decrepit buildings

Pinky Swear - Wonder Woman

Prompt: Can you do a Wonder Woman x reader where the reader is her daughter and just fluff and stuff. + Prompt for Wonder Woman could be her finding a gang of street kids and taking them under her wings!!

“I don’t know Clark, if Bruce believes it’s not a great idea, hear him out.” Diana said into her phone, heels clicking on the cracked and aging cement of the London sidewalk. This part of the city had definitely seen better days and it brought Diana sorrow to think back on a time when these boarded up houses and decrepit buildings had once been habitable many years ago.

“We don’t have time for a new plan Diana.” Clark sighed on the other end, thousands of miles across the ocean. Honestly, Diana had better things to be doing than mediating this pissing contest between the two most stubborn men she’s ever met. Sadly, even though she wasn’t a part of this mission she was still heavily invested in the results.

“Just talk to him Clark. Come to a compromise. We only get one shot at this to get this right.” Diana urged. Clark immediately started saying something else but Diana didn’t hear any of that. What she heard was a commotion coming from a nearby alley.

“Just leave me alone Johnny!” A young girl sobbed scrunching her eyes closed and turning her face away to face the brick wall of the alley.

“I’ve got to go, Clark.” Diana mentioned, not bothering to hear his response before hanging up.  

Before Diana could think she crossed the street and strode until she towers over the pre teen boy bothering this poor young girl. Diana’s form casted a shadow over the two children. The girl caught onto the change in lighting and stared up wide eyed at the statuesque Amazonian that appeared out of nowhere.

“What are you going to do? Run to your mommy?” He taunted and made a move to yank at the girl’s ponytail but before he could, Diana snatched his hand and lifted him effortlessly with one hand by the scruff of his neck, much like a misbehaving cub.

“Is this boy bothering you?” Diana asked the girl. She nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks with her tattered and dirty sleeve. Diana turned her gaze back to the boy and gave him a glare that would shake the gods themselves.

“You will leave this girl alone from now on. If I catch you bothering her again I will unleash the full wrath of the gods and will inform your parents of your behavior. Do we have an understanding, young man?” Diana asked. The boy nodded in agreement and Diana set him down. As soon as his feet were on the ground he took off running. When the boy was out of sight, Diana turned back to the girl and kneeled down so that she was at her level.

“Did he hurt you?” Diana asked, looking over the girl for any hint of injury.

“No. Johnny just likes to make fun of me.” She explained in a small voice.

“Where are your parents, little one?” Diana questioned. The girl looked down at her shoes that were dirt covered, three sizes too large, a littered with holes that exposed her small little toes.

“I don’t have any.” She replied, refusing to meet Diana’s gaze. Diana’s heart clenched for the girl. To be homeless in London at such a young age at the precipice of the winter season seemed a fate worse than death. She couldn’t just look away and let this continue to happen.

“Then it’s settled. You’ll come home with me. I’ll set you up with hot food, fresh clothes, a bath and a soft bed in no time.” Diana promised, holding her hand out to the girl in offering. The girl looked up to Diana with fresh tears brimming in her eyes before slipping her tiny hand into Diana’s palm.

 “You’re really nice.” The poor little girl commented in a small innocent voice. Diana smiled warmly down at the girl as she stood up straight and started walking hand in hand with the girl out of the alley and towards her warm, comfortable London flat.

“Little one, as long as I am breathing I swear to you on the gods you will never live another day on the streets.” Diana promised the girl. The girl stopping in her tracks in the middle of the sidewalk and held up her delicate curled pinky up to Diana.

“Do you pinky swear?” She asked. Diana chuckled at the girl’s sweet innocence but ultimately interlocked her pinky with the girl’s. It would seem a ‘pinky swear’ meant more to the child than any amount of promises to the gods.

“I pinky swear.” Diana affirmed. The girl nodded once and started leading Diana in the direction that they were previously walking, chatting a mile a minute and asking a thousand questions about her new home.

Batbro fic: He Who Laughs Last

Pairing: platonic JayDami
Rating: safe

The safehouse was one of Jason’s, meaning it was located in one of the neighborhood’s most decrepit buildings, and looked and smelled bad enough that even homeless squatters would think twice before using it as shelter for the night. But seeing as how it was the only one with two beds, Damian was just going to have to suck it up and deal unless he wanted to sleep on the floor somewhere else or go home and explain to Bruce just what had happened and why he was siding with Red Hood for this case.

Jason didn’t really care either way. He had bigger worries, such as making sure he woke up in a few hours to change the gauze that was currently working to stem the bleeding from the open wound on his side. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem, but he was fighting exhaustion from several days of no sleep.

Being a vigilante was hard work without an amazing butler to support you. Or hell, even a sidekick. If he were to be honest with himself, these last few weeks had left him feeling similar to the way he had when he believed Bruce was dead.

Not exactly a place he wanted to go to again.

Having Damian agree to help him out for this one was a lifesaver. Literally. Considering the state both of them were in, Jason figured he would probably be dead if the little snob hadn’t jumped in. Not that dying would be anything new or necessarily unwelcome to him at this point.

“You may have told me not to complain about the state of this place,” Damian said as he walked into the bedroom in a borrowed set of oversized sweats, “but that was easily the most disgusting shower I’ve ever had to suffer through. I feel dirtier than I was before.” He climbed into the second bed, flicking off the lightswitch that happened to be located right beside it. “If I die of syphallis because of that bath, I can assure you that I will haunt you until the end of your days after Father finishes dousing me in a Lazarus Pit.”

The laugh that escaped Jason’s throat was just a tad hysterical. Death really had no meaning to this kid. He came back from the dead, his grandfather refused to die, his mother was still around, Bruce defied death every day, and then there was himself. The one Robin who had been too reckless. Who had paid the ultimate price. Who was now sprawled out on the mattress opposite of Bruce’s son, worried about bleeding to death if he were to fall asleep in the night.

Jason managed to keep his laughter at a normal volume as he struggled to keep it on the right side of sanity. The world really was a fucked up place.

The light suddenly clicked back on.

“Are you crying?”

Jason’s sniffle was muffled by the arm he had thrown over his face, and he couldn’t help but marvel at how Damian had been able to pick up the subtle change in tone when his giggles had morphed into gasping sobs.

“No,” he denied. “Go to sleep already.”

The light remained on for a minute longer.

“You’re a freak.” With a click, the room was once more flooded in darkness.

A smile made its way across Jason’s face as he forced himself to take several calming breaths. Yeah, he was definitely glad the kid was around.

Tips are always appreciated <3

Begin Again: Chapter 3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 End
Word count: 2,373
Warnings: a couple of swear words, mention and brief description of a panic attack
(Tags at the end)


Bucky had been standing at the head of the bench press spotting Steve for the past twenty minutes, only half concentrating on his friend. Steve could handle dropping the weight on himself, probably. His mind was still reeling from the conversation he had had with you last night on the balcony. He had woken up at two in the morning and had ran into you in the kitchen when he got up to make himself some green tea to calm himself down.

He figured Sam had been exaggerating, but dammit the tea actually helped. 

Bucky knew that as much as you liked to talk, you also treasured your peace and so he hadn’t expected for your eyes to widen momentarily as you took in his panic-stricken form. You had been in the compound for … almost a month? And yet it was so easy to open up to you.

‘What are you thinking so hard about?’ Steve panted. 

Bucky blinked, losing his staring contest with the wall opposite. ‘Nothing,’ 

‘If you wanted to ask her out, she’d say yes.’

Bucky snapped out of his daze, looking down at his friend, but stayed calm. Steve was a dork but he was also observant, especially when it came to his teammates. Bucky wasn’t surprised that Steve picked up on his crush. 

‘I don’t think so,’ Bucky replied, abandoning Steve on the bench and hooking up a punching bag at the opposite end of the room. ‘She’s just being friendly.’

