#[ except it's not crack and i'm wheezing ]

[mahowaga]

the nurse doesn't even get a full sentence out before you hear it—the loud, unmistakable, drawn out moan from behind the curtain.

"uuuuuuughghhghhhhhh."

you blink.

"that yours?" she asks, arching an eyebrow, holding back a smile.

you sigh. "unfortunately, yes."

she laughs softly and pulls the curtain back.

and there he is.

gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, your very dramatic boyfriend, currently conked out in the reclining recovery chair like a ragdoll someone left in the sun for too long. his blindfold is gone (carefully folded on the side table, somehow), his mouth is half open, one of his arms is hanging off the chair like he's mid-shakespearean death scene and one leg is swinging mindlessly like he's in the middle of an interpretive dance.

"ughhhhhhhhhh," he groans again, eyes fluttering, unfocused. "where am i. is this the void? the infinite void? am i in the purgatory between dimensions?"

"you had a wisdom tooth removed," you say, walking up to him with your arms crossed.

satoru's head rolls toward the sound of your voice. it takes him a solid five seconds to gain his bearings and settle his gaze on you.

and then—his whole body jerks.

"oh my god," he gasps, pointing a floppy, trembling finger at you. "you're the taco bell goddess."

you blink again, taken aback. the anesthesia is really doing a number on him. it's entertaining. "i'm sorry, what now?"

"i knew you were real," he whispers reverently, nodding to himself. "you came to me in a dream once. you had like, this glowing chalupa aura and you whispered 'live mas' into my soul."

you stare. "what—what the hell are you talking about?"

"don't play coy, my divine temptress of the drive-thru," he says, hand clutching his chest like he's about to write an epic soliloquy in your name. "you bring hot sauce and justice to this cruel, flavorless world."

"okay," you say slowly, looking around for the nurse, "how much anesthesia did they give you?"

"enough to see the truth," he says dramatically.

you laugh so hard you have to grab the side of his chair for support.

satoru squints at you. "wait—wait, no. are you—are you even the taco bell goddess? or are you some kind of fraud, preying on innocent taco followers?"

"i'm your girlfriend," you reply, still wheezing. "you live with me."

his sky blue eyes go comically wide. "you mean i bagged the taco bell goddess and i live with her?"

you pinch the bridge of your nose to calm yourself. "you need water and maybe an exorcism."

he doesn't hear you. of course he doesn't. he's busy throwing up both hands like he's just won an oscar.

"somebody better put me in a commercial," he says proudly. "'cause i'm livin' mas, baby."

you're practically crying with laughter now, and you don't seem to be stopping soon.

"you're a disaster," you choke out.

he grabs your hand and holds it reverently. "disaster, or super cool legend?"

you lean in and kiss his forehead, lips twitching. "definitely a disaster."

satoru beams. "you kissed me! i'm telling everyone. you kissed me first. that's legally binding."

"we've been dating for two years."

"two years?!" his jaw drops. "that's like—" he counts on his fingers "—more than ten kisses!"

you have to bite your lip before you start cracking up again. then, his eyes impossibly wide, he pats around on his lap like he's looking for something. "where's my phone. i gotta tweet this."

"you're not tweeting while high."

"but the world needs to know i'm in love with a celestial being."

"absolutely not."

"okay, but hear me out," he says, slumping deeper into the chair with a dopey grin. "what if we got married. right now. here. in the dentist's office. we've got witnesses. we've got—" he frowns at the table next to him "—fluoride."

you're really trying your best to not lose it. "you want to get married surrounded by cotton swabs and expired magazines?"

he reaches for your face with both hands like he's about to cradle something precious. except one hand flops uselessly against your cheek.

"you're all i need," he slurs.

you smile, warmth creeping up your neck. "oh my god."

"wait, wait. do i have a ring?" he pats his pockets in slow motion. "we can use a paperclip. i'll macgyver it."

"i'm confiscating your paperclips."

he groans. "you never let me have any fun."

you take his hand, kiss the knuckles. "oh, toru. you're a full-time menace, so i have to be the responsible one."

his eyes flutter, a soft, sleepy smile on his lips now. "but you love me."

you sigh, brushing his hair back gently. "i do. against my better judgement."

he grins. "ha. got 'em."

you let your forehead rest against his.

the strongest sorcerer alive. in love. loopy. wearing a bib that says 'tooth be told' with a cartoon molar giving a thumbs-up.

and somehow, impossibly, still the love of your life.

you whisper, "when you're coherent again, i'm going to tell you everything you said. never letting you live this down."

his eyes crack open. "noooo."

"yes."

"i'll sue."

"i dare you."

and he giggles. giggles. like a chaotic little gremlin in your arms.

you hold him close, his fingers twined in yours, as the strongest sorcerer in the world melts into a puddle of affectionate nonsense on anesthetic. and you think, grinning—

god, i love this ridiculous man.

