to life. I rolled out of the way just in time fore Luther to be dragged across the dirt floor, getting dragged out of the revolving doors.

I struggled to my feet, running outside where I watched Bobby drive faster and faster away, Luther right on the end. I checked my watch. Five seconds and Y/N would be dead.

Five.

I watched as Bobby maneuvers through light poles as the comes up on concrete.

Four. 

From where I stand, it looked like Luther was trying to unwrap the chain from around his neck.

Three. 

Bobby picks up speed, throwing Luther around like a rag doll.

Two.

Luther reaches again around his neck, nearly has the chain off.

One.

Suddenly, Luther starts to disintegrate, his body coming out in black rolls of smoke until finally, all that’s left is the car, and an empty chain.

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

*Y/N’s POV*

My vision begins to fade in and out as I watch Lilith, eyes wide, thinking surely this is the end. I clutch my chest tighter, struggling to breath as I begin to accept my fate. Who would’ve thought this was how I’d go.

I took one final, shaky breath and my heart stops, a cold, dead feeling of dread washes over me, a blinding white light before suddenly it all comes rushing back, sending me flying forward through space time when I gasp for air. Dean is next to me, holding my shoulders as I cough, gulping in the air greedily.

“Holy shit,” Dean mutters as I desperately search out his hand, gripping it tightly when I find it, gagging for air. Dean pulls me close to him, “you’re alright. You’re alright.”

I slow my breathing, looking around the room, Lilith gone now. I slowly sit up, rolling my sleeves, the scratches were gone, too. “Sammy did it.”

Dean let out something between a cry and laugh of relief, “Yeah, Sammy did it.”

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

“So you guys road-hauled a ghost with a chain?” I asked as we stood around the car, raising my eyebrows at Sam and Bobby.

“An iron chain etched with a spell word.” Sam clarified, drinking from the beer in his hand.

“Hmm,” Dean said, “now that’s a new one.”

“It’s what he was most afraid of. It was pretty brutal, though.”

“On the upside, I’m still alive, so uh, go team.” I said, nodding to them at that point, I didn’t really care how they’d done it, just that the job got done.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “how you feeling by the way?”

“Fine.” I said, not making eye contact with Dean who had to have known I was seeing a hallucination right before I nearly bit it.

“You sure, Y/N?” Bobby asked, “‘Cause this line of work can get awful scary.”

I ran a tongue over my teeth, I wasn’t about to worry them about some hallucination I knew wouldn’t come true, “I’m fine. You want to go hunting? I’ll go hunting. I’ll kill anything.”

Sam and Dean smirked at Bobby, “Aww.”

“She’s adorable,” Bobby smiled as the three of them laughed. “Well, I gotta get outta here. You kids drive safe.”

“You too, Bobby. Thanks again.”

Bobby waved Sam off as he drove away, dust collecting up under the back tires. We watched until his car was out of sight, until it was just the three of us leaned up against the car.

“So, uh, so, what did you see?” Sam asked. “Near the end, I mean.”

I squinted at him, blocking my eyes from the sun as I glanced to Dean who cocked an eyebrow at me. He definitely knew something. I sighed, “Oh, besides a cop beating my ass?”

“Seriously.”

I chewed on my bottom lip as I looked up at the two of them and, for an instant, I swore I could see their eyes flash. Dean’s, black, and Sam’s, yellow. I widened my eyes slightly before shifting my focus to the ground, “Howler monkeys. Whole roomful of them. Those things creep the hell out of me.”

“Right,” Sam laughed.

“No, no, just the usual stuff,” I said, trying to sound more sincere about this lie than the last. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

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

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[chungledown-bimothy]

Trust Me: Chapter 5

Hello again! I know it’s been a while- things got crazy with the holidays and my birthday, but things are calm now. Here we go!

Chapter One Chapter 4 AO3 Chapter 6

Warnings: mentions of violence, descriptions of torture

Word Count: 1865

Tag List: @ren-allen @ccecode @emo-sanders-sides-loving-unicorn @ilovemygaydad @bloodropsblog @funsizedgremlin @raygelkitty @roxiefox23 @thomasthesandersengine @spookyingarbageisland @band-be-boss-blog

Virgil made his way to Dr Vincent Nigel-Murray's lab with a bad feeling in his gut. He hadn't been able to meet with the pathologist about the first victim, as the doctor had left town suddenly shortly after Virgil arrived. But he was back, and it was time Virgil met the man he'd heard so much about.

"Doctor Nigel-Murray?" He knocked on the doorframe, peering into the lab. "Are you here?"

"Ah! Yes! You must be Detective Mason, yeah?" Virgil wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but a 6-foot-tall Brit with dark hair and startling blue eyes who was practically bouncing with excitement was not it.

"Yep, that's me. Nice to meet you, doctor."

"Please, call me Vincent. Or Nigel. I also go by Vin, Vinnie, Vincenzo, any of those. My ex used to call me Vino Delectable."

"I'll stick with Vincent. And you can call me Virgil."

"A lovely name! Did you know that the famed Roman poet Virgil was homosexual and included erotic homosexual themes in two of his famed Eclogues?"

"I, um, didn't know that. Why would you bring that up? Have people been talking about me, gossiping about the gay new guy? I thought San Francisco was going to be better than this." Virgil narrowed his eyes, preparing for the worst.

"You're gay? I did not know that. What a coincidence! Fun fact-  in 2017, it was estimated that 8.2% of Millennials identify as LGBT+."

"You didn't know? Then what's with all the facts?"

"Facts are the stitches that hold the fabric of the universe together. I apologize if I'm being annoying; I've been told it's a rather bad habit." Vincent looked down and put his hands in his pockets; Virgil relaxed, suddenly understanding.

"It's an anxiety thing, right? Things get overwhelming sometimes, but facts are grounding."

"That is exactly right! If I may ask, how could you tell so quickly? Almost everyone gets there eventually, but it's only been a matter of minutes."

"I was one of the FBI's best profilers. Also, I do the same thing with sarcasm and hostility."

"It truly is a pleasure to meet you, Virgil. Now, follow me, I have two bodies with stories I think you'll want to hear."

Virgil followed the doctor into his lab. He was no stranger to morgues and autopsied bodies, but he could never get over the weird feeling in his gut when they were rolled out of the cooler. As always, he ignored the feeling and followed Dr Nigel-Murray to the first body.

"This is Orin Scrivello, the first victim. You can see the ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, and the scabbing indicates that he was tied up for quite some time and struggled a lot. This is just conjecture, but I'd wager it happened while the killer was inflicting these wounds." He pointed to the deep cuts on his legs and chest.

"Those look really deep. Cause of death?"

"You'd think, but no. The killer stayed clear of any major veins and arteries."

"So what's cause of death?"

"Blood loss."

"You literally just said-"

"He didn't bleed out through any of these wounds; he's got a single slice right along his brachial artery."

"Do we know what was used to cut him up?"

"Standard kitchen knife. Dime a dozen, available anywhere knives are sold."

"Great. Anything else interesting?"

"A couple of things. First, there were signs of dehydration, but not malnutrition."

"Any idea on how long they had him?"

"About two weeks, probably."

"The killer kept him fed while they tortured him for two weeks? Why would someone do that?" Virgil muttered. "The second interesting thing?"

"Particulates indicate that he was held in a warehouse. Nothing more specific than that, unfortunately; the killer did a really good job of covering their tracks."

"Just not good enough. Okay, let's talk about the second vic?"

"Indeed. Kyle Ren. Just finished his autopsy, in fact."

"Cool. Okay, let's start with what's the same between the two."

"Same ligature marks, although it appears that the killer kept him longer; I'd say closer to three weeks. He was also dehydrated but not malnourished. He was also tortured, but very differently."

"How different?"

"Orin had a relatively few, deep cuts. Kyle's arms are covered with dozens of shallow cuts.  Obviously, he was hit in the fact repeatedly, and the killer removed some of the flesh on his chest. Two rectangles, one on each pectoral."

"That's so weird. There was no flesh removal on Orin?"

"Nope."

"What was going on in this guy's head? Anyway, what are these on his thighs?"

"Electrical burns."

"So the killer cut, beat, and electrocuted him, sliced part of his chest off, and finally strangled him while also keeping him fed?"

"That's consistent with what I've found, yes."

"This guy is smart, angry, and escalating. Damn it. Okay, thanks, Vincent."

"My pleasure, Virgil. Hopefully we'll see each other again under better circumstances?"

"Maybe. By the way, and you really don't have to answer, but how did you decide you wanted to be a coroner?"

"Oh, it's quite the story. I was studying to be a forensic anthropologist in DC, and I got shot by a serial killer we were closing in on. I survived, obviously, and when I recovered… I don't know. Flesh and blood was a lot more interesting. So I finished my anthropology doctorate and went back for pathology."

"That's nuts. I'm glad you made it, and even more glad you're out here. You're a cool guy, Vincent. I gotta go talk to Kyle's next of kin. It was great meeting you."

"You too!"

--------

"Mason!" Virgil flinched when his captain's voice echoed through the bullpen. He took a deep breath before answering the summons.

"Yes, sir?" He asked once he reached Captain Sanders' office.

"Come in, it's time we talk about the case."

"Yes, sir." Virgil took a seat in one of the chairs across from Sanders' desk before continuing. "I met with the second victim's parents today- they confirmed the killer's assertion that he was a fascist. The pieces of flesh removed had swastika and Confederate flag tattoos. Apparently his grandfather was a high-ranking officer in the German military in World War 2. The victim was very vocal about his beliefs online; we have a tech team looking into his online interactions for potential suspects."

"Good. Now, tell me about the killer."

"He's wicked smart and almost certainly has a medical background. He's what we call mission-oriented, and his mission is vengeance. He's detail-oriented and covers his tracks well, but I don't think he has a criminal background before these kills."

"Killers usually do. Why not him?"

"How he treats the bodies after killing them. The things he did to his victims before killing them were violent and messy, but he cleaned them up and covered them carefully with leaves like a blanket. Yes, the cleaning served the purpose of eliminating most of the particulate evidence, but the clean clothes in the right size shows an extra step of care. He also kept the victims well-fed. He wanted them healthy, aside from the torture. It may seem illogical, but he has very high empathy. He punishes his victims because he genuinely cares about people.

Once he's punished them as he sees fit, they're human again, and deserving of respect and care. The violence is tied to the victim's crimes or sins, however he chooses to label them. Our killer isn't violent or malicious outside of the conditions that triggered the killings; he's probably perceived in his community as perfectly normal. Not creepy like Dahmer or manipulative like Bundy. Just an average person. He's probably lived in the area a long time, if not his entire life, and has a stable, long-term job."

"Sounds like he's going to be hard to catch. What's with the puzzle pieces, though?"

"He will make a mistake sooner, rather than later. The puzzle pieces are a taunt, daring us to solve the puzzle of who he is. He wants our attention, he wants to prove that he's smarter than we are. And that's what's going to hang him. He sees himself as an avenging angel, but he's just an Icarus."

"How does that help us catch him?"

"Honestly, sir, I'm still working on that part. I want to consult some papers from an old colleague before I add any more details to my official preliminary profile. I have a few ideas, but he was always better with mission-oriented killers than I am. I know it isn't the answer you want, but I learned the hard way how dangerous jumping to conclusions can be when dealing with someone like this."

"Mason…" Sanders started, softly.

"With all due respect, captain, don't start with that. I'm fine. I just want to make sure we do this by the book. Like you said on my first day- 'we can't let this become another Zodiac fiasco'."

"I can't say I like you using my exact words against me, but your work has been above reproach. I'm officially declaring this case yours and yours alone- I won't pressure you to partner up anymore. Just keep me in the loop okay?"

"Of course. Thank you, sir."

"You've earned it. Now shoo, you've got more important things to do than sit here with me."

"Okay." Virgil chuckled as he stood up and left.

---

"Patton don't do this. It's not a good idea. You don't know who this guy is, how much of a threat he might pose to us and our work."

"You do realize you sound just like them, right, Logan? Thinking you know best, trying to tell me what I can and can't do because of how it might affect you instead of thinking about what I want and need."

"That's not fair. You know that I love you, and they never loved either of us. I want you to stay safe; I can't protect you if I don't know who you're associating with."

"How many times do I have to tell you that you don't need to protect me any more? I know you mean well, but you have to trust me. You said yourself that I'm better with people than you are." Patton paused. "This isn't about protecting me at all, is it? It's about how you know that without me, you're alone. You have nothing without me, and you can't handle that."

"I… you're right. I need you, Patton." Logan admitted, falling to his knees.