Steve smirked. ‘She doesn’t take the time to coax everyone back to sleep, Buck.’

Bucky blushed furiously. ‘How’d you know about that? And she doesn’t do it all the time, just happened like twice.’ 

‘Still, that’s more than enough.’

Bucky tried to suppress his broad smile. ‘You know she told me to screw Hydra,’ he chuckled.

‘What?’ Steve laughed breathlessly, resting the bar in place and sitting up.

‘No seriously, it was awesome,’ Bucky said. ‘I mean, I appreciate everyone’s patience but I think I needed to hear that.’

‘You’re only proving my point,’ Steve said knowingly. 

Bucky made a face and shook his head. ‘We’re friends, Steve, but I don’t think she’d want someone with so much baggage. Relationships are different.’

‘You’re just talking hypothetically,’ Steve argued. 

‘Steve, she -’ Bucky scowled. ‘She’s like the sun, y’know? She’s so good at everything I’m terrible at and she’s so smart and she’s gonna graduate from college and have this fancy high-tech job and fucking live this life that I can’t be a part of because I’m still trying to learn what the fuck this century even is!’

Steve surveyed his friend as he voiced all his thoughts that had been accumulating for the past few weeks; maybe longer, maybe since he had come out of cryo in Wakanda. It wasn’t news to Bucky that his experience under Hydra was an unfortunate, horrific chain of events that were never a result of his own doing, and although Bucky was still healing from his past he didn’t quite need to be comforted as much on the issue. It was that Bucky felt like he was falling behind; it was combination of his PTSD and his frustration with his PTSD, and the incredibly rational fear of his captors and the organisation they were part of. Bucky was just scared. 

‘I really like her but I like being her friend and I don’t … I don’t want to push my luck.’


After three weeks of living in the compound, the butterflies in your stomach were getting increasingly harder to ignore. Around you, Bucky completely eased into this charming, dorky, guy whose smile could reverse climate change and outshine the sun. 

The worst part was that there was a completely rational part of you that was content with being Bucky’s friend - not only that, but that part of you knew that it was the best thing for him. The man was only just starting to adjust to life here after seventy years spent as a weapon, two spent alone trying to salvage bits and pieces of himself to construct a new level of normalcy, and then ending up in the middle of a crisis resulting in being sent back into cryo. Bucky didn’t need a love life, he needed a friend (besides mum-friend Steve) and you were more than happy to fill in the blanks. 

And then there was the irrational, irritating part of you that wanted nothing more than for Bucky to grab you and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. You wanted everything you had with him now - the times when you taught him basic mechanics, binge-watching Parks and Recreation after everyone had gone to sleep, midnight pizzas, and drag races (him in one of Stark’s flashy cars, you on your first born child-slash-motorcycle) … You just wanted to kiss him while you did all of that. 

And of course there was the one most poignant worst moment of your life where you and Bucky were driving together just to get some time away from the bustle of the compound; the sun was setting, highlighting the sky with brilliant fiery oranges and golden hues and the light kissed his skin and made his eyes glow like stars or water when the moonlight hit it just right. There was a comfortable silence in the car, save for the music coming from your phone which you had plugged into the speaker system. You were passing through the older, more crooked part of Brooklyn when Bucky knitted his eyebrows and said -

‘I think I used to live here.’

You turned in the passenger’s seat to face him. ‘Really? How can you tell?’

Bucky turned the car back around, circling around the block. ‘There’s gotta be a street sign somewhere,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Yeah, look!’

Bucky ended up parking the car on the pavement. You both got out and he lead you down between two decrepit apartment buildings; the fire escapes were rusting, black paint chipped, and the brickwork was starting to crumble. Still, with the way the setting sun was hitting the buildings and casting long shadows from the window panes across the walls, it was picturesque. 

Bucky made a point of walking next to you, so close that your arms brushed together. He had his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket.

‘It used to be kinda sketchy,’ he admitted by means of explanation. ‘But Steve and I lived close to each other and there was this lady who lived with her niece next door and they were always real nice to us. Steve and I used to babysit her niece in the summer while she was at work …’

You smiled at him as he spoke endlessly about his days here. It was the first time he had told you memories of his past before Bucharest, before Hydra, before that period of time where his lifeline knotted and frayed and unraveled. You knew that Steve must have been aiding Bucky in regaining his memories and that there was a time where Bucky held no emotion for the things that he remembered while he tried to place himself back in some sort of timeline, but right here you sensed that Bucky knew he had reasons to be happy. It was all you could ever really ask for, all you realised you wanted for him.

Bucky broke off his sentence, looking at you and realising you had been staring at him. ‘And, yeah, that’s - that’s how we …’

You smirked at his blush and looked away. 

‘What?’ Bucky ducked his head down, smiling nervously, that animated glint still prevalent in his eyes.

You shook your head lightly unable to stifle your smile. ‘Your Brooklyn accent was getting really strong there.’

Living in the compound also meant picking up on the habits of your housemates, meaning you soon found that your window of solidarity rested between one and five o’clock in the morning. No one slept before eleven; people would start to wake at five; no one slept after nine a.m. (except Wanda who, like you, appreciated the art of sleeping until the sun was high in the sky sometimes. You really liked Wanda); Between eleven at night and one in the morning, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky would be playing video games and binge-eating. You loved the team but you also loved being alone sometimes. 

Which was why you were surprised to see Steve in the kitchen at two in the morning. If not asleep, he should have been in the gym.

‘Shouldn’t you be beating the living sand out of a punching bag, Cap?’ you asked as you dug around in the fridge looking for last night’s leftovers. You’d be damned if Sam got to the vegetable lo mein before you did.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he replied. 

‘How’d you know I’d be awake?’

‘FRIDAY monitors our activity,’ said Steve smiling somewhat tauntingly; his arms were folded over his chest. ‘I figured a genius such as yourself would know that over a hundred year old man.’

You rolled your eyes. ‘What do you want, Steve?’

‘What’s going on between you and Bucky?’

You choked on the mouthful of noodles, eyes streaming as you took several sips of water to calm yourself down. 

‘What?’ you coughed.

Steve seemed completely unphased by your shock. He didn’t say anything. 

‘Me … Bucky and I - no, there’s nothing,’ you said trying to sound calm.

Steve stayed quiet.

‘I’m serious,’ you emphasised. 

Steve blinked. 

You scoffed. ‘I think Barnes is a little too old for me, Cap, no thanks. We’re just friends, I’m catching him up on something called the twenty-first century, mother, so - I don’t think so.’

There was another beat of silence where your heartbeat pounded in your ears and blood crept up your neck, a blush colouring your cheeks.

Steve quirked an eyebrow and smiled. ‘He’s the same way.’

You paused. ‘What?’

‘He likes you.’

You shook your head and smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I know that relationships work a little differently now but you’re reading too much into this, Cap. Bucky and I are friends.’

‘I haven’t seen him like this - ever,’ Steve added. ‘Even when we were in high school, Bucky was never this carefree.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Steve,’ you said firmly. ‘I don’t even like him, I have the emotional range of a grape.’

‘That’s not true.’ The bastard didn’t even acknowledge your grape comment. 

‘Steve, I’m not some saving grace that’s gonna get Bucky out of whatever pit he’s in.’

‘That’s the point though, that’s why he likes you,’ Steve implored. ‘Bucky’s been through hell and all he wants is to move on from that. Stark and Natasha thought it best to throw him into missions to get his mind focused but you’re grounding him. I don’t wanna sound dramatic -’

‘You are dramatic, Captain I-Don’t-Need-A-Parachute,’ you grumbled.

‘But you’re basically giving Bucky a reason to be happy here.’

‘Anyone who makes that guy a new arm would,’ you muttered. ‘And that doesn’t mean that he feels anything for me.’

‘You don’t see the way he looks at you,’ Steve argued, ‘and he’s too shy to say anything.’