[wendichester]

⋆˚⊱ the talk,

summary. dean, your boyfriend, gives you the talk.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. weird fluff

wordcount. 748

notes / warnings. mild language, mentions of supernatural violence, protective/jealous dean winchester, pop culture references, a tense confession scene, slight crack energy

You’re not really mad, per se. More like… Yeah, confused as hell.

Because your boyfriend just told you monsters are real—like, capital-M Monsters. Vampires, werewolves, demons, the whole horror movie roster. Except this isn’t a movie. You’re not on your couch, halfway through a sleepover marathon with a bowl of popcorn in your lap. You’re at your kitchen table, and Dean is sitting across from you looking like someone just kicked his puppy. Which is kind of hilarious considering he just confessed to stabbing a werewolf with a silver blade last week.

You haven’t said a word in maybe… five minutes.

Dean’s knee is bouncing. He keeps glancing toward the door like he’s expecting you to run for it.

“I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want you to freak out,” he mutters, voice low. “It’s not exactly first date kinda stuff, y’know?”

You blink slowly. “…You said you were a mechanic.”

He flinches. “I can fix cars.”

“Dean.”

“Alright, part-time mechanic, full-time monster-hunter. Happy?”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. You should be more panicked. Any reasonable person would be. But the weird thing is—you’re not. Not really. Maybe it’s because Dean doesn’t feel dangerous to you. He feels safe. Has since the night you met him in that parking lot, laughing and talking you through your flat tire like he didn’t have somewhere better to be.

You’ve seen the way he handles a wrench. The way he walks you to your door. The way he keeps a loaded gun at yours and how he sometimes feels the need to sleep with a knife under his pillow.

You should’ve figured this out.

Dean's still talking, trying to explain himself.

“I just—look, I never wanted to lie to you, but this life? It’s dark. I didn’t want to drag you into it unless I had to. But the longer we were together, the more I felt like... you should know. You deserve to know. I promise you, Y/N, I'm not cheating on you. I just have a shitty day-job.”

You stare at him a moment. Really look at him. His hands are clasped together on the table, knuckles scraped. There's a little blood on the edge of his sleeve. His jaw’s tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a slap.

You tilt your head.

“So… when you said you’d kill Damon Salvatore if he ever tried anything with me,” you say slowly, “you meant that?”

Dean’s whole face twists. “What—of course I meant it! That dude’s a vampire. He eats people, baby. I don’t care how nice his car is.”

You blink. Then blink again.

And then, god help you, you start laughing. Not a little giggle—like, full-body, stomach-aching, shoulders-shaking laughter. Dean just stares at you, caught somewhere between horrified and offended.

“I’m serious!” he says, eyebrows yanking together. “That guy’s a psycho! He compels people and drinks his weight in blood! I don’t care how many redemption arcs he’s got or what moody indie soundtrack they put under his scenes—he so much as sniffs in your direction, he’s toast.”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You were jealous of a fictional vampire.”

Dean scowls. “He’s not fictional to me.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, eyes sparkling. “Okay, hunter-boy. So what is fictional to you?”

He pauses. “Uh… Harry Potter, probably.”

“That explains so much.”

Dean’s still tense, like he’s not totally convinced you aren’t about to kick him out.

You reach across the table and cover his hand with yours.

“I’m not running,” you say softly. “I’m weirded out, yeah. I mean, you basically just told me Buffy was a documentary. But I’m not scared of you, Dean.”

His shoulders drop about two inches. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You’re still the guy who brings me diner pie and gets pissy when I leave the window cracked at night.”

“That’s because it’s not safe,” he mutters.

“Uh-huh. You know I’m just gonna make more vampire jokes now, right?”

Dean groans. “Great. I’ve created a monster.”

You grin, leaning across the table to kiss him—quick and sweet, your fingers curling around his wrist.

He kisses you back like he’s exhaling for the first time in days.

When you pull away, you squint at him.

“…You still haven’t explained why you carry holy water in your jacket pocket.”

“Emergency exorcisms,” he says, deadpan.

You nod slowly. “Cool. Cool. Totally normal boyfriend things.”

Dean smiles, wide and shameless. “Welcome to the family business, sweetheart.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

Malfunctioning Body Problems

🇨​🇴​🇳​🇹​🇪​🇳​🇹​ 🇼​🇦​🇷​🇳​🇮​🇳​🇬​: None + This is crack shit ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ – Too many thing happend idk what to tell... I wrote this a long time ago in the draft, and now I'm just posting it.

The heavy clang of metal footsteps echoes down the hall. You glance up from the console, expecting to see The Doctor’s latest mechanical body moving with its usual eerie precision. Instead…

…he’s walking like a damn chicken.

"Harley." You try to keep a straight face. "Why are you walking like a chicken?"