Patton reached down and cupped Logan's face with their hands, tilting his face up. "Logan, you are and always will be the most important thing in my life. But I can't shake the feeling that getting to know him could change everything in the best way."

"That's exactly what I'm worried about, but I'll trust your instincts. I love you, Pat."

"I love you too, Logan. Thank you." Patton walked to their room, leaving Logan on his knees in the living room, alone with his thoughts.

Patton's right; this date changes everything. If we are deviating from the pattern in favor of indulging other desires, well, I would be a fool to let this opportunity pass.

[dubsdeedubs]

An Outreached Hand [3/?]

Summary:  On a cold winter’s day in 1982, Stan Pines shows up at his brother’s door with two cats tucked in his jacket and no heartbeat in his chest.

Notes:  A sort-of Ghost Trick AU, but requires no previous knowledge of that whatsoever to read.  I greatly underestimated how long this fic was going to be, because this is going to be A Long One.  Not exactly for Stanuary anymore, but started as something for it!

[AO3]

It started off the way this kind of story always does: a John Doe got brought in one day, no identification, nothing on him but the clothes on his back and a couple bills in his pocket. Had a bit too many holes in him to be anything other than dead.

His face didn't match that of any missing persons, not that anyone looked particularly hard. People who got shot up in these parts don't have family or friends looking for them.

This was an odd event, not because of the death or the anonymity - neither was particularly uncommon then and there, especially combined - but because this corpse was, as it was, not entirely dead.

There was no rigor mortis. No rot. But what really sealed the deal was when the coroner finally showed up, and quickly realized that the incisions he made wouldn't stay open long enough for him to do the autopsy.

There was no avoiding the fact then. Something terrifying was going on - or something truly miraculous.

(Then again, the only difference between the two had always been about who made it happen.)

This was the exact sort of discovery that got arrangements made and people interested, in the way that never led to anywhere good.

If the body had stayed lying under that sheet for just a few days more, this story would be told very differently indeed.

Because, before anything even gets the chance to happen, the body goes missing.

The security cameras don't catch anything but a stray cat or two before they go down - by chance, their wires bitten through several hours earlier by some rabid wild animal. Between that and the inconsistent time stamps of entry, it's embarrassment for everyone involved. The whole thing gets forgotten pretty quickly.

As far as people were concerned, the corpse might as well have stood up and walked right out of the morgue.

1982

Stanley looks up at the portal for one long, quiet moment. There's an intensity in his unblinking stare that made Ford feel more than a bit uncomfortable.

"I understand exactly nothing about this," he says at last, voice flat.

"It's a trans-universal -" Ford catches his brother's blank stare, "Ah, a sort of - door to other universes. A hole in the walls of our dimension, you could say."

"Huh. And what's this hole in the universe doing in your basement?"

Ford opens his mouth, and shuts it again. "I created it," he says at last.

Stan just looks at him, flat judgement in his eyes.

He colors slightly at that. "To unlock the secrets of the universe!" Ford defends himself, waving a frantic hand. "I assure you, there are plenty of valid reasons to construct a trans-universal gateway. Scientific innovation, yes, but also -"

"Huh," Stan grunts.

Ford falters a bit at that. "But, ah, it does have the potential for... terrible destruction. Possibly, the end of the known universe and everyone living in it. That's - that's actually why I called you up here," he says weakly, turning his lips up into a weak grin. "I needed someone who I can trust entirely, and - well, the decision was quite obvious, after that."

For the first time since they had left the cats in the living room, something like emotion flickers in his brother's eyes. "...Yeah?"

"I shut down the portal," Ford says, all in a rush, "and I have to be sure no one else can activate it again. All the instructions, the plans, are in my journals. And - God forbid - if someone with malicious intent got their hands on all of them, it could mean the end of everything." He swallows. "I've been hiding them the best I can, and I... just have one left."

He pauses, steeling himself to say what needed to be said. His fingers clench hard around his journal for one panicked moment before he succeeds in forcing himself to hold it out to Stan.

"I need you to take this book and go far, far away," He finishes breathlessly. "As far away from here as you can. Somewhere you will never see me -" and by transition, he thinks, never come into contact with Bill "- ever again."

His brother looks at him quietly.

"Please," Ford begs.

Stan glances down at the journal in Ford's trembling hands, and for a moment, his face is cast in shadow. He doesn't speak, or move, or even seem to breathe for a long and terrifying moment that seems to stretch towards infinity.

Ford can't predict at all what his brother will say or do, and that sudden realization hits him harder than it really should.

"Sure," Stan says easily. "I can do that."

And he plucks Ford's journal right out of his frozen hands and tucks it under his arm, as casually as anything.

Ford just stands there for a moment. He can't even begin to process the reason behind his own startled hesitation.

He... didn't expect this to be easy. He didn't expect this to go like that.

"Stanley, are you -" sure? Ford doesn't say, can't say because he needs his brother to do this for him. There is no one else who can. Still, there's something heavy in his gut and painful in his chest that makes him want to, more than anything else.

Maybe he's hoping Stan would change his mind.

His brother shrugs, slow and languorous. "I have time," he says, something deeply bitter in the tone of his voice.

Ford feels lost. This was exactly how things were supposed to go with Stanley, which meant it was also entirely unexpected. He lowers his hands and clasps them behind his back so he doesn't have to see them shake, and clears his throat.

"Do you," he tries, "do you need anything before you go? Food? Money? I... don't have much of either in the house, but if you need it, I can -"

"It's been a long trip up here," Stan interrupts, shifting ever so slightly. "The kids are tired, even if they didn't show it back there. We could do with a few days settled down. Some food and water for them, maybe. I can swing by the town grocery store and get it myself."

Despite himself, Ford recoils, his mind already conjuring up dozens of different consequences that would come from his brother staying that much longer here, the vast majority of them starring the demon that possessed his body whenever he slept.

"No," he blurts out without meaning it, his thoughts whirring incoherently in his head. Because Bill had hurt him as much as he could while keeping him functional, because he needed him like that.

Fiddleford had not been nearly as lucky.

He doesn't want to think what the demon would do to Stanley and his ki - cats if he had the opportunity. Without any knowledge of Bill and what he was, they would be easy prey. They had no idea who or what they were even up against.

He hadn't thought this through at all. And just like that, he makes the decision.

Stan blinks once. "I wasn't asking," he says bluntly.

"I - nevermind that," Ford whispers hurriedly. "There's one thing you need to know, now." He keeps his voice low and his words quick, even though he knows that would do nothing to stop Bill from listening in if he really wanted to. "You cannot trust anyone with yellow, slitted eyes."

His brother goes still.

"Check for them on everyone," Ford continues, and he doesn't even realize he has moved closer, that he is holding onto Stan's shoulders like their lives depended on it. "On everything you might encounter. Even - even if that person is me. Stanley, do you understand?"

Stan just looks at him. "This guy with yellow, slitted eyes," he says finally, voice unreadable. "He happens to laugh like a lunatic? Likes violence a bit too much?"

The ball drops. Ford lets go and scrambles backwards to a safe distance.

"You - know him?" He asks weakly. "You've met Bill?"

"So that's his name, huh?" There's a dangerous quality to Stan's voice as he takes a step forward. "You got a current address for him too?"

Already, Ford is fitting together the pieces he has into a picture he does not like at all. Bill had made some sort of contact with Stan, and while it was clear that the contact had been minimal - considering his brother hadn't even known the demon's name - it did not bode well for either his or Stan's chances at a future without Bill's manipulations.

There's a heaviness in his gut that might just be guilt. He never wanted his brother involved in this way. He never wanted to his brother in this kind of danger.

"Stanley, you can't go looking for him."

"Yeah, and why not?" Stan demands, baring his teeth. "Does it have anything to do with how you know this guy?"

Ford flinches. His brother is obviously angry, and he would have felt relieved at seeing the familiar way that emotion twisted Stan's face if it isn't so directed at him.

"I can't tell you anymore than I already have." He knows too well the dangers that came with forbidden knowledge. "You just need to get as far away from here as you can. This isn't your battle to fight. This - this has nothing to do with you."

Stan chokes out a disbelieving laugh. "This has nothing to do with me? Sixer, you have no idea."

He's moving closer, taking a confident step forwards for each and every one that Ford stumbles back. There's a glint in his eye, something about the way he looms, how it suddenly feels so much harder to keep stumbling backwards that terrifies Ford beyond logic.

"I - I don't know what you're talking about, Stanley," he stammers even as he tries to make sense of his brother's outburst. "You need to -"

"You don't know anything about me, Ford," his brother hisses.

The light in the basement flickers.

"You haven't known anything about me for the last t̷e͏n ye͠a̛rs."

Stan's close, too close. "Stanley," he tries, voice cracking. "I didn't... I'm -"

"Is it in this journal of yours?" Stan demands, brandishing the object in question.

Ford's heart sinks.

"Don't look so surprised, Sixer. That's what you've always done, right? You trust your books and your secrets more than anyone else." His tone is biting. "More than me."

"Don't open that," Ford pleads, voice hoarse. "Stanley, you don't understand, you can't read that!"

Because the moment he does, its contents will become a part of his brother's memories. And Bill didn't need the actual physical book, being the creature of the mind that he was. All he needed was access to someone who knew what was in it.

If his brother read that journal, he would be a target for the rest of existence.

"Make me," Stan growls, and flips the journal open.

Ford lunges forward before he's even thinking, driven by a heady mixture of adrenaline and terrified panic.

He collides hard with his brother's torso but he doesn't even feel the pain or shock of impact, he's too busy grabbing for the book, frenzied and manic, like a life - Stan's life - depended on it.

And just like that, they're brawling on the ground.

It's entirely undignified and certainly a ridiculous thing for two grown men to be doing, and while Ford knows he's landing some punches and definitely feeling a few punches as well, for about five whole minutes he has no idea what's actually happening on a higher level.

Maybe it's the element of surprise or the power of adrenaline, but at the end of it, he gets his hands back on his journal.

Ford clutches it to his chest protectively, his breath coming in with big ragged gasps, and watches Stan pick himself back up into a kneel.

His brother's teeth are bared as he stares Ford down. His eyes glint an eerie pale blue in the light of the portal's machinery lights.

"I didn't want to do this," Stan says, voice cold, and reaches forward.

And suddenly, Ford can't move at all.

He's practically pinned to the ground by some kind of invisible, oppressive force that's almost physical in its strength. It's the same feeling from the doorstep, and just like then, he doesn't know what it is or why it's happening.

(...But he does, doesn't he?

After all, there's just one common factor.)

Stanley's hands close on the journal.

There's only one thing that he can think to do.

"I'm sorry, Stanley," he says quietly, and his brother goes deathly still. "I shouldn't have let Dad kick you out."

Ford takes a breath. "I shouldn't have tried to leave you behind."

Stan's eyes go wide with disbelieving surprise. The pressure alleviates for a split second.

It's just enough time for Ford to kick Stan squarely in the chest and send him careening wildly backwards. He catches a glimpse of his brother's face, just enough for Stan's look of furious betrayal to sear itself completely into his memory.

His brother crashes heavily into the side of a piece of portal machinery, and -

- there's a sizzling sound.

That's his first clue that things had gone horribly wrong.

And then his brother lets out a kind of pained wail, keening and desperate in a way that fit an injured alley cat more than a human being. He lurches forward, clutching at his shoulder with a single hand, and there's something strange about the unrestrained, unnatural way his limbs swing.

Ford can see now the vivid red brand on the pale skin of Stan's back. He gags at the combination of that sight and the moist, acrid smell of burnt human flesh-and-hair that had so quickly filled the air.

"You hurt me," his brother rasps as he stumbles towards him, his steps loose and helpless like he's losing control of his body entirely.

But when he catches the expression on his brother's face, he realizes with mounting horror that it isn't of anger or fear. Instead there is a kind of wonderment, and - a strange kind of joy.

Ford takes an involuntary step backwards. He's not sure what he's seeing, but something tells him that it's something he will be seeing in his nightmares for years to come.

Then, Stan goes still. He stands quietly, swaying slightly.

Maybe it's the light, but it looks as if his eyes are glowing - the same pale blue from earlier, the same pale blue of the activated portal.

"What did you do to me, Sixer?" His brother asks, voice hollow.

And then he slumps over, his frame crumpling like newspaper in the rain.

For one long moment, the basement laboratory is entirely quiet but for the click-clacking of machinery and the hitching gasps of Ford's breathing.

Only Ford's breathing.

"Stan?" He asks into the silence, voice trembling. "Stanley?"

There is no reply. The dark heap on the ground doesn't move at all.