You stared at him, speechless, with your arms folded, your snack abandoned on the kitchen counter. How does he look at me? The question was on the tip of your tongue but …

‘Bucky’s nice and all, Steve, but I don’t think he’s interested,’ you mumbled. ‘Now,’ you cleared your throat, ‘if you aren’t going to damage Tony’s gym equipment, then I will.’ 

On your way out, you passed through the dead silent corridor, pausing when you noticed that Bucky’s door was ajar. Approaching cautiously, with a stealth Natasha would be proud of, you peered through the gap.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of his bed hunched forward with his head in his hands breathing raggedly; Natasha was sitting next to him, close but not touching. You could hear her murmuring words you couldn’t understand - she was speaking in Russian. You remembered Natasha once saying that she wanted to give Bucky some positive affiliation with fragments of his past, including the language of Bucky’s days as the Winter Soldier.

Bucky was rubbing his hand harshly over his heart.His eyes were screwed shut.

Natasha must have sensed you were there because she looked up and beckoned you closer; as if pulled by an invisible string, you complied and sat by Bucky’s left side.

‘Barnes, you okay?’ you breathed, brow creasing when he nodded without looking up.

‘Breathe through your nose,’ you said in the same tone. ‘Nice and slow.’ You did the motions with him. ‘In … and out …’

Bucky repeated your instructions and you could tell by the gradual ease in his shoulders that his breathing was starting to regulate.

‘What happened?’ you murmured to Natasha.

She bit her lip. ‘Panic attack,’ she replied almost silently.

You looked briefly around you, eyes falling on a glass of water, full to the brim.

‘Is this …?’

‘Yeah,’ Nat replied. ‘I’ll leave you guys alone.’

You knelt down in front of him, one hand cupping the back of his neck and rubbing it gently with your thumb, and the other squeezing his knee. Keeping one hand on his neck, you brought the other to his chin, prompting him to look at you. His eyes were circled with darkening shadows and were streaming with fatigue. You smiled softly at him, brushing the hair at the nape of his neck soothingly.

‘I-it was -’

‘You’re fine,’ you hushed. ‘Breathe now, tell me later, yeah? We’ve got all the time in the world,’ you smirked gently.

It was like clockwork the way you were with him.

‘C’mon,’ you prompted, handing him the glass. ‘Small sips.’

You could feel another set of eyes boring into you and you shifted your eyes past Bucky’s figure and saw Steve watching you with a raised brow and a knowing smirk - past the despondency he felt for his friend - and then retreating to his room.

You ignored him, pushing his words to the back of your mind. You didn’t need his assumptions that Bucky felt anything non-platonic towards you; right now you just wanted Bucky to get his breathing back to normal and get some sleep.



Tags: @lauraonly @mytastereckless @hedakylo @wefracturedmotivation @eternal-queen @dontfuckwithkezolas @mrs-brxghtside @blackdemonseriexx

The Perfect Gift

In which Oswald makes a gift for Edward.

Based on events in Gotham s03ep01.

Obligatory notice that this is fan-made fiction for a franchise owned by DC and Warner Brothers, and created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger.

***

“It’s perfect.”

Nimble, delicate fingers idly stroke the ball of yarn. Alpaca/merino blend, the tag reads. Butter-soft to the touch, and it seems as though it would be light yet warm. He knows how cold and drafty the ancient facility gets at night.

Oswald picks up two of the skeins and holds them out to his henchman, who’s currently flipping through the pattern leaflets. “Which color do you think would look best? Deep Emerald or Viridian Forest?”

(Edward loves the color green.)

Butch looks up from the leaflet and shrugs. “They look the same to me.”

Oswald huffs. “They are not the same. Hello? These are clearly two different shades.”

Butch takes the scolding in stride as Oswald rolls his eyes and explains, in the tone one would use when explaining to a not particularly bright toddler that water is wet, that Deep Emerald is indeed a totally different shade of green than Viridian Forest. He tosses the leaflet on a table – they might as well be written in freakin’ hieroglyphics for all he knows. Fish Mooney and her merry band of mutant misfits were probably planning who knows what, and his boss is here, in a fancy boutique in the fancy part of Gotham, looking at fancy yarn.

“I should have brought Barbara instead.” Oswald turns back to the shelves to once more ponder the various brands of yarn, a rainbow of color neatly laid out in hanks, balls, and skeins.

“Mr. Peng–I mean, Cobblepot? I don’t mean to intrude, but what are you making?”

The proprietor of the shop is a kindly, silver-haired woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a lace shawl. The six other women in the shop, housewives attending a meeting of their knitting and book club, had frozen when they saw him walk into the shop, dropping projects and stitches, mouths agape. “It’s the Penguin,” they whisper. “What is he doing here?”

While he certainly enjoys the fear that his reputation inspires in people, today at least, he’s just another customer. Butch, standing behind him with a basket in hand, is fidgeting and looking at his watch, but business can wait just a little longer.

“Please, Penguin is fine.” He smiles, genuinely, and shakes her hand – he always had a soft spot for old ladies. “And it’s a sweater – my friend’s new place gets a bit chilly in the evenings. You know these decrepit old buildings.”

“May I suggest the DK weight in our cashmere merino blend, then?” she says, leading him to a shelf across the room. “It’s going to be a long, cold winter, you know. And we just got a new stock of superwash…”

Ten minutes of agonizing (and arguing with Butch over the essentials of color theory and fiber content) later, Oswald walks out of the shop, Butch carrying ten hanks of yarn in New England Spruce, two pairs of hand-carved rosewood knitting needles, and an invitation from the shop owner to come in any time for knitting classes or personal assistance, and a few pattern leaflets.

(Edward would surely appreciate the intricacy of the braided cables.)

“And Butch? I expect them all wound into balls within an hour.”

Butch just sighs and mutters “yes, boss.” This isn’t exactly the sort of thing covered in his job description.

***

Edward pulls on the sweater. He takes a long appraising look at himself, smooths it over his lean waist, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric and the raised texture of the artfully worked cables under his fingers. He shows off a little, twirling around and posing arms akimbo so Oswald can see his work from all angles.

“Did you get the biscuits I sent earlier? I know from experience, the food here is horrid.”

“I did. So, where’d you learn to knit?”

(Edward doesn’t tell Oswald about the “sweater curse.” He’s not one to believe in such superstitions.)

“Arkham,” Oswald says, giving his friend a minute smile and an apologetic tilt of his head. “Professor Strange instituted a new ‘art therapy’ program. Can you imagine? Letting lunatics have pointed sticks.”

Edward chuckles. “Oh, they don’t have that anymore. They cancelled it when someone got a knitting needle through the eye socket during an argument over a carton of cigarettes. But – I managed to make this.”

With the grace of a magician performing a handkerchief trick, Edward pulls a tiny crocheted penguin from the pocket of his striped uniform and presses it into Oswald’s hands.

Usually so eloquent, Oswald can only stammer. “Thank you so much. I don’t know how I could possibly repay you for everything you’ve done.”

(About a month later, the power supply at Arkham would go out, leaving the security systems disabled for about an hour before the backup generators could kick in. Edward would take advantage of the darkness and ensuing chaos to slip through the delivery and supply entrance, which had mysteriously been left unlocked, where one of Oswald’s men would introduce himself as Butch Gilzean and usher him into a waiting van.)

The allotted time for visits is almost up. Edward takes off the sweater and busies himself with folding it, laying it neatly inside the box.

(Neither of them are good at goodbyes.)

“I apologize in advance, if the sweater isn’t to your liking –”

Before Oswald could say anything else, Edward smiles, reaches across the table and gives Oswald’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s perfect.”