The next few minutes are a blur. Ford remembers running forwards and kneeling down next to his brother. He remembers landing hard on his sore knees. Most of all, he remembers that he gets no response when he shakes his brother by the shoulders, and distantly registering that Stan's skin is cool - too cool - to the touch.

"No," he says out loud, voice trembling. There's no one to hear it, but he says it anyways, repeating it over and over to himself like some kind of a prayer. "No, no, no -"

It isn't possible. That couldn't have been enough to - not for someone like Stanley.

(he looked half-dead already, whispered a voice in his head, he must had been so tired.

and the human body could be so, so fragile -)

When he reaches out with a trembling hand and feels for a pulse with two fingers, there is nothing.

Ford doesn't know how long he stays there bent over his brother's body, even after his legs had lost feeling and the cold had penetrated through the thin layers of his wrinkled coat. He's too numbed by shock to even cry. There's just a stinging sourness in his mouth and a weight at the base of his gut that gets heavier by the moment.

And then, a lightbulb shatters without warning, its glass pieces sprinkling onto the ground like rain. It's entirely unexpected and impossible, but it's just enough to break Ford out of his trance.

They can't stay down here forever, he realizes.

Even if he wants to.

It takes effort to haul his brother's body up and over his back, but much less so than he expected. Stan is surprisingly light, and it makes his mouth go dry to realize that while his brother had always been so much bulkier than him when they were both children and then adolescents, it is no longer true.

If Ford doesn't know better, he would say that Stan still had the frame of a teenager.

He stands up, swaying only slightly, and tries not to think about the dead weight on his back.

"Let's go, Ley."

[rason-rodd]

Nightwing : The Rise of Flamebird (Chapter 5)

Summary: Nightwing and Flamebird were two ancient Kryptonian gods, yet completely opposite. He was darkness and rebirth, tasked to hunt the evils in the shadows. She was fire and destruction, born to annihilate the creations of her mate, Vohc The Builder. Destined to fall in love and achieve great things but fated to be separated. That’s the story Dick Grayson and Terry Olsen heard. Strange that it is also, somehow, their story

Major Pairing: Nightwing/Dick Grayson x Flamebird/Original Female Character

Chapter Summary: After the kidnapping of another child, Terry starts to devote herself even more to her work at the expense of her life as a couple. But there is no time for personal life. The autopsy of Jane Antol has revealed too many terrible things and she believes she may have a lead. Problem is, she needs Nightwing's help.

WARNING: GORE & VIOLENCE, KIDNAPPING

[Previous Chapter] [READ ON AO3]

Readers List: 

- If you’re interested you can ask me to add you to the list. - Also, don’t forget to tell me what you think about the story. Your opinions mean a lot.

Terry and Josh’s Apartment – Halyard Street – Blüdhaven – Morning

Another child was missing. Terry had received a message telling her so early this morning. Chloe LaGrange. Five Years Old. A sweet little girl with curly black hair, big black eyes and mocha-coloured skin. Living in Ravenshood Heights and an orphan adopted last year by a couple of doctors. “Just like Isaac.” Terry whispered as she pinched the bridge of her nose, the picture of the little girl in her hand. Now she was certain that this wasn’t a coincidence. She was dealing with a serial kidnapper… or worse.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see Josh sitting by her side with a mug of hot black coffee. “Here, you’ll need this.” She didn’t hear him either. He sighed and put the mug in her field of vision. “I’m sorry … Thank you … You were saying?” He smiled. He wasn’t mad. He knew how much her work meant to her. “There was nothing you could have done, Terry.” 

“ I know. But it kills me to know there is a psychopath hurting kids somewhere in this city and that the only clue I had is now on the coroner’s table.”     “ Any idea who that might be?”           “ Well I’ve established a profile using the data on the children. Since both Isaac and Chloe were orphans, adopted by rich families and living in the most luxurious area in the Blüd, I believe our kidnapper is an orphan too … However, I don’t think he was ever adopted. Actually, I think the kidnappings are acts of vengeance and resentment, to punish the families that didn’t choose him. But maybe I’m wrong.”       “ You’re never wrong.” He tried to kiss her on her lips but he only met the corner of her mouth as she remained still. “You’re going somewhere?” She asked as she noticed him taking a grey duffel bag “To the gym. I signed up yesterday for a ridiculous price and I read on the Internet the coach is very competent” She faked a smile. Another. Truth was she couldn’t care less about his hobbies. Awful, right? She knew. “But hey, he might interest you. He is also an orphan adopted by a rich guy.” He joked as he zipped his sport jacket.       “Oh really?” Why did she ask? Just let him leave.       “Yeah. Dick Grayson. Heard he was Bruce Wayne’s ward” Terry froze instantly and Josh noticed it. He frowned. “Do you know him?”       “Who doesn’t know Bruce Wayne?”   “I meant Dick Grayson.” She hesitated for a second but then answer with a “Nope”. But the truth is she knew him. After all, how could she forget him? That poor boy that had lost his parents the same night she lost hers. “Dick Grayson” she whispered inaudibly.

Grayson Cross Train Studio – Blüdhaven - Morning

The alarm made Dick jump. For a second, he thought he had just closed his eyes a couple of minutes ago. But when he checked the clock on his nightstand he realised he had been sleeping for at least three hours. A record this week, but still not enough to erase the dark rings under his blue eyes. He yawned but managed to get up even though his knee was still hurting. A splint and he hopefully would be ready to work.         He limped towards the windows and drew the curtains. The sun hidden behind the high buildings of the city centre was slowly rising, replacing the crazy noisy neon night and colouring the sky with yellow and orange shades. It was one of the many reasons he loved Blüdhaven and refused to call it Gotham’s little sister.             Blüdhaven was not Gotham. It didn’t look like her at all. Yes, crimes and lawlessness had given her this reputation of dangerous dark place but Blüdhaven was also this eternal patchwork of colours, a flashy skyline sparkling in the dark night in which even more colourful people were living. Blüdhaven was not just black and white, neon pink and blue.

Just like the sign on his windows, that Josh was staring at, happy that he had finally found the place after his GPS had got him lost at least twice. He opened the door and was immediately welcomed by a still sleepy yet smiley Dick who approached him to shake his hand. “Hi! You must be Josh” The ex-surgeon instantly noticed his splint but, out of respect, he just smiled and chose not to say a word though he thought Dick looked like he definitely needed medical advice. “Yeah. Sorry, I’m a bit late. I’m new in this city. Still got some orientation issues.” “ No worries. At least, I was able to take my time this morning. Plus the others are not here yet so … Coffee?” He nodded. Dick was a very warm and social man. His comfort and ease around people stroke Josh who wished for a second he was like this too. Even his voice was smooth and immediately gave him an incredible trustworthy and friendly vibe. “So you’re new in town?” Dick handed him a cup of hot coffee. “Yeah. We moved in few days ago.”         “ We, as in …”             “My girlfriend and I, Terry. I got a job opportunity, a huge contract from the mayor’s office to renovate the old harbour salt factory into a seaside resort. I’m an architect/ interior designer”       “ Wow. That’s looks like a huge work.” Dick took a sip of coffee as he massaged his knee, a gesture that caught again Josh’s attention. “It is and it’s taking me most of my time which is actually something I didn’t want to happen when I changed my career path. I was a surgeon at Metropolis Hospital.” “ Why that huge change?”       “ I did it for my girlfriend, mostly. We’ve been through a lot recently.” Sadness was suddenly in Josh’s deep brown eyes. He tried to conceal it behind a smile. “We needed a new start and I wonder ‘why not’” But Dick noticed, as he had been taught to discern every details. However, he knew how to react according to them. The man was basically a stranger so chatting about his personal problems was not a good idea. “And well, it looks like we’re getting better.” Good for you, lucky man. Dick winced as he crossed his leg. Stupid knee. “You know, you should see a doctor. You may need surgery… Medical advice.” Dick smiled slightly just to be polite but the truth is he was tired of people worrying about him. “It can wait.”

Dick’s phone rang, cutting short the conversation before it became too awkward. It was a text from Helen, one of his clients, a professional hockey player with gorgeous blue eyes, curly dark hair and a smooth mocha-coloured skin. “Car trouble. We will be late. Sorry <3”       “Looks like Helen and Wallace are going to be very late. So let’s start without them.”           “Looks like Helen digs you.” Josh winked as he noticed discreetly the heart at the end of the text. Dick scoffed and smiled. “She’s a cool girl but I’ve got no time for romance right now.” Josh shrugged. “Or you don’t want to take the time for some reason” The ex-trapeze artist was a bit surprised by the familiarity but better a weird too sociable client that than an introvert shy one, no? “Sorry that was inappropriate.”             “Actually you may be right.” Relieved, Josh smiled and dared ask “We should totally go out sometime. Terry and I haven’t get the chance to meet people since we arrived. And you seem like a pretty nice guy… You can ask Helen and Wallace to come as well … or other people, as you wish ” He winked with a smile. “Sure … why not.”

Blüdhaven Police Department – Afternoon

As soon as Terry opened the door, an intense cold invaded her body. For a second she wondered it was the low temperature in the room or the naked corpse on the table in front of her that was making her shiver. She opted for the last theory.     “ Detective Olsen. I was no expecting you so soon.” The coroner approached her with a smile and stretched out his hand to salute her. She did the same but quickly reconsidered when she noticed the blood on his glove. “Oh sorry.” He took it off, a bit embarrassed and finally shook her hand. “I just began the autopsy this morning right after I received the Examining Magistrate’s authorisation.” “ And? Have you found anything yet?”           “ I have indeed.” He waved her to come closer to the corpse and pointed at her slit neck. “She bled to death. I’m still trying to figure out what blade was used but the precision of the cut shows the killer took his time.”           “ His? How do you know?”     “The bruises on her jaw and on her wrists– beside the ones that show she had been tied up pre and post mortem – correspond to very large hands, definitively not female. I suppose the killer caught her wrists first to tie her up and then held her head to slit her throat while she was still alive.” Terry frowned and gulped, imagining the pain the girl must have endured. “But there is worse. Her abdomen was entirely cut in half after she died. The liver and the heart are gone.” He opened the abdomen a little to show her. Terry closed briefly her eyes, deeply disgusted. Poor woman. She was maybe guilty of what happened to Isaac but no one deserved to be treated this way. “Did you find anything that would allow us to track down the killer by any chance?”   “ No. Whoever did this is a professional. There is no DNA, nothing” Terry pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, frustrated and more than annoyed. “What’s this?” She pointed at a long red scar on Jane’s pale face.     “ That’s the creepiest part.” As if things were not already creepy enough. He turned Jane’s face to the side to show a thin cut all around the prostitute’s face. “It was made post mortem. It looks like the killer peeled off her face and then sewed it back”     “ What?” Her eyes widened. She had seen a lot in her young career and read a lot when she was a student but she had never heard or seen anything like this. “Sicko I know… And I also found this, in her mouth” It was a piece of paper. Words had been scribbled on it but the saliva had damaged it so much it was impossible to read. “I only found residues of food on it.”       “ May I take it?” She asked as she looked at the paper in the plastic bag.     “ Sure, yes. If you believe you can do something with it.”       “ I may know someone who can actually.”

Blüdhaven Police Department – Night

“ No. No way you’re staying here, Victoria’s Secret” Elise growled as she tried to make Terry go away, pulling her by the arm towards the door. “I don’t see why I couldn’t stay. I’d really like to talk to him myself about the case.”       “ I believe I can repeat everything you told me.” Svoboda insisted as she opened the door. “I’m not that sure to be honest. You seemed more interested in your burger than in the conclusions I had drawn from the autopsy and both kidnappings.”         “ Male. Serial offender. Possibly a resentful never-adopted orphan bla-bla-bla … See I listened to you.” “ Actually the bla-bla-bla part worries me.” Elise sighed and pushed the young woman before attempting to close the door to prevent her from coming back on the rooftop. “Fine, I’m leaving … But don’t forget to give him …” “ The paper. I know” The detective slammed the door and waited a little bit to make sure her colleague was gone. When she heard the footsteps going down the metallic stairs, she breathed out loudly, relieved she had succeeded in getting rid of her.       “ What paper?” Svoboda jumped and put her hand over her racing heart. It had skipped more than one beat, she was sure of it. “You’re going to give me heart attack one day, kiddo.” She groaned and looked up at the vigilante casually leant against the BPD flashing sign. “Don’t worry Elise, I have a defibrillator in my suit” She frowned, not really liking the joke but happy his usual cheerfulness was slowly resurfacing. “That was a joke.”           “ I know it was joke. But I’m not in a mood.”             “ I’m not really in the mood either.” He admitted before jumping from his spot to come down and meet her. “So what paper?”         “ This one.” She handed it to him. “Found in Anne Darrow’s mouth but the words have been erased because of the saliva. My colleague thought she could count on you to find out what was written.” “ Yeah I may know a way to do this.” He stared at the paper in the plastic bag. “Anything else?”             “ Well, Olsen drew some conclusions concerning our killer. She believes he is an orphan who was never adopted judging by the fact both the abducted kids were orphans”         “ Both?” Nightwing frowned, surprised by the words. “Yeah. A little girl was confirmed missing this morning. Chloe Lagrange.”     “ Why didn’t you tell me about this, earlier?” He growled, angry with the detective and with himself. Classical guilt. “Well, because I worked on the case all day as well.” She spat, not liking his tone at all. “Anyway, she also believes he had done this before considering his ‘modus operandi’. The killing of Jane was ‘very well calculated and conscientious. A professional work.' I’m just paraphrasing. He extracted her heart and liver and peeled off her face to sew it back like a real surgeon” “ Her face was peeled off?” His eyes widened. This detail was more important than Svoboda seemed to realise. “ Yeah… The guy is a real psycho”         “ Yeah and I know only one criminal capable of this … Barton Mathis aka Dollmaker.”

[sweater-vest-reid]

All You Need is Love: Chapter Eighteen “Hey Jude”

A Love Story Told by The Fab Four / Inspired by “Across the Universe”

Spencer Reid: a genius, hardworking, dedicated FBI profiler. Persephone “Percy” Jacobson: a passionate, brilliant, ambitious FBI specialist, and the newest member of the BAU. Spencer doesn’t believe in soulmates. Persephone doesn’t believe in happy endings. Told nonlinearly, watch as time, each other, and The Beatles, proves them wrong.

Chapter List

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A/N: Happy February everyone! This chapter is a long fluffy on! The last two sections were inspired by two prompts from @otpprompts (you can find the prompts here and here). 

Listen here

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Hey Jude, don't make it bad Take a sad song and make it better Remember to let her into your heart Then you can start to make it better

{2013} Percy sat at the edge of the hospital bed. She grimaced as the doctor placed the suture in by her eyebrow. Percy wasn't exactly afraid of needles, but she wasn't fond of them going into her face. 

"Please miss. If you could keep your face still it will make my job a lot easier." laughed the doctor, "I'd feel really bad if I stitched this up crooked."

"Sorry. Needles aren't really my thing" said Percy. 

"Are they anybody's?" asked the doctor as she finished the last stitch.

Just then, Blake and Reid ran to the reception desk. Percy couldn't see his face, but she knew Spencer was panicking. 

"We're looking for Persephone Jacobson? What room is she in?" she heard him ask the receptionist.

"Behind you!" Percy called. 

Spencer whipped around, spotting Percy and rushing towards her. The doctor was putting a bandage over the stitches when Blake and Reid entered the room. Spencer hugged Percy tight, before kneeling down in front of her. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, examining her face.

"I'm fine, Spence. It's just a little cut."

"A little cut? It must be at least seven stitches, not to mention some pretty serious bruising. I'm sorry, I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, but have you checked her for a concussion?" Spencer asked the doctor. 

"I ran a couple of preliminary tests myself, she showed no symptoms of a concussion" replied the doctor.

"Preliminary tests? What does that even mean? Did you get a CT scan? An MRI?" he asked Percy.

"Spence, let it go. I'm okay, really." She confirmed, grabbing his hand to ease his worry. 

"Agent Jacobson here was very lucky. If that man had hit her a little bit lower, she could have lost vision in her eye. I'll go get your discharge papers." Said the doctor. 

"I'll go with you." Said Blake, "We'll need a copy of her medical report when we close this case"

The doctor and Blake walked out of the room, leaving Spencer and Percy alone.

"Do you mind if I look at it?" Spencer asked, motioning to the bandage.

"Sure" replied Percy. She reached up and carefully removed the dressing from her forehead, revealing the large gash. It ran perpendicular to her eyebrow, cutting it right in half. 

"It's awful isn't it?" Percy asked. She stood up from the bed and examined her face in the mirror hanging on the wall. 

Spencer joined her at the mirror, wrapping his arms around her waist and hugging her from behind. 

"Did you know that in the western frontier days, they called 'pistol whipping' 'buffaloing'. Due to the heavy weight of the handguns back then, a single blow to the head could effectively kill a fully-grown man?" rambled Spencer.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" asked Percy. 

"What I'm trying to say is: you're lucky. It could have been a lot worse." Spencer comforted. 

"I know it could have been but…it's going to leave a scar." She said. 

"So? This isn't the first scar this job has given you. Like that giant one you have on your leg from when you got stabbed." Spencer replied. 

"That one's different, Spence." 

Spencer looked confused, "How is that different?"

"Because I can cover up the scar on my leg. I won't be able to cover up the one on my face." Percy explained. 

"Why would you want to cover up the scar?" Spencer asked. 

"Why would I not?" Percy said, "It's so big and it's going to look so bad. How are people supposed to take me seriously with this stupid scar?"

"You have got to be kidding me, Percy." Spencer laughed. 

"Seriously Spence? I'm genuinely upset and you're laughing at me?" scoffed Percy.

"Not Perc-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you upset. It's just-do you realize how incredibly badass you are, right?" questioned Spencer. 

Percy shook her head, "Spencer I don't know-"

"Percy: the unsub hit you in the head with his gun, sliced your forehead open, and you still managed to take him down all by yourself. That's the definition of badass. And now, you have this scar as proof of your badassery."

"Badassery? I don't think that's a real word, Spence." Percy teased.  

"Who cares. I'd make up a million words for you."

"You'd make up words for me? How did I get so lucky to be in love with such a gentleman?" Percy joked, giving him a kiss on the lips. 

"Feel better?" he asked. 

Percy nodded, "Much better. Thank you." 

Spencer smiled, "You're welcome. Now let's go see about getting you that MRI."

Hey Jude, don't be afraid You were made to go out and get her The minute you let her under your skin Then you begin to make it better

{2009} Percy added the finishing touches to her report, sending it to the printer. She walked over to the machine, passing Spencer's desk as she moved. She looked at him over her shoulder. He looked up from his computer, smiling as he made eye contact with her. They were both still on cloud nine after their night together. They didn't do anything, of course, but waking up in each other's arms was enough to tame their demons for the day. 

Hotch walked into the office, and Percy and Spencer broke their gaze. The team couldn't know about this. Not yet. Not until they figured out what it was. 

"Jacobs?" Hotch called as he walked to his office. 

"Yes, Sir?" Percy asked. 

"Have you finished your report? I'd like to send it in as soon as possible."

"It's printing out now Hotch."

He nodded, "Good. Bring it to me when it's done."

"Aye aye, captain" Percy joked, earning a chuckle from Hotch before he disappeared into his office. 

Percy grabbed the finished report and tucked it neatly into a file folder. Once again, she passed by Spencer's desk on her way to the stairs. 

"You busy tonight?" she asked him, leaning slightly on the desk. 

"Nope."

"Well, in that case, we need to finish watching Firefly."

Spencer smiled, "How could I say no to that?"

They hadn't talked about what happened when Percy joined him in bed. Not out loud, at least. They were both a bit embarrassed. They were supposed to be coworkers and best friends, they thought. But here they were, their love for one another slowly leaking out of their minds and into the real world. Yet, with their love so close, they still rarely acted upon it. They were scared they would ruin what they already had. And even after the events of the night before, they both still feared that the other didn't share the same love. 

Percy left his desk and made her way to Hotch's office. 

She knocked lightly on the door frame, "I have the finished report, sir"

"Great, thank you," Hotch said, taking the file and beginning to read it. 

"Anything else?" Percy asked, eager to return to Spencer's company. 

"Actually, yes there is," Hotch replied, "The coroner sent us an updated version of the autopsy report. You've included the older version in your file. Could go visit Garcia and get her to print you a copy of the new report so I can close the case?"

"Absolutely. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Percy made her way out of the office and down to Garcia's lair. Garcia's office was her favorite room in the entire building. It was so colorful. Each inch of the room was covered in something bright and whimsical. Every time Percy visited, Garcia had new toys laid across the desk; some made noise, and some light up. And Garcia always made sure to have an air freshener running, so the air always smelled delicious. 

"Hey, Penny. You got a sec?" Percy asked as she walked into the room.

"For you, my darling? Always. What do you need?" Garcia asked as she slid her chair over to her main desktop. 

"Hotch said the coroner from our last case sent over a new version of the autopsy report?" Percy explained, "I just need you to print out a copy so Hotch can finish the case."

"Is that it?" Garcia asked, typing away.

"That's it," Percy confirmed. 

"God Percy, give me something a little more challenging next time, huh?" Garcia joked.

Percy heard footsteps behind her, and she turned to look. It was Spencer.

"Spence. Hey" she said, blushing a tiny bit.

"Reid! Two of my favorite things visiting me at the same time? I'm such a lucky girl. What can I do for you genius?"

"I was just wondering if the sheriff's office sent over those crime scene photos yet?" he asked. 

"Hmm, I'm not sure. Soon as I'm done with Percy's report I'll check for you."

"Thanks" he replied. 

Garcia's office was one of the larger tech offices at Quantico, but with all the desks and screens, it did feel quite cramped with three people. Spencer and Percy stood behind Garcia's chair, their sides practically touching as they shared the cramped space. 

Garcia finished what she was doing and stood up from her chair, "Excuse me darlings, but I need to get to my printer."

Garcia walked behind Percy. She stumbled slightly, and accidentally pushed Percy as she passed. The push made Percy start to fall, but Spencer caught her before she took a real tumble. 

"You know, you could use a bigger office, Garcia." Spencer joked.

"Yeah, tell that to Strauss." She replied. 

Spencer looked down at Percy, "You okay?"

Percy nodded. They both suddenly became aware of how close they were to each other. Spencer's arms were on her shoulders, and their faces were only inches apart, their bodies even closer. They could feel each other's breathing. They were dangerously close, but neither of them dared to move.

Suddenly, all three of their cell phones went off at the same time. They all knew what that meant: a new case. 

Garcia handed Percy the papers, "Well, my fearless knights. It seems that you have been called to the roundtable."

Spencer went ahead and answered his phone, leaving Garcia's office. Percy watched him walk about, still processing the moment that had just happened. 

"God. You two are so blind." Garcia muttered as Percy walked out of the room.  

"I heard that!" Percy called back. 

Garcia laughed, "Good! I hope you did!"

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain Don't carry the world upon your shoulders

{2011} Spencer woke up to the sound of silence. His usual morning routine started off with him waking up to the sound of a blaring alarm before the sun had a chance to fully rise. But today, it was peaceful. 

Percy was still asleep. It was rare that he woke up before her. Percy wasn't a morning owl, but she still liked to wake up early, so she could go for a run before work. Spencer tried to join her once on her morning run, but after two laps around the block, he was so exhausted that returned to the apartment. When Percy came back she found him asleep on the couch. That was the first and last time they went running together. But they didn't mind: Percy needed her alone time to gather her thoughts, and Spencer needed his sleep. 

Now, Percy was curled up in the blankets, her head facing Spencer. He watched her rest. She looked calm and comfortable, a drastic contrast to the panic and urgency she carried with her while the team worked on a case after case. Or the pain and grief she wore on her face when she thought no one was looking. But that morning, as she slept next to him, Percy looked like she was at peace with the world, and nothing made Spencer happier. 

He could tell that she was dreaming by the way her eyes moved sporadically under her eyelids. He wondered what she was dreaming about if it was a good dream or a nightmare. 

Recently, all Percy and Spencer had were nightmares. For both of them, it was like their brains were doing a slideshow of all the horrible things they'd seen. And no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't turn the projector off. There ain't no rest for the wicked. Or for the BAU. 

Soon, however, Percy's eye's fluttered open. Her eyes locked with Spencer's and she smiled. Waking up next to him was one of her favorite parts of her days. For Percy, there was nothing more comfortable than his presence. 

Spencer kissed Percy on her forehead, "Good morning."

"Good morning, Spence." She replied, snuggling up close to him. 

"Did you sleep well?" he asked softly.

Percy nodded, "Did you?"

"Yeah, I did actually. I slept well for what feels like the first time in weeks." He said, chuckling a bit at the end. 

Percy sat up, kissing Spencer on the lips. He sat up as well, wrapping his arms around her.

"You seem happy today" he commented, tucking a stray hair behind Percy's ear. 

She smiled, "I feel happy today." 