Okay so I live in a historic building that used to be the office building of a Mental Hospital and it’s right next to a bunch of decrepit abandoned buildings that used to be a part of the complex and there’s also an old police building. A friend and I went exploring in one of them last night, but we didn’t stick around for more than an hour because we weren’t properly equipped for urban exploration since we’d gone out there on a whim and who knows what kind of shit we were breathing in while we were there. But, we plan to go back with actual flashlights and gas masks and not shorts and also some throwaway shoes (my converse have so many tiny glass shards embedded into the soles now because the floor was covered with the remnants of shattered light bulbs I’m gonna have to give them a nice scrub somewhere that’s not my room.) It was pretty sweet. I got some pictures of the outside. None on the inside, though, because it was pitch dark and I needed my phone for a flashlight.

Choose Your Illusion: Psychotropic Fungi Spores, Visions, Hauntings, and Ghosts

Could psychotropic mold spores lurking in decrepit old buildings be the root cause of ghost sightings? In this story from The Daily Mail, science, mycology, magic, and myth collide in a bubbling cauldron of epic proportions, and I couldn’t be more excited! As if I need any more convincing that fungi are the masked & cloaked puppeteers pulling the strings of human history, researchers from Clarkson University are implicating the inhalation of toxic mold as a probable cause for visions, hallucinations, hauntings, and paranormal activity in some of New York’s most notorious haunted houses. 

Researchers will be measuring air quality in several purportedly haunted locales across New York State, in order to deduce if there is a correlation between the airborn mold spores and brain inflammation. They will be comparing samples taken from several buildings where ghost sightings have been reported with samples taken from ho-hum homesteads with nary a ghost in sight, to see if there is a difference in the types of fungi between those two locales. “Experiences reported in many hauntings are similar to mental or neurological symptoms reported by individuals exposed to toxic molds,” said Professor Shane Rogers of Clarkson University in Potsdam, New York. “Psychoactive effects of some fungi are well-known, whereas the effects of others such as indoor molds are less researched. Although allergy and asthma symptoms and other physiological effects are well established, there has long been controversy over the effects of indoor mold exposure on cognitive and other functioning of the brain. Reports of psychiatric symptoms including mood swings, hyperactivity, and irrational anger, as well as cognitive impairment are prevalent among those exposed to molds.”

No stranger to the far-reaching, miasmic, and often nebulous symptoms of brain inflammation, I can testify to the pervasive power of the altered states one can sink into under the right duress. According to the article, preliminary laboratory research on this subject is emerging that “supports brain inflammation and memory loss in mice exposed to Stachybotrys charatarum, a common indoor air mold, as well as increased anxiety and fear.” Coupled with the subconscious suggestibility that permeates one’s experience in an infamously supernatural locale, we have an environment rife with illusory impressionability for spectral enchantment.

A friend of mine was reflecting on the widespread co-opting of mystical experience by the scientific community, and wondered aloud if it is truly wise and prudent to dismiss something that may be magical as a construct of scientific phenomena. “Too much reality ruins the new eyes of a child,” they ruminated. While I agree, I also believe that fungi and science are inherently magical, and the more mycology I study, the more slackjawed, wide eyed, and agape with magic that I am. Where science and magic intersect is where Botanarchy dwells, and it is in this liminal slipstream where I prefer to hang my hat.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-3022735/Seen-ghost-inhaled-toxic-mould-Poor-air-quality-old-buildings-lead-haunting-hallucinations.html#ixzz3Xyml2laT

Hoodie!Verse

Fandom: One Punch Man

Pairing: None

Author: Writers_Writers

Status: Complete

Word count: 2,526

Summary:  Monster punching has began to get tedious to 14 year-old, homeless, and orphaned Saitama, and when he starts feeling everything that he’s bottled up over the last three years, a stranger offers a helping hand.

A little fic I wrote for the wonderful @linesporadic.

On Ao3 or under the cut.

Keep reading

Another Round - closed.

@dxrkofthewest

Kestrel was in the Starlight Drive In, attempting some much needed downtime, when the first reports of possible new Institute activity came in. After two couriers and a solid two days of hoofing it across the Commonwealth, the news and a detailed report from the Castle finally reached Kestrel’s numbed fingers. The General’s initial response was a somber, longing stare into the bottom of her whisky glass. It seemed this chapter wasn’t over, after all.

There was no real discussion on how to approach this new information, and Preston should have known better than to just send her every piece of information she needed—especially if he didn’t want her to investigate this on her own. A neatly written letter describing such a lack in judgment was passed back to the courier, and Kestrel moved out from the Drive In that evening.
’ I’m not entirely alone ’ she had written very stylishly on the old paper ’ Dogmeat will be coming too. Do nothing until you hear from me. ’

The area that had been isolated as the source of the activity was just a day or so jaunt to the East, and it didn’t even take Kestrel that long to cover the distance. The whole thing left a terrible taste in her mouth. If there was a relay ahead, there was a chance there would be another installation of Institute personnel. Of course, it could be just something left behind, but why hadn’t they discovered it sooner?

The map that reflected back at her from inside the helm of her power armor showed her she was in the right area. A thin eyebrow raised as she stared around the decrepit, scattered buildings that groaned under their own weight. Nothing stood out to her immediately, and her scanners never picked up anything unusual, which frustrated her more than anything.

“Dogmeat,” Kestrel nodded towards a side road as she caught eyes with her faithful companion. “You know the drill buddy, make noise if you find anything.”

The two went their separate ways, and Kestrel considered ditching the power armor. She never did upgrade it with stealth capabilities, and in a place like this she could use that edge. Then again, if something were to drop on her from thin air, being sheltered inside layers of plated steel was a definite benefit to her future health.

Shirts [ Mercy76 ]

This is another Mercy76 though it’s a bit mild as compared to the rest. You can almost see some Mercy/McCree in it too as well as DVa/Junkrat and Ana/Reinhardt. 

Anyway, it’s complete trash. 

And, with any luck, I’ll get you. Get you all soooooo good. Please let me know if you didn’t see it coming. I have to know. xP


And sorry about not posting in Secrets. I had every intention to but… well, something happened this weekend. I had an allergic reaction and stopped breathing. Spend a good chunk of time in a hospital. I’m okay now. Waiting to get food/drug tested for allergies to make sure I never need another epipen to bring me back. It was a scary experience. And, funny story, I wrote this BEFORE the whole thing (wrote this on Friday). Didn’t post it Friday. Wanted to reread before it and… well, yeah. I like the irony. You’ll see what I’m talking about. Kinda.

Anyway, as per the norm, this is cheesy and stupid. Complete trash.

Secrets will continue… just… not right now. Need to get back up to speed. Still not at 100% but I suppose that’s to be expected when you… well, do what I did.

Thanks for your support and patience. Secrets will get an update soon!



It should have been just like any other day. The routine, get in, take out the hostiles, get out.

Should.

Today was different though. There was something off about these marks. They were smarter, more equipped. Perhaps they actually researched their enemy and became familiar with weaknesses, blind spots. They worked as a team, rather than a bunch of lone wolves. Movement was fluid, with a purpose. Whatever they fought to protect, it had to be something of the utmost importance. These men were at the top of their game, something the reborn Overwatch hadn’t seen a lot of lately.

“Tracer here,” her voice chirped over the headset that wrapped around the task forces’ ears. “Things are lookin’ bloody ugly. Could really use so-GET DOWN!”

An explosion rumbled off in the distance, about a mile or two from where one of the groups stood with guns prepped.

“Treefrogs, pull back,” Genji insisted. “We’ll circle around and flank them. Keep to the shadows.”

He was the squad leader for this group-Mercy, Jesse, Hanzo, and Zenyetta. They were the small group, the group that was supposed to keep back and keep low. They were the ‘when shit hits the fans, save us’ group.

Without question, all fell in line behind the robotic ninja, knowing full-well that their silence was what had gotten them this far. With Tracer and the rest taking all the heavy fire, getting around enemy lines was easy as pie.

As requested, they kept to the shadows, though Mercy’s glowing Valkyrie suit sure had its weaknesses. Since they didn’t want to call unwarranted attention on their flanking, she and Jesse pulled off the rest of the group. McCree said it himself, he could handle his way through a situation, should one arise.