"Good" he replied, returning a smile. 

They sat, wrapped in each other's arms and enjoying the morning quiet, for many minutes. They didn't want to move. With a busy life like theirs, a moment of peace and quiet together is a rarity, and neither of them would dare to spoil it. 

Percy's phone buzzed. It was her backup alarm, reminding her to take her medication. She groaned, leaning over to turn it off when she noticed the time. 

"Spence!" she shouted, launching herself out of bed, "We're late!"

"What?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

"It's 10:30! We're late for work!" Percy said as she searched for clothes to put on. Their draws were almost empty, and in the corner of the room sat a laundry basket, overflowing with many weeks' worth of dirty clothes. With their job, they could barely plan five minutes ahead, let alone plan when to do laundry. But Percy still managed to find one more pair of black pants. She slid them on, now searching the room for an appropriate shirt. 

She looked back at Spencer. He hadn't moved an inch. He just sat there, a huge smile plastered on his face.

"C'mon Spence. Why aren't you getting ready? We are so late we need to get going." She said as she disappeared into the bathroom. She picked up her hairbrush and started to tame her wild bedhead. As much as she loved her long hair, she was so sick of taking care of it. One of these days, she told herself, I'm going to cut it all off. I swear. She looked around the bathroom, hoping to find a clean shirt, but no luck. What was she supposed to do? Go to work in black pants and an oversized t-shirt she bought a concert many years back?

"Percy?" called Spencer from the bedroom.

"Yeah Spence?"

"It's Saturday, Percy." He said, holding back a laugh.

Percy set down the hairbrush and walked back into the bedroom. 

"What?" she asked.

"Today is Saturday. We don't have work today" Spencer explained. 

"Oh thank god," said Percy as she slid off the uncomfortable black work pants. She climbed back into the bed.

Spencer started laughing hard. So hard Percy could swear she could see tears forming in the corner of his eyes.

"Stop it. Why are you laughing?" she asked, embarrassed. 

"Why am I laughing? Because I love you" he replied.

"I love you too," Percy said, sinking back into the comfort of the bed.

For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool By making his world a little colder

{2016} "Damn it!" Percy yelled as the word "defeat" flashed across the screen again. It was her third loss in a row. She guessed that what she got for playing Overwatch when she had a cold. 

The 'play of the game' music started, and Percy watches as her name and character filled the screen. 

"That's right. Fear me, motherfuckers." Percy said as she grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. 

Normally when Percy got sick, she would suck it up and go to work. But this time, she could barely get out of bed. Her head pounded, and her congestion was so bad that she hadn't been able to breathe out of her nose for days. So, for the first time in years, Percy called in sick. 

Unfortunately, the day she called in sick, Spencer and the rest of the team were called away on a case. That was three days ago, and Percy was going crazy. 

She had been seeing the ads for Overwatch for a while. Percy was interested in the game, but with her job, she had no time to play video games. But after only half a day of her sick break, she was bored out of her mind. So, Percy turned on her console for the first time in months and bought the game. 

She popped another cough drop in her mouth and started another match. She'd already been playing for hours, and she was starting to get sleepy. If she was being responsible, she would stop the game and go to bed. It was getting late anyway. But Percy couldn't help herself. 

When she was younger, Percy would play video games any chance she got. She'd gotten quite good at them, beating her older brother's friends multiples times. But then Percy grew up, and she didn't have as much time to play. Every once and awhile she would, but not nearly as much as she used to. 

Percy struggled to focus on the game as her eyelids drooped lower and lower. Soon, she found herself resting her eyes in-between games. And eventually, she fell asleep altogether. 

Spencer returned home after the case late that same night. He had called the house phone hours earlier to let Percy know he was on his way back, but she didn't answer. Spencer assumed she had fallen asleep, she was very sick after all. So, when he walked through the front door, he wasn't surprised to find her out cold on the couch. He was surprised, however, to find her grasping an Xbox controller in her hand, and to find the title screen of a video game on the TV. Spencer smiled. At least she hadn't been too bored while he was gone. He walked over to the couch, slightly shaking her shoulder. Soon, her eyes slowly opened. 

"Spence?" she mumbled. 

"Come on, let's get you to bed." He said. Carefully, he helped her off the couch. As they walked to the bedroom, she rested her head on his shoulder. 

"I was winning," she said, her words slurring together the way they did was she was sleepy, or when she'd had a few too many glasses of wine. 

"I'm sure you were" Spencer replied as she climbed into bed. He pulled up her covers, before leaving the room. 

"Where are you going?" she whined, "You just got home and now you're leaving again"

"I'm not leaving. I'm just going to turn off the TV. I'll be right back." Spencer explained. 

"Promise?"

"I promise" Spencer replied. 

He walked into the living room and picked up the Xbox controller. He was trying to quit the game, but he had no idea what any of the buttons did. 

He'd never played on an Xbox before. Percy was always trying to get him to play with her, but video games had never really interested him. 

Spencer accidentally hit a button, and suddenly he was being placed into a game. 

"Shit," he said quietly. He was going to have to ask Percy how to turn this thing off. He returned to the bedroom, but Percy was already asleep. He could hear a soft snore coming from her side of the bed. Spencer was on his own. 

He went back to the living room and sat down on the couch. He looked back at the television, the loading screen now replaced with an assortment of character portraits. He clicked on one. 

Spencer always found it difficult to sleep right after a case. His brain was always going a hundred miles an hour, and they only thing that seemed to slow it down was time. Spencer knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep for a while. So, playing one game wouldn't hurt, right?

It was still dark outside when Percy woke up. Her throat was sore, and she was desperate for a glass of water. She got out of bed and noticed that Spencer wasn't there. She could have sworn he had come home from the case, but it is possible she had imagined it. Her sick brain did like to play tricks on her. 

But once she walked out of their room, she proved herself wrong. There was Spencer on the couch, Xbox controller in hand.

"Spence? Are you playing…. Overwatch?"

"I guess so. What are you doing up?" He asked, not looking away from the TV.

"I needed water," Percy said. She grabbed a glass and sat down on the couch next to Spencer. She was fascinated by the sight in front of her. 

"You're pretty good," Percy said. 

"Well, it's really all patterns. I mean, the behavior of the other players is predictable."  Spencer said. 

"McCree, huh? Interesting choice."

"Who's McCree?" asked Spencer. 

Percy laughed, "The character you're playing. Right now."

"You mean the cowboy? Yeah, I chose him because he uses a revolver. Since I use a revolver in real life, I thought it would make it easier."

"And does it?"

"Nope." Spencer replied, frustrated as the all too familiar 'defeat' flashed on the screen.

"Come on, Spence. It's two in the morning. We both need to sleep." Percy said, turning off the TV. 

"Will you teach me how to actually play tomorrow?"

Percy stopped dead in her tracks, "You mean, you actually want to play video games with me?"

Spencer nodded. 

"Finally! I've only been asking for like five years!"

Hey Jude, don't let me down You have found her, now go and get her

{2010} "Oh my god. This is awful. I literally can't watch this. Why did we ever think this was a good idea" Said Percy, looking away from the TV screen. 

Spencer and Percy were spending the night together at Percy's apartment. They were supposed to go out to dinner, but then it started pouring, and the two of them decided that they would rather stay in and order a pizza. 

Whenever they together, they would always end up watching some sci-fi series or a documentary. Tonight, they decided to try something new, so they chose to watch Saw instead. The only issue was: neither Spencer nor Percy actually enjoyed watching horror movies. Most of the time they spent with either their eyes closed or their ears plugged. 

"That's so disgusting. Are they really allowed to show that in a movie?" asked Spencer, as he pretended to gag. 

"Apparently, they can," Sighed Percy. 

"Here's what I don't understand: every day at work, we see the grossest things humanity has to offer. As depressing as it sounds, we should be used to it by now. So how come we can't handle watching one horror movie?"

"Who needs to watch horror movies when you can just work at the BAU instead," Percy joked as she reached for another handful of popcorn. 

The movie became intense, and both Spencer and Percy were on edge. They both hated jump scares, and they didn't know whether to look away or keep watching. 

Suddenly, all of the lights went out. They were now sitting in complete darkness. Both of them let out a small scream, before bursting out laughing. 

"The storm", giggled Percy, fighting to get words out in-between laughs, "The storm must have caused the power to go out"

"That was possibly the worst timing for a blackout ever," said Spencer. He was still a bit shook up. 

"I guess we'll never know what happens. How sad" joked Percy. She searched for her phone, hoping to use it as a flashlight, but she came up empty. "Hey Spence, do you have your phone on you?"

Spencer searched his pockets, "Not on me, no. I think I left it in my bag." 

"Where's your bag?" she asked.

"The kitchen" answered Spencer. 

He stood up from the couch, arms out in front of him. He slowly made his way into the kitchen. Spencer bumped into a chair and let out a small groan. 

"Be careful!" called Percy. 

"I'm trying. It's hard when you literally can't see anything." Replied Spencer. 

Percy stood up from the couch, "I'll come and help you"

"No, it's fine. I found my bag" he said pulling out his cell phone. He turned on the flashlight and jumped. Percy had gotten up from the couch and was now standing right next to Spencer. He hadn't heard her walk over, so he was not expecting her to be there.

"Don't you dare ever do that again." Said Spencer, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would pop out of his chest. 

"I promise, oh my god I'm so sorry." She replied.

They made their way into their bedroom. It was already pretty late, and they both needed to get up early for work, so they decided to call it a night. Percy looked out the bedroom window at the streets below. The streets were full of so much flowing water that the sewers could barely keep up. 

"God Spence. It is raining so hard right now. You should come and take a look at this"

Spencer joined her at the window, "You're right it's really-"

He was interrupted by something crashing into the window. Percy was startled, and she fell backward onto Spencer, wrapping her arms tight around him. 

"Tree branch, Percy. It was just a tree branch hitting the window. It must be pretty windy outside as well." Commented Spencer. 

"Tree branch. Yeah, I knew that. Totally. Just a tree…yep," Percy mumbled. Spencer could tell she was very on edge, and he made a mental note to keep her away from horror films in the future. He also made the same mental note for himself, as his heart was still racing after Percy scared him in the kitchen. 

"Never ever ever again. We are never watching horror movies again." Percy said, shaking her head. 

"I have never agreed with you more. That really was a terrible idea." Said Spencer. 

They both climbed into bed, still wrapped in each other's arms.

So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin You're waiting for someone to perform with

{2013, 9x07, "Gatekeeper"} "I don't believe that any of the members of this team have heard you sing," Hotch said to Rossi.

After another long case, the team was celebrating at an old favorite bar of Rossi's. The bar was closing soon, and tonight was the last night. Rossi was distraught about the old bar closing, so the team decided to go there to celebrate it one last time. 

"Next up: David Rossi." Said the woman at the microphone. 

"That was intentional," said Rossi. 

Percy was so excited: she'd never been in a karaoke situation before, and she was thrilled at the idea. Not doing karaoke alone of course but doing it as a team would be incredible. 

"Next up is David Rossi," said Hotch in a serious but joking tone. 

"Get your ass up here and sing," said the woman. Rossi made a face at the group of agents before walking up to the stage. 

The music started, and Rossi raised his glass in the air, "To all the memories that have happened within these walls. And if you think I'm doing this without backup you're nuts. Come on: JJ, Garcia, Reid, Percy." 

The agents raced onto the stage, Percy in the lead. After almost two drinks, she was in the perfect state of mind for karaoke. 

The team laughed and sang. At one point, Morgan hopped on stage. At another, Hotch pulled out his phone, recording the whole ordeal. 

Spencer was trying his hardest to sing, but the sound of Percy's voice was a constant distraction for him. She rarely sang in public, so it was a real treat to hear her voice. 

After the song was over, the team celebrated with another round of drinks, which Rossi bought. Now, on her third drink, Percy was starting to get a little tipsy. She no longer had control over her singing, joining in on the chorus of whatever song was playing. Spencer's heart swelled every time she opened her mouth. 

"Okay Jacobs, you wanna bet?" asked Morgan. 

"On what? What are we betting on?" She asked, taking another sip of her drink.  

"We are betting on you getting up on that stage and singing a song all by yourself." Said Morgan, flashing a devious grin. 

"Okay, you're on. I'm going to bet a billion dollars that I don't get up on that stage and sing" Percy replied. 

"Come on Percy. You've already been singing here all night, what's the big deal if the next time you sang you just happened to be on a stage?" commented Garcia. 

"I love you all. I really truly so," Said Percy looking at her team, "But sometimes even in love, I have to draw a line. And tonight, that line says 'karaoke'"

"If it's any consolation, you do have a lovely voice," said Blake. 