Thankfully, their route, though far less direct, proved to be quite safe.

Regrouping with the rest of the Treefrog Team, McCree and Mercy fell right back in line. Marching down a completely open road. If any snipers were privy to, say their location, they would all be done for.

“Seems… quiet.” McCree’s lips wrapped around the cigar in his mouth. “Not sure I like the feel of this.”

“Silence,” Hanzo hushed. Genji was quick to agree with his brother.

Forward they went. But Jesse, he kept back.

“Whoa,” his hand flew forward, gliding Mercy back just a few paces behind the others. “I don’t like that we’re coming in blind.”

Her brow hitched. Genji and Hanzo were more than capable. Zenyatta was there too, scanning every edge of the building for movement. If someone did lurk on the upper floors of the abandoned apartments, one of them would call it.

“Just… just not feelin right,” he stated again.

Brows falling forward, she cast the cowboy a scowl. Didn’t feel right? They weren’t under fire. How could it not feel right? They were safe while, a good half-mile ahead of them, sat their friends. Bullets spraying and bombs making craters in the earth.

And McCree was insiting that it didn’t feel right.

Was he mad? Or did he just like getting shot a-

“SNIPER!”

Before her mind could process what was going on, the rough brick was tearing into her skin, her suit. Eyes wide, they panned toward Jesse, who’s back was flat against the wall she made impact with. His pistol was out but it was in the opposite hand. Examining further, the rush of red entered her view. He’d been hit! Hit saving her, the easy, obvious target.

“Jesse,” her hand fumbled for the staff. It was time she do what she was best at.

“No,” his head swiveled back. “We’ll hold this line. You need to get to the others.”

Zenyatta, across the way, nodded. “I will ensure tranquility. You are needed elsewhere, Ms. Ziegler.”

No part of her wanted to run. Run away from her friends who were now under suppression fire. Friends that couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but either 1) wait for the enemy guns to run dry or 2) find themselves littered with a million holes because the goddamn decrepit buildings made piss-pour shelter.

“Go,” Hazno’s arrow passed just inches from her face.

“But they ha-” she couldn’t leave them. Genji’s leg was laced with holes. McCree’s arm had a through-and-through. Hanzo’s brow wore a nice, thick cut-likely from when he rolled off the main road and straight into debris.

A voice spoke through static across their earpieces.

“Lucio’s been hit. Ana’s under suppression fire.” It was DVa.

“Where the hell is our backup.” That was 76.

“Keep holding,” Tracer tried to keep them fighting but even her voice was failing to hide the intensity and severity of the situation. They walked right into a trap. An ambush. Whoever was behind this clearly wanted to make Overwatch suffer.

Grunting, Mercy turned on her heals. “Cover me.”

Bolting from behind what little cover she had, the blonde held her breath.

Feet colliding with the rough soil beneath her, she pushed. The dull sound of bullets engaging bullets waged on around her. As soon as little red dots fell onto her pure white suit, they would fall off. Or rather, jump, twitch, and then clatter every which way. Seconds later, a body would crash off to her right, left, or front.

They guys were 100% on point today.

Wait a minute… She was the bait. They weren’t telling her to rush forward to help the others. They turned her into a moving target!

Hand snaking up to her earpiece, she smirked. “I’m beginning to feel a lot like a worm out here.”

“You were the one that mentioned fishing,” Jesse quipped. “Thought you’d be on board.”

In less than a minute, Treefrog was regrouping. All the enemies were neutralized.

“Ballsy move,” she admitted while holding up a clenched fist, signalling the group to stop. “Looks like we’re just a building over. Can see Rein’s shield from here.”

The brothers glanced at each other. Heads nodding, they broke off.

“There,” Jesse’s finger pointed forward. Behind a busted up dumper sat a panting Tracer, a bleeding Lucio, a flightless Pharah, and an exhausted Roadhog. They were doing what they could to keep the others-on the other side also behind a dumpster-from taking the brunt of the attack.

“It’s time,” Jesse smirked.

“Really?” Her eyes glanced up at the sun. Sure enough, it was high in the sky.

“Would be a real shame i-”

“Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!”

Head snapping toward the howl of a wolf, he caught the massive might of the archer. His attack making the perfect opening for Mercy.

“Maybe next time,” she teased before running forward. The look of sheer annoyance on Jesse’s face still causing a smile to crawl up on her face.

With each passing step, she drew closer and closer to the group. The sound of gunfire seemed to shift, too. It was no longer coming strictly from the left, from the enemies. Finally, Overwatch had a chance to hit back. And hit back hard they did. Hazno was always on point. Always perfect. Alw-

Click.

Her face drained of all its color.

Hand trembling, a timer began in her head. To steady her nerves, she clasped her hands together before her head turned toward the blue sky above.

Please have mercy on m-

BOOOOOOSH!

A blinding light, the deafening silence, and the fire of a thousand suns consumed her.

Body flying forward, all consciousness was lost.

THUD!

All eyes fell on her limp, burning body that landed a few feet behind Tracer and crew.

Lip curling up to reveal a snarl, a pistol turned to the blinding ball of yellow high within the sky. A faceless man with a red tactical visor stepped out into the open, gun locked on the enemy. Explosive flying into the pile of enemies, the brunette clad in yellow shouted. Thrusters forward, a mecha suit flew into enemy fire as the pilot ejected herself. Black fur turning red, his feral arms pounded against his chest. Transforming into a tank, he charged forward. Despite broken wings, she took to the sky to send out a barrage of rockets.

Had her ears not lost their ability to hear, she would have been able to smile.

Coordinated, precise attacks. Each fueled by raw emotions, by fear. They unleashed hell on those poor unsuspecting men. On the desolate, ghost town.

But she heard none of that. The only thing she could hear-assuming she hadn’t lost her wits-was the faint beeping nose that told her she was losing blood. That her suit had sustained critical injuries. That if immediate medical attention wasn’t received, she wouldn’t get to be Mercy anymore. That she could finally join her beloved. Her family.

Pulsing her eyes open, her burned hand rose up. Jesse’s face was the first she saw.

He was right. This didn’t feel right.

Body limp, her hand fell back down against the soiled red dirt.

They were talking to her, but she couldn’t hear a damn thing.

Then she went cold. Her breathing stopped. Her lips fell blue. Her eyes rolled back. Her heart stopped.

Ana. Lucio. Zenyatta. Pulling together, they injected her body with as much as they could.

“Get the Caduceus Staff,” Ana choked. She knew she had no right to use this as it was Mercy’s pride and joy, but right now they needed to get their golden haired angel back.

Blood. There was so much blood. And it spread with each footstep. It coated Jesse’s face, his hands, his boots. But he didn’t care. He’d been with Merc since the beginning; he could do this. Not like anyone else would.

A beam of golden light flickered and danced over her body. It seeped into the wounds, her veins, her core.

The light intensified until none could look at her, not even the visor-wearing 76, though he was nowhere to be found. He, DVa, and Junkrat made it their personal mission to ensure all threats were eliminated. If a single heartbeat echoed in the distance, they would find it. Execute it. And ensure revenge was met on behalf of their fallen angel.

Finally, with the light fading, Tracer stepped forward. Her goggles were fogged up, likely from crying. “Hey,” her quivering hand found its place right alongside Angela’s cheekbone.

“Hey,” her raspy voice caused those nearby to choke.

She was alive. Weak. Faint. But alive.

Head light and body feeling fuzzy (too much of that stuff can make you feel a little funny!), she slowly rolled up to a seated position. Her heart was racing due to all the adrenaline.

“How you feeling, love?”

“Like I just had 20 cups of coffee,” her lips curled up into a coy smile. “Did you guys use my stuff and your own medical apparatus.”

“We would never,” Lucio winced but forced a smile. “We know that mixing drugs is bad.”

Ana nodded before shaking her head. “We are all licensed professionals after all.”