"Thank you, Blake. That's very nice of you to say, but my answer is still no" replied Percy. 

"You used to sing in musicals all the time when you were younger," said Spencer, "After those, this should be a piece of cake."

Percy glared at him. Spencer was so focused on getting Percy back on the stage that he'd forgotten a promised he'd made Percy many years back. She made him promise to never tell the team about her theatre past. Whoops. 

"No way." Said Hotch. 

"You were a theatre kid?" asked JJ. 

Percy hesitantly nodded. She wished Spencer hadn't broken her promise, but she knew he meant well. He was just trying to support her. He looked over at her and mouthed the word "sorry". Percy shook her head in reply as if to say, "it's fine, I'm not mad".

She was blushing hard, "I did a few shows here and there during high school, and maybe one or two in college. It really is no big deal." 

"You know, schools often record the shows they do for archival purposes. I mean I know it was a long time ago, but I'm sure they've been digitized by now." Mentioned Garcia. 

"What are you getting at Penny. You better not be suggesting what I think you're suggesting." Warned Percy. 

"Oh, you bet your adorable ass I am. A mandatory team bonding session featuring the many roles of Persephone Jacobson. That is unless you'd rather just sing for us now and get it over with" suggested Garcia, coyly sipping on her drink's straw. 

"Fine, fine. You guys win." Percy said, throwing her arms in the air in defeat. She set down her drink and made her way to the stage. She told the worker the name of the song, and in a few seconds, the music started to play. 

Percy had never been so nervous before, but she looked at Spencer. He flashed her a reassuring smile. And that's all Percy needed to feel safe. So, she took a deep breath and started to sing.

Nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah, hey Jude

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[cecilspeaks]

116 - Council Member Flynn, Part 3

Good hidden recording devices make good neighbors. Welcome to Night Vale.

Council member Tamika Flynn announced today that she’s pretty comfortable doing this whole City Council thing, now that Night Vale is completely crime free. She announced this standing atop an onyx pyramid, waving a golden scepter. Mayor Dana Cardinal responded that while crime is clearly down, budgets for the new fiscal year have not been completed, and Night Vale is showing a marked financial loss this quarter, due in large part to strict evening curfews. She announced this silently into her journal, which she plans to publish as a scathing memoir some day.

Sheriff Sam announced that the increased number of Secret Police officers has really had a positive impact on crime, but most of the police force now is volunteer or underpaid, and grossly unqualified. It’s basically a bunch of random citizens with makeshift weapons carved out of tree branches or fashioned from broken blade-based kitchen appliances. The Sheriff noted that management of council member Flynn’s citizen patrols has greatly impeded the capture of both the serial robber and the escaped librarian. Sheriff Sam quietly grumbled this into their bathroom mirror before finally putting on makeup and facing their day.

Council member Flynn later said she received a postcard from the rest of City Council, who has been vacationing in Milstigan the past month. On the front of the postcard was a serene lake nestled among tall pines and speckled with herrings and fishing boats. Above the lake were eight Black Hawk helicopters, dangling each of the letters of the state name: M-I-B-S-T-I-C-A-N. On the back, the City Council had written: “Saw an article that Night Vale has the lowest crime rate. Guess you’re doing fine without us and we don’t need to come back.” The postcard continued: “We learned how to kayak and we bought a professional grade DSLR and learned to tie sailing knots. Michelin is awesome! Maybe we won’t ever come back. Maybe we are not wanted.”

Council member Flynn said she wrote them back a postcard which she taped to a giant scorpion that read: “Yeah, I’ve got this under control. Happy apple picking.”

Night Vale coroner Lorelei Alvarez issued her report today on the autopsy of the two bodies found at the green market co-op, which burned down last month in an apparent robbery-arson. These bodies are believed to be those of green market owner Tristan Cortez and his daughter Camilla, a business student at Night Vale Community College. Alvarez, however, said that without dental records for the Cortezes, she can’t be certain that these bodies are theirs. The bodies had almost no burns on them, despite being found in a building leveled by fire. There were also no gunshot wounds. Alvarez said, “These two bodies were wearing 19th century formal attire and had apparently been pecked to death by birds.” She added she had not ruled out that birds could have committed robberies, nor that the Cortez family had an anachronistic fashion sense. Alvarez added with a grin that she’s also gotten a few bodies that had been mostly devoured by the escaped librarian. She said it’s fascinating that librarians tend to eat only bones and ligaments, and not flesh or skin. So most of these corpses looked like rumpled soft leather sacks, which makes them much easier to store. Alvarez has so much more free space in her office now and has added a tetherball pole.

And now sports. Tonight, the Night Vale High School Scorpions take on division rival Red Mesa Ant Carpenters in varsity wheelchair basketball. This afternoon, there will be a pep rally led by team captain Janice Palmer. Also she’s my niece. The team captain is my niece. Councilwoman Tamika Flynn will also deliver a speech at the pep rally about the importance of teamwork and fighting crime with sports. Also, the importance of books. “Did you know there are books about sports?” is the title of Flynn’s speech. Flynn also requested, for reasons having to do with public safety, that the pep rally be moved away from the high school to the Old Night Vale armory, and that every person there stand exactly two feet apart and bring some type of shield and/or sharp object that could be used to fend off robbers or librarians. The pep rally is at noon. Go get’em, Janice!

Listeners, Mayor Cardinal and her director of emergency press conferences, Pamela Winchell, have called an emergency press conference to denounce the City Council’s poor efforts to sustain the integrity and stability of Night Vale. Mayor Cardinal dismissed the City Council’s – essentially Tamika Flynn’s – curfew as virtually meaningless, now that more than half of the population is on the citizen patrol force. “We basically have a town of municipally approved armed vigilantes walking around at all hours of the night.” Winchell seconded the Mayor’s point by adding: “Why do I video myself sleeping? What am I hoping to discover? What secrets does my body whisper when I am unconscious?”

Also, the president of the Night Vale school board, the giant glowing cloud who drops dead animals, made an impassioned speech in support of the Mayor via mind control. The entire crowd chanted: “All hail the mighty Cloud who wants the lowly City Council to pass a budget that favors increased spending on education! We grovel before the almighty Cloud! How hard can it be to make a human budget? All hail!” they repeated.

The Mayor said she’s received many letters from people claiming they have lost their jobs as waiters, cab drivers, theatre managers and costumed superheroes because of the strict curfews. Night Vale Community host Cecil Palmer also announced today, live on his radio show, right now, that the curfew has been super productive for his TV watching, as he has already burned through every HBO and Showtime series. Plus all of “Difficult People” on Hulu, which features his second favorite actor, James Urbaniak. My favorite is, of course, Lee Marvin – may his name ring forever in eternity.

Palmer added, at this very second, that while he’s caught up on a lot of good television and is very excited for the new season of the documentary series “Stranger Things”, he and his husband are getting a little stir crazy. There are only so many games of strip Uno a couple can play before they just wanna go out for a nice dinner and maybe a romantic stroll in the park. Councilwoman Flynn was not available for comment, although a sign above her locked office door said: “Quiet, reading a book on how to do financial spreadsheets”.

Listeners, I mentioned earlier my niece Janice and how proud I am of her for captaining her school’s basketball team. But I’m also a bit worried about her too. She looks perpetually exhausted. In the preseason tournament, she led all players in assists. She did everything she could to win games, but they just couldn’t quite do it. Her statistics bear this out, but still she’s taken on so much responsibility for the team’s losses. Her Dad and team assistant coach, Steve Carlsberg, says Janice has increased her practice time to increase her fantastic passing skills, hoping to at least double the number of assists she gets. But Steve says that despite her better skills and more focused demeanor during practice, her team mates just aren’t hitting their shots when she passes to them. She throws them the ball shouting: “Shoot it! You’re open, Julie!” But they miss over and over, even the ones named Julie.

Steve is trying to convince her to work more on her defense and shooting, that assists aren’t everything. But Janice got frustrated with this and called Steve selfish. “Assists are the most unselfish thing, Steve Carlsberg!” she shouted before leaving the gym to pout by her locker earlier this morning. “Maybe I should just quit,” Steve heard her mumble. You know, I’m sure it’s just a teenager fighting with her stepdad, and she’ll be all ready to go for today’s pep rally. Which is set to start in a few minutes. I’ll check in with her later tonight to make sure she’s doing OK.

Councilwoman Tamika Flynn has arrived early for today’s pep rally to deliver a brief statement about vigilance, self-preservation, and keeping our town crime free. Even though there’s a librarian on the loose, and our Sheriff has yet to catch the serial robber, our streets are super safe,” Flynn said. “I read a book this morning about how low crime rates are excellent for local economies. The book is ‘Lonesome Dove’ by Larry McMurtry, in case you’re interested.” “Look around you,” she continued, “no one here is being crimed upon, because we are protecting each other. We are watchful and observant.” “As my father once warned,” Tamika Flynn said, “beware the robot uprising! Beware the machines that will bring us down! That’s what he always told me before bed, and we must heed this words, Night Vale. At any moment, a great enemy could be upon us.” Tamika then said: “Hey, it’s after 12. Aren’t we supposed to start this pep rally? I’m in the middle of Greg Harvey’s literary masterpiece and winner of the Man Booker Price, ‘Microsoft Excel for Dummies’, so let’s make this quick. I’m really into that book,” she concluded.

But the crowd murmured, confused and agitated. The captain of the team was not there. And as they looked for the pep rally’s leader, the bearer of the basketball torch, my niece, my only niece – the stage began to shake, the earth began to split, and smoke and dust are currently filling the Night Vale armory in choking plumes. Oh my god, Night Vale, where’s Janice? Where is my niece?

Listen to today’s weather while I find out where she is.

[“Animal Skin” by Bryan Dunn]

The rest of the City Council has returned to Night Vale. They burrowed through the earth and up through the floor of the armory where the pep rally was being held. They apologized for the dramatic and destructive entrance, but their flight out was really turbulent and there was no meal service. So they thought they’d take the slower, but more comfortable route home. The multi-limbed, multi-voiced, single-bodied entity of the City Council was wearing a T-shirt that said: “Mitchigan – America’s sexiest forests”, featuring little cartoon tees with ribbed abs and bubble butts. The City Council then presented two people whose hands were bound with ropes, tied off tight with perfect bowline nuts. It was Tristan Cortez and his daughter, Camilla. The City Council said they found the Cortezes while rock climbing. According to the City Council, Camilla had devised an insurance scam, which Tristan set up by committing a series of small armed robberies around Night Vale, to make the robbery and the subsequent arson of their new store more believable. They stole two bodies from the old cemetery, which flooded last month, and laid those in the burned-out husk of their former market to fake their deaths. Camilla created a fake ID for a sister she didn’t have, named Tamilla, who lived in Mistrigen, where they planned to live out life bird watching and parasailing in the paradise of America’s most hand shaped state. The City Council laid out this entire plot, as they presented Sheriff Sam with the two fraudsters. Then the City Council turned to their newest member, Tamika Flynn and said, “We also completed the new city budget,” as they dropped a six-inch high stack of papers, like it was a mic at a poetry slam.

And even better, listeners: Janice finally arrived. We found her! After the City Council made their speech, the basketball team captain stepped to the mic and said she was running late today because she was practicing so hard to be a better passer, to have more assists, to be empirically the best team mate that the league record books have ever seen. But then, just this morning after a fight with her stepdad, she realized she was wrong. “You can’t measure leadership,” Janice said. “I’ve been so worried about that one number, that one datum that seems so selfless. But the act of pursuing that number is in itself selfish.” Janice said, “I can’t do this all on my own. I can’t expect everyone else to score thinking I’m being helpful. Each one of us has a different skill set, and as your captain, I want you to be great at scoring, defense, rebounding, whistling, and the occasional hex – the five pillars of sound basketball. So let’s get out there and beat Red Mesa!”

The crowd cheered and joined together to sing the Night Vale school song, “You Walk with Me, You Walk Alone under an Indifferent Dust-filled Sky”.

Tamika then spoke. She stood before her fellow citizens, her constituents, and said: “I want the best for all of us, I really do. I’m new at this, and the one thing I know how to do well, really well, is fight, and I want that for everyone. Also read, I’m awesome at reading. I want that for you too. Government jobs are weird because you can’t really fight a lot of crime. You mostly do paperwork and have meetings and scan retinas. Government is evasive and stupid and slow, and it’s because there are so many people it has to account for. And I realize it takes lots of time and lots of people to change. I just want this to change. I want us to feel safe. I also want to finish this amazing novel about Microsoft Excel, it is so compelling.”

At the behest of Tamika Flynn, the City Council voted unanimously to lift the town-wide curfew. And restaurants have already began to reopen, as well as theaters, public parks, clothing stores and bloodstone circle repair shops. Even the library has reopened with plans to renovate the security gates and triple barred cages that keep the librarians safely away from society. And with the return of library activities, escaped librarian Dan McDowell even returned to his former job, promising not to eat anyone else, unless they were trying to check out a book. The City Council also voted to keep all the city buildings painted blood red, because quote, “That’s intimidating AF.” And then they tried to vote to change the town motto to “Night Vale – Intimidating AF”. But it lost by a single deciding vote, which belonged to Tamika, who said we should pace ourselves. She then quoted Jean-Jacques Rousseau: “Patience is bitter, buts its fruit is mad sweet, like a swole grape.”

Sheriff Sam praised the City Council for capturing these criminals. Mayor Cardinal praised the City Council, too, but she added praise specifically for Tamika Flynn. Mayor Cardinal said, “I’m proud of you, Councilwoman Flynn. I did not agree with your tactics, but I think your heart is in the right place. It will take time, but we can do this.” Tamika accepted the Mayor’s kind words and a comforting embrace, and then returned to her office to finish her novel about spreadsheets.

Night Vale, Janice and Tamika are growing up before our eyes, and I couldn’t be prouder of either. But more importantly, I couldn’t be more excited to get out of the house! Carlos and I are headed straight to dinner at the Shallow Grave, and then going dancing at that new club, Numb, which opened up mere minutes after the curfew was lifted.

Stay tuned next to the sound of two men putting on just the most vicious outfits.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: We are all (an elite few) in this (a secret underground emergency bunker) together (on our own without public knowledge).

[trashyteendrama]

It Comes and Goes in Waves (It Always Does) | Jughead/Reader

Word count: 700

Summary: After you’ve read a draft of his story, Jughead notices something you’d hoped he wouldn’t.

Content/Trigger Warnings: self-injury/self-harm, depression

I think many of us, maybe the entire town, had been hoping against hope that somehow Jason Blossom hadn't drowned on July 4th. That we'd come to school Monday morning, and there Jason would be. Or that we'd see him and Cheryl in a booth at Pop's. But that was before the undeniable, irrevocable fact of his bloated, water-logged body, a corpse with a bullet hole in its forehead, and terrible secrets that could only be revealed by the cold, steel blade of a coroner's autopsy scalpel, or the telltale beating of a guilty heart.

“I love it,” you tell him.

Jughead’s sitting next to you, trying to look cool and calm, but you can feel him jiggling his legs under the table. He starts to smile, cautious. “Really?”

“Of course.” You close the lid of his laptop and listen to the gentle click of the two pieces fitting together. “I love everything you write, but this is… amazing. Real.”

He still looks like he doesn’t quite believe you, so you roll your eyes and kiss his cheek. “Yes, I’m telling the truth. Dummy.”

“You know, I don’t think insults are as reassuring as you think,” he says, but he’s grinning.

You count it a win and kiss him again, this time catching his lips. “Trust me.”

“I do,” he says, and a warmth infuses your bones. Then he squeezes your hip, and you suck in a breath as a few long seconds of jagged pain cut through your happiness. His hand freezes, and he looks down at where it’s still resting lightly on your hip. You grab it and pull it away, like he could see right through skin and denim if you don’t distract him quickly enough.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, smiling. You think you’re smiling. You can feel the muscles in your face straining to make a smile happen. “I just bruised myself on a table earlier.”

“A table, huh?”

“Yeah.” You pull your hand away from his and lay it on your lap.

He sighs. “We talked about this.”

You stare at your hands. If you look really closely, you can just see pale blue veins wandering in aimless paths under your skin.

“Look at me.”

You bring your gaze up as far as the edge of the booth’s table

“Please,” he says, and you’re not sure if you can handle looking at him right now, but you are sure you can’t handle refusing when he sounds so sad. He rests a hand against your cheek, gently guiding your head until you’re looking him in the eyes. “Did you hurt yourself?”

No. Yes. You’re hurting yourself right now, the fingers of your left hand curling so that your nails bite into your palm. He’s waiting quietly, watching your face, and at some point your muscles forgot they were supposed to be smiling. “Yeah,” you whisper.

“Come here,” he says, and you let him wrap his arms around you and pull you in close. You shut your eyes so you can focus on feeling the warmth of his hug instead of wondering what you look like to the rest of the diner. “Are you okay now?”

A giggle squeezes past your throat. Or maybe it’s a sob, or both. “I’m never okay.”

His thumb is rubbing little soothing circles against your back. “Are you taking your meds?”

“I am eighty percent pharmaceuticals,” you say.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” you say and focus on the motion of his breathing, steady against your body.

“Were you at least safe?” he asks, and the question jangles against the memory of a disposable razor slicing into your skin. A sarcastic voice inside you wants to answer: yes, honey, I was perfectly safe when I tried to rip myself open.

“I cleaned it,” you say instead, before reluctantly disentangling yourself from him. He lets you, but keeps an arm wrapped around your shoulders. “It won’t get infected.”

“You know I love you, right?” he asks, and somehow, it stings worse than the cut on your hip.

“Yeah,” you say, feeling your mouth struggle to smile again. “I love you, too.”

[the-tales-of-horror]

The patient with an empty diagnosis

Original Link By  manen_lyset

Last week, when I was taking a break in the middle of the graveyard shift at the hospital, one of the other nurses ran in looking rattled.

“Claire, I need you in room B,” he said, his face as white as the walls surrounding us.

I closed my book and craned my neck to peek into the ER. Being dragged off mid-break was nothing new, but it usually happened during an emergency, when all hands were needed on deck. This time, however, the ER was empty. There was one drunk sleeping it off across a row of benches, but aside from the sounds of his snores, everything was quiet. No one was prepping for the arrival of multiple casualties, either: if we’d gotten a call, there would already have been people lined up with gurneys by the door. Still, despite all appearances, Chris wouldn’t have come for me if it wasn’t important. I got up and headed out of the break room.

“What’s up, Chris?” I asked, as I followed him swiftly. If there was an emergency, every second counted.

Chris replied, “There’s a 40-something Caucasian male that came in. Seems in distress, but won’t let anyone near him.”

I raised a brow. “All right. Let’s have a look. Did the EMTs say anything about his condition?”

Chris shook his head. “He’s a walk-in. Came alone. Looked panicked, but wouldn’t say why,” he hesitated for a moment, “and there was something weird about the way he walked.”

I nodded. We didn’t always get great work-ups on patients, especially the walk-ins. With what little information Chris gave me, I could only assume the patient had hurt his leg or something like that. If I wanted to know what was going on, I’d have to examine him myself.

I entered Emergency Room B, and found the patient standing in the corner. He was tall –but not unnaturally so–, wore a fancy suit, polished black shoes, and white silk gloves. Every single button on his dress shirt had been done up. In fact, it looked uncomfortably tight. His collar pressed against his Adam’s apple so snugly I could only imagine it’d leave a mark. I could hear his strained, panicked breaths as he struggled to inhale through the constriction. Like many balding middle-aged men, his hair had gravitated to his chin, but I could still read the worry and terror through the bush hiding his tense facial features. His eyes darted side to side, like an antique cat clock.

If I had to guess based on his attire, my money would have been on a limo driver of some sort, but even then, the quality of his tailored suit seemed a few notches above their usual uniform.

“Hi sir. My name’s Claire, and this is Chris. We’re here to help you,” I said softly.

He twitched, but didn’t reply.

Chris whispered, “Hasn’t said a single word since he got here. Not one.”

I took a step forward, and saw the man’s jaw clenching in response. I lifted my hands non-threateningly and took another cautiously slow step.

“Listen, I’m here to help you, all right?”

My hand slowly slid down to my stethoscope. He watched me with almost impossibly dilated eyes, showing barely a sliver of his green irises. He must have been on some heavy drugs, I figured.

“Sir, I need to take your vitals. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

He continued to stare, but made no effort to escape as I bridged the distance between us. I pressed the chest piece against him, and slipped the earpieces on. I closed my eyes and listened, expecting to hear a thrashing heartbeat, but no heartbeat came. Instead, there was a constant, shallow, droning sound like the depths of the ocean, or the cosmic hum of solar radiation. I pulled my stethoscope back and touched it to my own chest to test it. It was working fine: I could hear the pitter-patter of my heart. Now almost as unnerved as Chris, I put the stethoscope back on our speechless patient. Still, all I heard was that same otherworldly noise.

Chris picked up the empty chart and looked at me. “Pulse?” he asked nervously.

I was torn between not scaring my patient, and giving Chris an honest reply. I hoped Chris would understand the subtle head shake I gave him. There was no reason for my patient not to have a heartbeat, though. He had to be alive: he was breathing, moving, and responding to what was happening around him. He was quiet, sure, but looked otherwise normal. Maybe the stethoscope couldn’t capture his heartbeat through the thick layers of his suit. I took a calming breath and reached my arm around back to try and slide it up his shirt. The man, however, stopped me. His arm swatted at mine, and though the impact was light and painless, the movement itself was enough to stop me in my tracks. I pulled away, sweat dripping from the sides of my face as I lifted my hands up again to show him I meant no harm. The way his arm had moved…it wasn’t normal. It was, in fact, distinctively abnormal.

I’m not sure how to describe it without making it sound stupid. But, you know those long, colorful, inflatable decorations outside of car dealerships? Those cylindrical men with goofy faces that flap around? As silly as this sounds, his arm movement reminded me of them. The way it bent, the ripple it sent through his clothes as he unravelled it, as though it were hollow inside…that’s the only imagery it evoked.

I wiped my brow and looked at the man. “All right. I’m sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to check your pulse.”

He shuddered. I could see that odd effect now again, this time, across his entire body. The way it moved wasn’t right. It was as though there was nothing but wind holding his suit in place.

I took a step back and grabbed Chris’ arm, pulling him out of the room for a one-on-one conversation.

“You said he was walking funny. What did you mean by that?” I asked, in a hushed and stressed tone.

Chris looked down. He didn’t seem to want to answer – he probably thought I wouldn’t believe him. “A flag on stilts.”

“What?”

“His legs,” he furrowed his brows, “they looked like flags on stilts. Or like those orange cone things at the airport. Look, I know it sounds crazy, but-”

“I believe you,” I replied.

I could feel his relief as he let out a sigh. “Should I call a doctor?”

“Yeah.”

Chris stumbled down the hall. I’m not sure whether his rush was to get help as quickly as possible, or to distance himself from the man inside Examination Room B. I couldn’t blame him if it was the latter. Even I wanted to get away, and I’d seen all manner of horrors come through my ER over the years.

I peered into the room, but when I did, the stranger’s face was inches from my own. I yelled and jumped back. He recoiled in terror, inching back to his place in the corner of the room, his body not so much moving as it was flapping. He fell into the fetal position and held his head between his trembling hands.

“I’m sorry! You just startled me,” I said, regaining my composure.

His head slowly lifted and his eyes focussed on mine. Though no sound came out, his lips moved, and I could have sworn they were wording out a plea for help. But, just as I was about to answer, the doctor stormed in.

“I hear we’ve got a problem case on our hands,” she said, with the lack of a bedside manner typical of veterans of the ER.

“Doctor Ulmar, there’s something wro-”

“Well, come now. Stand up,” she barked at the patient.

If waves could turn broken pieces of a beer bottle into smooth rocks, then the ER could do the opposite to the empathy of their staff. Especially when the doctor in question had been on duty for almost 48 hours.

The man stayed in place, clamming up now more than ever.

“I can’t examine you on the floor, sir,” Doctor Ulmar said dryly. “If you want treatment, you’re going to have to cooperate.”

I chewed at the insides of my cheeks. It wasn’t typically a nurse’s place to speak up against a doctor, but I had years of seniority under my belt. Still, I used my authority sparingly. It was imperative to maintain a ‘pleasant’ working environment.

“Doctor Ulmar, you’re scaring him.”

She let out an insulted huff. “Get him on the bed.”

I nodded and knelt down in front of the suited stranger. “We need to move you. I promise, we’ll make you all better, okay?”

He shook his head, lips quivering and eyes showing both desperation and nearly tangible fear.

“We won’t hurt you,” I whispered.

I could feel the doctor’s patience waning.

I held out my hand. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

He moved. Just barely, but I could tell he was about to reach for my hand and get up. It seemed, however, that doctor Ulmar had waited long enough. Without warning, she stomped over to us, grabbed his arm, and pulled.