“Uh-huh,” Mercy glanced down at her jittery hands. They definitely used everything on her. “Mind if I see your diploma,” she teased.

With a friendly hand, Jesse’s, she stood up. “Where are the others?” She kept herself upright thanks to Jesse’s inability to let go. He rested a tender hand across his heart before giving him a weak smile.

“You sure you’re feeling okay?” Jesse’s concern was sweet, but misplaced.

“Oh trust me, I won’t be dying any time soon. Probably just added 20 more years onto my life right there.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Which means I need to come up with something to keep me from aging another 20 more years.”

“Knew it,” Ana turned to Reinhardt. “She’s holding out on us. Has some special formula that keeps her flawless.”

“Mom,” Pharah groaned. “I hardly think we should be joking after what just happened.”

Mercy laughed before her face fell grim. “She’s right. We need to figure out what they were doing here.”

“And who they were.” Hanzo added.

Genji stepped up with something in his hands. “I think I know who the they is.” Turning the item around, he revealed an all too familiar symbol.

“M-Morrison?”

Brows furrowing, all eyes fell on Tracer. The hell was she talking about? That was clearly Blackwatch, the Black Ops division of the former Overwatch.

“W-why does your shirt say Morrison?” Tracer’s hand wrapped up and around her shoulders, allowing her to point to her own back. “Morrison.”

Brow hitched, Jesse stepped back. Mercy was looking loads better and no longer needed to use him as a support beam. Moving his head back, he spied her back. Sure enough, beneath the suit that needed some serious repairs sat a perfectly in tact black Overwatch issued shirt. And, across the back in big, white letters 'MORRISON.’

76, DVa, and Junkrat returned. “Fear not, the area is clear for miles and miles. How ya feelin, Ang?” Though upon seeing the white faces, she wondered if maybe Angela wasn’t doing as well as she looked. “…Ang?”

“I’m fine,” her hand rubbed the back of her neck. She never wanted them to find out that she was still lingering in the past as it could compromise her. Make her falter when she was needed most.

“The shirt,” Tracer’s foot tapped the ground. She wasn’t going to let this go.

“I borrowed it.” Her voice was faint, soft. “As you may or may not have known, Jack and I were… together. But, per new regulations after the whole Amelie…thing we weren’t allowed to date one another. Or rather, he wasn’t. He was too high up to be 'blinded by love’ or whatever political nonsense they told themselves at night. We had to keep it hush-hush. So,” she rolled around to face the brunette, “we traded shirts.”

“Called it,” Ana punched Reinhardt. “You owe me a hundred bucks.”

“It’s been, what, five years?” He huffed.

“Deal’s a deal.” She waved her fingers up at him. “And you owe me.”

Fine.” His hand burrowed into his pocket. A few green dollars later, he grunted. “Happy?”

“Like I said, he, the face of Overwatch, wasn’t allowed to see anyone. Though frankly, I wasn’t either. Anyone in top ranks or roles wasn’t encouraged to love as they didn’t want loyalties to be created. Or worse, for relationships to blow up and cause issues.”

She signed before touching the dark fabric that kept her warm. “I wear this whenever we go out on missions like this. I… I like to think it’s,” she blushed before brushing back a loosen strand of blonde hair, “it’s how he watches over me. If I wasn’t in this shirt, I don’t think I’d be alive. This is my guardian angel, my Jack. Up there,” her eyes fell on the white clouds above, “keeping an eye on me. Making sure I’m alive.”

DVa’s hands clasped together. “That’s so romantic,” she cooed. “Did you give him something of yours?”

It was funny. Just minutes ago-15 to be exact-Angela was unconscious, bleeding out. And now, here she was, telling them stories while they waiting for their ride back to base to arrive.

“Of course,” Angela started to open up. It was clear that the medication was working as even her burns were starting to retreat back into oblivion. “I gave him my shirt.” That’s when she laughed. “Oh I was worried about it too. From time to time, the committee would tell them to take their jackets off. If he was wearing my suit during one of those briefings… oi,” her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose, “I’m pretty sure we’d both be fired.”

Just then, DVa’s hand jerked up her pistol. It was trained on 76, which caused those nearby to cock a brow (those not nearby were calling in Zayra to come pick them up in a helicopter that she, Mei, Torbjorn, and Symmetra were working on back at an underground base).

“ZIEGLER, right?”

“Yeah?” Mercy stepped forward, uncertain as to what was going on.

Junkrat lifted his weapon, also locking it on 76’s back. “You sure you didn’t give one to anyone else?” he questioned.

Brows furrowing, she stepped forward. With that step, all the charred skin feel to the ground before getting swept away with the wind. Clearly she was amped up on more than just the medication applied moments ago. She likely had nanobots or something coursing through her veins too for her recovery speeds were off the chart.

“Yes,” her voice heavy with confusion. “I have 6, Jack had 1. And I’m pretty sure he wore that shirt to his grave as I never found it when I cleared out his locker and room.”

“That’s because someone else got to it first,” DVa’s gun butted up against 76’s back. “Turn around.” When he didn’t, she barked, “Now!”

Hands retreating to the air, 76 turned around. He was the newest member of the group, the one not trusted.

Ana bit her finger. Shit. She knew his secret and couldn’t believe he was dumb enough to hold onto a memento like that. It was just begging to get called out, caught. And caught it was.

Sure enough, as he turned around, the letters Z-GL-R could be seen between the torn fabric of his jacket. It would take an idiot to not recognize that it was ZIEGLER, Angela’s last name.

Gasping, she stormed forward. The happy vibes in her completely gone with this new found discovery.

“Where did you get that,” her hands landed firmly on her hips.

His hidden eyes remained as such, hidden. He uttered not a word.

“She asked you a question,” Junkrat jumped in, also pushing his weapon closer to 76’s body.

Where did you get that.” She was seething at this point.

Knuckles cracking, Jesse took a full step forward. “I believe the misses asked you a question.”

Genji’s blade found its home right along 76’s throat. And Hanzo pulled back an arrow, ready to hit him should 76 run.

“Answer the question,” Tracer added while pulling out her own pistols.

In a matter of seconds, the mood shifted from worried about Angela’s health to who-the-fuck-is-this-guy.

“I traded it,” dropping his hands, his shoulders fell.

Dammit, Jack. Ana wanted to tranq him but knew she couldn’t. Why didn’t he lie! This was all just a mistake. Joining them was a mistake. Alone, they would have been find. But no, he had to get all soft and want to get close to her. To Angela.

“Traded it?” A wrinkle marred Angela’s pretty face. “With who? And for what?”

His silence caused Hanzo to draw his arrow back just a bit more.

“With you. Because you refused to give mine back.”

She wasn’t buying it. If anything, it pissed her off. Her jaw tightened, visible veins running down her neck.

“All right, wise ass.” Jesse stepped forward, pistol cocked right between the sea of red that hid 76’s eyes. “Wanna try that again because you just heard that Jack Morrison was the only other person, besides her, to have one of those.”

Soldier 76’s head fell off to the side.

Well,” Tracer impatiently tapped her foot.

“I stole it,” he began again. “Or rather, she stole mine so I stole hers.”

Growling at this point, Angela stepped forward, pushing all the others off the unarmed, clearly guilty Soldier 76. “I nearly died just moments ago. The least you could do is be honest with me.” Tears welled within her reddening orbs. “And tell me where you got my shirt from.”

Stark silence kissed her right in the face.

Please,” she begged, sad eyes consuming every aspect of her strength.

Angel,” 76 went to move, to cup her cheek and tell her not to cry, but DVa’s gun stopped him. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you it, but I got this from you.”

Slowly, his fingers curled around the mask that clung to his face. Unlocking it, the black and red material pulled away.

Sure enough, Jack Morrison’s face sat behind that mask. Only, instead of young, blonde, and beautiful, it was aged, grey, and war torn.

“Jack Morrison died,” Tracer fought to speak those words. “We buried him.” She pulled her pistol back up. “Who’s to say you’re not wearing his face.”

Taking her cue, Angela stepped back. Her finger stroked her chin. “All right, Jack, if you’re really Jack, then tell me something they don’t know.”

76-Jack-smirked. “You like sunflowers.”

“Duh,” Junkrat groaned. “She talks about them all the time.”

“Your family died when you were young due to the war.”

“Pretty sure the Overwatch Museum tells you that, so yeah, not good enough,” DVa responded.

“You were seventeen when I first met you.”

“Yeah, and so was I,” Jesse mocked.

“The first time we went out, you refused to dance with me.”

Reinhardt jumped in for that one. “I wouldn’t blame her either! You were embarrassing. It’s why Ana and I stopped going out with you.”

“Do you know why?”

Mercy quirked a brow. “We’re asking you the questions. Not the other way around.”

“You claimed you didn’t like my singing.”

A few glances were exchanged. Jack… sang?

“Said it was embarrassing how I would just start singing cheesy love songs to you.”

Angela had some doubt in her mind, as Reyes was more than aware of this. But… Reyes was dead. But did he ever share this? Joke with someone how Jack was probably the cheesiest man alive? The kind of man that still believed in serenading, asking one’s father for permission to date, getting to know a gal before bringing her to bed?

“The night we first made love, the bar…” 76’s lips curled up into a smile, there was a glimmer of hope in his pretty blue eyes. “We went to a place way outside or norm. We wanted to be alone, just you and me. We drove for hours to get there. And when we did, he learned it was karaoke night.”

He went on, uninterrupted as his story had piqued the interest of all, “A few singers, horrible might I add, were attempting to sing when we entered. I immediately wanted to go up there and put them out of their misery but yo-”

“I kept begging you not to.” Her eyes grew wide, the realization that maybe, just maybe this was Jack finally started to seep in.

“You wanted to go someplace else. A park, that would be nice.”

“But you refused. And you did the thing I told you I absolutely hated.” Her hands pulled up from her hips and crossed over her chest. “I begged you not to,” her smile lit up her face.

“But I had to. We both faked being sick. To drive 8-hours to just turn around and go back to the park? That was out of the question.”

“You ordered me drinks-”

“I ordered you Sex on the Beach-”

“And three later,” her eyes pulled off him as a blush clung to her cheeks, “and I had no control.”

“You were laughing, dancing, singing right along-”

“And I was dumb enough to complain-”

“Complain that the man up front singing sounded like-”

“A dying cow.”

Her hands hand crept up to her heart, clutching the fabric of his shirt for dear life. She looked so relieved but worn all at the same time.

Then her gaze hardened. The love in her eyes fell. A stiff frown sat on her face. “But if you were there that night, you would have known all this.”

The cue was missed so no one knew to raise their gun back on him so Angela did it herself. “So far, you haven’t proven anything.” Her frown followed. “Other than you might have been where I was a few different times. I need something, just the two of us, that proves you’re actually Jack. If you can’t, then I,” she drew in a sharp breath-the thought of actually stepping on a mine was already looking prettier than having to kill the man with the face of her ex-lover.

“The morning after,” he voided his face of emotion. He was caught red-handed. He wasn’t Jack. He couldn’t talk himself out of this one.

Her finger landed against the cool metal of the trigger. She couldn’t believe this. She’d have to bury him again. Even though he was an impostor, it didn’t make it any easier.

Breaths head, they waited.

“Well?” She positioned her gun so the bullet would land square between his brows.

A small smirk jerked at the corner of his lips. It was faint, but she caught it, which caused her to squint an eye.

“I… I just. Before you… Before you kill me, you need to know…”

She leaned forward. Need to know what…?

His head fell forward, casting a dark shadow over his face. Her brow hitched. What on earth was h-

76 dropped to his knees. His hands flew out to his sides. Head turned up, he belted out-

“Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down.”

Keep reading

Sirius flickers. Like the star he’s named after, like the blink of an eye. Like fire. He’s bright, he’s intimidating, he’s colorful, he commands a room and demands attention and has that essence of chaos. Like something that can’t be controlled, like fire, absolutely like fire. But when you think about it, fire can be contained. Fire can be tamed, if it wants to be. Fire can be used for warmth, as a comfort, engulfing those around it in light and making them even brighter. Fire can be beautiful, can’t it? Destructive, spontaneous, spreading in a second flat but nevertheless a sight for sore eyes, for those seeking to lift their spirits, to sit and talk for a while. There’s always something behind it, though, something slightly menacing and mysterious. Like if you don’t keep it under constant control, it’ll burn you badly enough to leave a lasting scar.

Air is interesting. James is interesting, too, or so he likes to think as he runs a hand through his windblown hair. But he’s really more complex than that, like air. Air is natural and it’s everywhere, unignorable and constant. Take in too much air and you bloat, take in too little air and you suffocate, but take in just enough air? Just enough air is what keeps us alive, what drives us, what keeps us together, what binds us. We all need it, though we don’t notice it until we lack it. Air is an invisible leader, a force so light but yet so powerful. Air could bring you back to life, but it could also tear your house down in one strong gust.

Now, water. Water is calm, isn’t it? Like the ocean, like tides controlled by moons. Remus likes to think of himself as an ocean, sometimes, controlled by the same force. It makes it more romantic that way, don’t you think? To be water. To be the source that people drink from when they’re parched, to be something that runs through friends’ bodies, to be that calm and cool. And people do think of water, like that, until they remember that water means tidal waves. Water means tsunamis, drowning, fears and phobias. The unknown lurking beneath the façade of something that seems so soothing, so therapeutic. Because water could kill you, if you approach it the wrong way. On the wrong day, at the wrong time, when the moon is just a bit too bright and the tide comes in too high and too fast and too much. But most of the time, it’s calm. Most of the time.

Earth is overlooked. Thrown in without a second thought. Grass, weeds, flowers. Trees are alright, aren’t they? Trees can be cool. But really think of earth. Think about it. What are you on right now? A hard surface, a floor, tile, brick, dirt? Underneath that is earth. You’re always on it, aren’t you? You just don’t think about it that way. You think of dirt and weeds, of grass. Powerless things, harmless things, childhood memories of picnics and swinging from branches, of laughing with your friends under oak trees, of rolling down hills. Innocent thing, isn’t it, the earth? Never think about how greatly it affects us all, how essential it is to everybody, to every living thing. 

Interesting to think about these four elements all together. How air could either spread a fire even higher, even brighter or how it can stamp it out with one blow, bring it back down to earth, to water. How earth and water interact, growing magnificent plants that mix with the air, creating oxygen. Camp grounds and sandy beaches, mountain peaks and valleys, lush and pure when in tandem.

It’s all rather pretty, from the outside in. But take a deeper look. See water, how it uses itself up to help the earth grow, to overtake. See fire blazing, dancing over water, doing its best to just get a damn rise out of it while water, unknowingly tames it before the fire has a chance to let out another burst of smoke. The way it feels to be on top of a mountain when the air is too thin, or a canyon where the heat is blistering from lack of water, of vines twisting and turning their way over decrepit buildings, of forest fires.

Funny thing, forest fires. They just tend to pop up without a care, without a warning, and everybody immediately blames the fire. The intimidating, engulfing fire as it leaps from tree to tree, destroying everything in its wake.

It’s easy to blame the fire when there’s no air or water. When there’s just fire and earth. When sirens blare and smoke fills the sky, shrouding it in black, as if in mourning, while the earth burns down to ash. 

Think about earth, again. Back to what’s underneath you. Back to those innocent memories, to that campfire. What’s the first thing you learn, in the wilderness as a child? Rubbing two sticks together creates fire, itself.

Fire goes down in its own flame. Earth crumbles, but then regrows. Water rushes to the scene a second too late. Air is diminished, if only for a minute, that gulp that you’re yearning for but just can’t get, what you need so badly now that you don’t have it. 