I can’t tell you for sure how it went down. It all happened so fast. I know one of the buttons on his dress shirt came off: I found it later under the bed as I was clearing the room. I think doctor Ulmar tugged so hard it popped off, and his shirt opened just a crack. I heard the sound of a deflating balloon as I felt a rush of scorching hot air fizzle out of my patient. Then, his figure seemed to shrivel, and I heard something hit the floor. Doctor Ulmar let out an uncharacteristic scream as she stumbled back and looked at the scene. I, on the other hand, stared in shock at the pile of clothes laying in front of me.

There was a bulge in the middle of it. I reached for the suit and gently pulled it up like a used tablecloth. There, under the soft fabric, was his head, a length of spine dangling from it.

I don’t know if I screamed, or if the shock was so great that I went emotionally numb. I just remember looking at the now blank, lifeless head as it rocked back and forth to a stop. There was no blood, no smell, and no groans of agony. Just a perfectly –almost surgically– decapitated head, and an empty suit.

No ID was found on the man, no one showed up looking for him, and, without hands, it was impossible to run his prints. As far as I know, his head was sent to the coroner for an autopsy, where it has since either been preserved or disposed of. I’ll probably never know what happened to him, but based on the fear I saw in his eyes, I have a feeling whatever it was, it wasn’t intentional.

[reds-self-ships]

🔎 The Adventure of the Detection Club

Chapter 10: The Case of the Familiar Coroner

Table of Contents & Trigger Warnings

⚠ CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: Contains major spoilers for the ending of The Great Ace Attorney 2,—viewer discretion is severely advised unless you either know the ending or if you don't mind being spoiled. Warning for references to blood & gore made in passing.

“Er, Redford, are you coming?” asked Ryunosuke, standing outside the entrance to the coroner’s laboratory.

“Yeah. Just a second,” said Redford, furiously scribbling into his notebook.

Ryunosuke was ready to admit that, perhaps taking a crime fiction author with a habit for scribbling down notes to Scotland Yard, the headquarters of London’s Metropolitan Police, might not have been the best idea he’d ever had.

After the red-headed writer had taken more than his fill of descriptions of working police officers and layout of their offices and certain procedures, he joined Ryunosuke and Susato in descending down the staircase towards the coroner’s lab.

Ryunosuke gagged. “What’s that…awful smell?”

Susato sniffed the air. “It smells like formaldehyde. If I recall correctly from one of my father’s medical textbooks, it’s often used to sterilize medical tools before an operation. And it can also be used to preserve the human body to make sure that the body doesn’t decompose before its time.”

“So could it be used to stop aging? So I could stay 23 forever?” asked Ryunosuke.

“Well if you wanted to die in order to stop yourself aging, then yes, I suppose you could.” replied Redford. “The stuff, besides smelling as though it’s going to burn the inner hairs of your nostrils off, also happens to be very poisonous. The smell of it’s fine though, as long as the place is kept well ventilated or in a small amount.”

“Fair enough,” said Ryunosuke nasally as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

The three continued to descend down the stairs before pausing at the front door of Dr. Gulloyne’s office as they heard something.

“What’s that noise, Mr. Naruhodo?”

“It sounds like someone humming and mumbling to themselves, but it’s not a song I’d recognise.”

“It sounds familiar to me…” said Redford, picking up the tune himself. “It sounds like ‘Frère Jacques’.”

“Eh?”

“It’s a French song. It means ‘Brother John’ in English though.”

“Ah. That’s probably why I’ve never heard of it before. It was only last week that Kazuma and I learned what the label on a bottle of French sparkling water said.”

“Which was?”

“‘Sparkling Water – Product of France’ or as it said in French: ‘Eau pétillante - Produit de France’.”

“Your pronunciation is rather excellent, Ryunosuke.”

“Oh, er…th-thank you…Mr. Sholmes taught me the pronunciation…” Ryunosuke stuttered, his face turning so red that he was glad that there wasn’t much light down at this depth of the building.

“Wait a second! I think I know whose voice that is…” said Susato, hurriedly opening the door and entering the coroner’s office.

Redford and Ryunosuke followed quickly after as the voice continued singing quietly to themselves:

“Sonnez les matines Sonnez les matines Ding dang dong Ding dang…Oh! Hello Susato!”

Ryunosuke exclaimed: “P-Professor Mikotoba!”

Professor Yujin Mikotoba, dressed in his shirt sleeves and a clean white apron, stood over an examination table, wearing a pair of dark red rubber gloves that seemed to go all the way up towards his elbows.

“Oh hello…Mr. Naruhodo, wasn’t it? And I see you’ve brought a friend. Good afternoon, I am Dr. Yujin Mikotoba.” He bowed his head. “I would shake your hand but I’m currently scrubbed up at the moment.”

“Oh why thank you. My name’s Redford Ninate. I’m a writer, President of the Detection Club and, well, a murder suspect at the moment.”

“Ah, so you must be working Mr. Ninate’s case, Mr. Naruhodo?”

“That’s correct, Professor.”

“Well I happen to be working this case as well, but as the coroner, not the lawyer. Dr. Gulloyne is away at the moment and they managed to catch my boat before it left Calais for the Mediterranean to ask me to step in on her behalf.”

“Well Mr. Sholmes did say that the coroner working the case was one of the best in the world, father…” said Susato with a smile.

“Did he now? He always did try too hard to upsell me, especially in that matter involving ‘The Giant Rat of Sumatra’…”

“Sorry – ‘always did’?” asked Redford.

“Yes. I’m Sholmes’s old investigative partner. The real life ‘Dr. Wilson’ as it were, but that’s a far more complicated matter than I’d care to explain at present. Not for a while in the very least.”

Ryunosuke could tell from the way that Redford had his teeth gritted and the way that he had his fist wrapped around his pen that he was resisting the urge to ask a hundred thousand and one questions.

“You mentioned that you were the coroner working on this case, Father. But a police constable mentioned to Mr. Sholmes that the murder weapon was in your custody for the time being…?”

“Why yes, that’s right. That’s what I’m working on at the moment actually.”

Dr. Mikotoba stood to one side to show the yellowy-white skull sitting on his desk, a large dark red streak splattered across its surface from the unfortunate victim’s blood. Both Ryunosuke and Susato seemed rather taken-aback.

“So…this is…”

“Norman!” exclaimed Redford.

“Is that his name? To me, he looks more like a ‘Takumi’ more than a ‘Norman’.”

“Maybe that could be his full name. If or when I get out of this mess, I’ll need to propose that as a potential surname, doctor.”

“Well I’m glad to be of service in that regard,” said Professor Mikotoba with a smile. “As for a more professional opinion, I can confirm that this was used to inflict quite a few blows to the head of the victim. In fact I think in my entire time working as a trainee coroner-turned-amateur detective-turned-general practitioner-turned-biology professor-turned-professional coroner again that I’ve never seen a body quite…what's the English word for it again...?”

Professor Mikotoba tapped his feet in what appeared to be a small tap-dance routine before he flicked the top of his greying hair and pointed. “Mutilated! That’s the word. Mutilated. I’ve not seen a corpse as mutilated as this one before.”

“You’re telling me! When I saw a photograph that was taken of the crime scene, I truly thought I was going to die myself,” said Ryunosuke with a wince.

“I feel the same sometimes, but I find the smell of formaldehyde actually rather helps keep me focused. As does singing. I learned that song you heard me singing, ‘Frère Jacques’, from a French chap with a top hat, monocle and tuxedo on-board my boat last month. Horace Velmont, he said his name was. Rather annoyingly catchy, I must say…

“…By the way,” added the professor, “If you’re fighting for Mr. Ninate’s innocence in court tomorrow then I might have an ace for you to use up your sleeve. Well, two of them, actually.”

“Go on…” said Redford, notebook and pen already well-prepared in advance.

“The first is that the prosecution have requested my testimony tomorrow, in lieu of Detective Jones’s, you’ll be pleased to hear, seeing as I can tell already that you absolutely loath the man.”

“Wh-What?! How did you know that?” asked Ryunosuke.

“You mumbled ‘彼ではない…’ under your breath as soon as I mentioned his name. That means ‘Not him…’, by the way, Mr. Ninate. If you want I can write out the romaji form of it for you later on for your own records?”

“If you could, that would be appreciated, Dr. Mikotoba.”

“Happy to be of service. But yes, I’ll be testifying with regards to the autopsy report and the state that the victim’s body was found in. I unfortunately can’t say any more, because if the prosecutor found out I was talking to you like this alone he’d have me out of the country again before I could translate Mr. Ninate’s notes into Japanese and back again.”

“I see,” said Ryunosuke. “And what’s the second part?”

“The second is that I have a reason to believe that this skull, Takumi Norman-kun, it may not be the murder weapon that you or the police are looking for.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I’m not sure why I think that at the moment, so we’ll just call it a doctor’s intuition. But I am still yet to conduct the further tests required for me to be able to say that as a certainty. I’m sure I’ll have everything figured out in time for tomorrow morning though.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, Professor Mikotoba. But thank you very much for this information, I’m sure it’ll come in use at some point in court tomorrow.”

Professor Mikotoba bowed his head. “That is exactly what I’m here for, young Naruhodo. I’ll still be cheering you on though, don’t worry about that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must continue my work.”

“We’ll leave you to it then, father. But thank you very much for your assistance.”

“My pleasure, Susato. But just remember, it’s usually the most obvious facts that we end up missing at times. You should do well to remember that, the three of you.”

“Well Redford already has it written down, so I’m sure he can remember it for me if I forget it,” said Ryunosuke.

Professor Mikotoba smiled. “Alright, I shall see you in court tomorrow morning.”

——————————

As Susato had decided to stay behind for a moment, and Redford had decided to wander about asking more policemen more questions, Ryunosuke decided to wait for them in the lobby.

For a building such as Scotland Yard, it was a decidedly unimpressive lobby. A police constable on a high lectern-like desk continued to sift his way through paperwork. He was occasionally interrupted by police officers dragging in criminals to prepare them to be detained in a gaol cell or to meet with a prosecutor to discuss criminal charges.

Other than that, there were the occasional civilian visitors sitting in the lobby waiting their turn to make arrangements for bail or to visit those who had been remanded into police custody, or to provide evidence and statements to officers and detectives for all kinds of other cases.

As he read through the faded anti-crime slogans on the notice board, a young woman with short blonde hair walked in, wearing a long lilac-grey coloured dress and holding a thick leatherbound notebook underarm.

She approached the constable on the high lectern-desk and stood for a few moments, clearing her throat after the constable, too busy wondering whether it was an I or an E in the last part of “antidisestablishmentarianism,” failed to notice her.

“Oh, sorry miss. Er, can I take your name please for our visitor’s book?”

“Christina Agatha.”

“‘Christina Agatha’, lovely. Nice and easy enough one for me to spell.”

(It’s not my fault you can’t spell ‘Ryunosuke Naruhodo’ very well, constable—even though it’s spelt exactly as it sounds…Still…why does that name sound familiar to me…)

“Now then, Miss Agatha. How can I help you today?”

“I was wondering if it were possible to speak to Detective Athelney Jones about the Harris Thomas case?”

“I’d certainly say so—he shouldbe in his office at the moment, and his next meeting’s not for another while yet. Here, I’ll write you a visitor’s pass. Now where did I put that pen of mine…?”

After a minute or so, the constable had the lady’s pass written out and sent her on the way in the direction of the Criminal Investigations Department, Homicide Division. And after that, he didn’t really think much of the entire thing.

“Alright!” cried a Scottish voice. “Tha’s enough o’ that! Out with ye! Go on, git! Git!”

A particularly burly-looking Scottish detective practically threw Redford Ninate into the lobby. “But Detective Superintendent MacDonald—!”

“Ah dinnae care! Now git tha hell outta here befurr ah tayke ye intae custady!”

“Well next time I’m writing a police procedural, you certainly won’t get a good portrayal, you great big Scottish red-faced eegit.”

“Mr. Naruhodo, I think Redford has asked more than enough questions of the police for one day, don’t you agree?”

“Yes. I think now’d be a good time to get out—”

Before Ryunosuke could finish the rest of his sentence, D.S MacDonald threw Redford’s notebook in his face, as well as his pen, followed by a bottle of ink that he only just managed to catch, a wad of blank forms – much to the chagrin of the constable manning the desk – and a full mug of coffee that ended up decorating the wall beside the front door.

“Get out and stay out ya wee bawbag of a—!” roared MacDonald as Ryunosuke, Susato and Redford made their escape whilst the constable despaired over his misplaced paperwork.