And after that, there’s no turning back.

I Was Made For Loving You

Description: Dean X Reader. My first go at something emotional, a hunt goes wrong, need I say more?
Words: 1,296
Warnings: severe injury
Author’s notes: first go at anything emotional, not really sure about it, let me know of any positives or negatives or anything!

Cobwebs brushed across your face as you quietly tiptoed through the derelict orphanage. You grimaced, wiped them off and kept moving forward. You were here on a hunt with the Winchester brothers, the ghost of the old owner had been luring young women to the house before killing the women with a carving knife. You’d had to split up to cover more ground in the massive building whilst you were looking for whatever could be tying her to the place.

You walked over to a set of wooden drawers in the corner of what seemed to be a bedroom. You opened the drawers to find nothing but moth eaten children’s wear. Hunts in decrepit buildings were horrible, you were more likely to jump into action at a spider or shadow than the ghost you were actually here for. You were taking the safest area of the house, if there was such a thing. Sam took the basement and boiler room, Dean took the kitchen and lounge areas whilst you took the bedrooms.

“Guys, I think I found something!” You heard Dean’s voice from the other end of the hall you were investigating. You dropped the ray of your torchlight and retreated to where you’d heard him.

“Dean?” You hissed. When you didn’t hear a response you pushed a large oak door open, revealing the lounge area, you cautiously walked in, with your gun outstretched.

“Woah, Y/N, don’t shoot!” Dean said, grinning from a few feet to the left, arms up in mock surrender. You dropped your gun to your side, giving him a sheepish smile.

“Pays to be wary, Winchester!” You replied. “What did you find?”

Dean walked over to an old painting that he’d clearly lifted off of the wall, judging by the dust free outline left on the wall. Without a word he turned it over to reveal a hand written letter attached to the back of the painting.

“Bingo! It’s addressed to the ex-lover from the ghost herself.” Dean raised an eyebrow as he gently prised it from the frame. He began to read excerpts from the yellowing page. It seemed the husband of the ghost had another lady friend who was ‘destined’ to be with him, jealousy had torn them apart. “Best bit is, it was sealed with a kiss.” He said proudly, pointing to a stain on the bottom of the paper that looked a little like lipstick.

You jokingly started humming “I was made for loving you” by KISS, earning a smirk from Dean. Stowing your gun back in your jacket, you could patted the pocket containing the salt. “So you’re thinking that’s her last tie? Well, I’ve got the salt if you’ve got a lighter?”

“I always come to the party prepared!” He said. He tucked his shotgun under his arm whilst he dug through his pockets.

It was then, that everything happened both very quickly. You saw Dean’s eyes go wide as he looked behind you. You then watched as Dean was flung across the room, hitting a window, before registering this, an invisible force lifted and held you up against the wall where the painting had been. You were able to turn your head slightly to see the silhouette of Sam in the doorway before he was thrown over to Dean, the pair of them ending as a mess of limbs and guns on top of each other. You saw a faint blue glow in the middle of the room as the ghost materialised. She was tall and in her mid-twenties just as your research had found, what research hasn’t told you is how menacing she looked. Her hair hung limp around her shoulders and her clothes were stained in blood, the long carving knife in her hand was the most worrying point, though.

Blinking quickly to bring yourself out of the shock you tried to calculate how you could stall the ghost to allow Sam and Dean to get ahold of the situation. On the positive side, the ghost seemed far more interested in you currently. On the negative side, no one else was moving except the ghost who was moving towards you.

“You don’t have to do this. We can help you.” You halfheartedly attempted the diplomatic approach with the being, who was slowly advancing towards you. The ghost faltered in her step slightly but kept going. “It’s about your husband, isn’t it? Killing people won’t fix anything!”

Over the woman’s shoulder you saw Dean and Sam beginning to stumble upright. They still weren’t going to be quick enough to salt and burn the letter though. She was a few steps away now.

“Why are you doing this? Surely, if you’re going to kill me, you owe me that much?” You voice was shaky now. The woman stopped still, her face inches away from yours. You made eye contract with Dean, Sam was so close the letter with a lighter in hand, now. A few more seconds, you could buy that long.

It was then that the knife struck, you felt it as it pierced the skin and as it went through your lower abdomen. You saw Dean’s face first twist in shock and then crumble. The knife twisted and snagged causing you to cry out. You looked down at the damage as the force holding you let go. A flash of flames and inhuman scream indicated Sam’s success, but it was a few seconds too late. You slumped heavily to the floor as Dean raced to catch you.

“Hey! Hey Y/N, you’re good, you’re good, come on, stay with me,” Dean hands hovered over the knife still in your stomach as panic contorted his face. “Sammy! Get the car started and out front.” His voice breaking slightly as he shouted “Now!”

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times before sprinting out the door.

“Dean?” You murmured.

“I’m here, I’m here Y/N, don’t talk, save your energy.”

The damsel in distress wasn’t you. But here you were, you couldn’t support your own head, let alone your own weight. Pain twinged through your stomach as you tried to shift in Dean’s arms. His fingers gently held onto just two of your own as if he was scared you would snap. You blinked up through heavy eyelids.

“Shh, Y/N, don’t move, just stay awake, please.”

Dean carried on muttering encouragements as he lifted you gently, desperately trying not to hurt you.

“For me, Y/N. Just stay with me.”

Dean’s voice sounded quieter now as he began to run towards where Sam would be waiting. You felt a tear drop onto your face and you looked up to see Dean’s eyes glistening, the tears making the green in his eyes shine out. You could hear the roar of the impala very close, letting your head roll to a side, you watched as Dean slipped you into the back seat.

“Dean! What’s happening, what’s the damage… Oh” Sam turned to look at you from the drivers seat, confirming what you were trying to ignore.

“I’m fine guys, my fault… Turn on the music?” You stuttered a little more than you’d wanted but it had done the job. Sam reached for the dials, rock music breaking the silence that you were trying to ignore.

“Hospital, Sam, now!” Dean shouted louder than necessary but Sam didn’t need to be told twice. A sudden coughing fit from you was all the inspiration he needed.

Dean clambered into the back seat with you, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and then carefully lifting your head onto his lap so he could keep an eye on you. That was the last thing you remembered seeing that night, Dean’s eyes watching you as you drifted off into unconsciousness.

Butchery for technology

Regis breathed out as he has not detected any thing with active scans as he creeped out from under a broken down vehicle. Its been hours since he heard anything and it seemed like the fighting between the two xenos have moved away. Pulling himself out from the rubble as he shifted the rocks away he dusted himself off as he kept an eye out before approaching one of the massive creatures that he could not place. Admittedly he could not say he was any expert besided recognizing tech and eldar. 

Shuddering he had several reasons he feared the as he rubbed his chest. Breathing out as he shook off the gross sticky feeling that washed over him emotionally he continued as he slowly got closer to one of the bodies closer to the walls of the decrepit buildings. Sheepisly he started to scan the bodies of all around him so he could look up the race for later as he swore he saw them using weapons but he wasnt finding any thing. A grimmice crossed his face as he located strange shapes inside the bodies as the scans went over them. Only once he was stettled close to the body did he start focusing all his scans on the body. 

Slowly he moved the arm about as he could not find any thing as he wondered what he was looking at as it didn’t look like the other ones he passed. Flexing the fingers he noted the sharp hardened nature that softened to a skin, yet the head was hard like bone. Narrowing his eye as he could not find any thign obvious yet he did detect the weapon signatures as he drew his power blade. Seeing the forms of something that did not match the rest of the biology he turned on the power as the hum of power started up. Slowly he started cutting relying on his mechanical eye to estimate how far he should cut in and start carving out. If he could engineer the technology then he might beable to design something to counter what they have as he tried not to look at the head of what he was cutting into. There was a fear of it still being alive or some how alive as he cut. 

@ask-a-pride-demon