The robotic body halts. It looks normal from the waist up—cloaked in tattered white fabric, fingers flexing idly—but from the waist down? It’s a disaster. The legs twitch at odd angles, shifting from stiff stomps to jerky, bird-like struts.

A static-laced sigh crackles through the speakers.

"This body’s leg actuators are faulty." His voice remains flat, but the slight tilt of the head suggests pure irritation. "It is NOT funny."

You’re already wheezing.

He tries to take another step, only for his left leg to suddenly kick forward in a bizarrely dramatic arc before snapping back down.

You lose it.

"Oh my God—" You clutch your stomach, laughing uncontrollably. "You look like a malfunctioning animatronic at a cursed theme park!"

The Doctor doesn’t respond. Probably because the moment he tries to move again, both knees lock, and he topples sideways like a knocked-over statue.

You collapse to the floor, howling.

---

Later, when you've finally stopped crying from laughter, you return to find The Doctor has abandoned the chicken-legged body entirely.

Which would be fine—except now, his eye is stuck in a television screen.

Static flickers across the glass. His bright, singular eye glares at you through the screen like some cursed horror movie entity.

You sigh, hands on your hips. "Harley. How does this keep happening?"

"The interference in this facility is suboptimal." His voice crackles through the speakers. "The connection between terminals is unstable, leading to unexpected displacement."

You narrow your eyes. "In English, please?"

"...I fell through the Wi-Fi."

You blink.

Then snort.

"So what, you’re just stuck there now?"

The eye shifts slightly, as if rolling itself. "Temporarily. I am rerouting my consciousness."

"Uh-huh. And how long is that going to take?"

The screen suddenly goes black. A few seconds later, the room’s vending machine makes a loud, mechanical whirrrr.

…Oh no.

---

You don’t know how it happened. You don’t even think he knows how it happened. But standing before you is a vending machine—one that has an angry, flickering red eye glaring at you from behind the glass display, right next to a bag of stale pretzels. The vending machine’s keypad flickers erratically.

And then, from within the machine, a very familiar voice—distorted by static—mutters:

"…This is inconvenient."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Harley. Tell me you didn’t try to possess the vending machine."

"I assure you, this was not intentional."

You sigh. "And yet, here we are."

The machine whirrs again. There’s a clicking sound, and suddenly, a cascade of snacks tumbles out of the bottom slot.

You blink.

The Doctor speaks again, deadpan:

"…However, I am now dispensing free snacks."

You slap a hand over your mouth, your whole body shaking with suppressed laughter. This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t.” The Doctor’s voice crackles from the speakers, the static cutting through his usual cold tone.

You barely hold back a laugh. “So… how exactly did you manage to get yourself stuck in a vending machine?”

The screen on the machine glitches, his eye narrowing. “It was a strategic decision.”

“Strategic?” You snort, crossing your arms. “You willingly possessed a vending machine? For what? Tactical snack acquisition?”

There’s a long silence. Then, through the static, you hear:

“…Yes.”

Oh my god.

You step closer, tapping the glass just to mess with him. The machine lets out a mechanical groan as his robotic voice distorts.

“Do not mock me.”

“I think I have every right to mock you, actually.”

Before he can respond, another screen nearby flickers to life. You turn your head just in time to see one of the factory’s security monitors glitching—and there it is again.

His eye.

Stuck.

Again.

It stares at you, completely unmoving, surrounded by rolling static. You point at it, barely containing your laughter.

“Harley. HARLEY.”

The vending machine hums aggressively. “What?”

“You’re stuck in the TV too. Again..”

The static on the monitor glitches violently—as if he’s just realized this. For a long moment, there’s absolute silence. Then:

“…Unfortunate.”

“So let me get this straight—” you gesture wildly between the vending machine and the TV “—you tried to possess in the monitor system, and somehow ALSO got your eye stuck in a vending machine for snacks?!”

The vending machine rattles. “There was… an error in the transfer process.”

You wheeze. “An error?? You’re supposed to be a genius, and you got stuck in TWO things at once?”

The Doctor’s red eye flickers dangerously, but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, the vending machine lets out a mechanical whir, as if shifting its weight—only for another single snack to fall from the dispenser with a loud clunk.

You blink.

You look down.

It’s a bag of off-brand cheese puffs.

You stare. Then, with all the seriousness in the world, you kneel down and reach into the slot, pulling out that bag.

You unwrap it. Take a bite.

Chew.

Swallow.

Then, utterly straight-faced, you say: "Maybe you should get stuck in here more often."

A long, long pause.

And then, the keypad flashes angrily.

"GET. OUT."

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Guess who's back?

Written for the Get Lucky bonus card of the @steddiebingo

Prompt: Pinch

Rated: T

Tags: Comes back wrong; Kas!Eddie; Monster!Eddie; Except he's just mildly disgruntled about it and otherwise normal; Crack; Eddie Munson is a little shit

“Okay, whatever you do, don't scream.” 

Steve doesn’t scream. He screeches. 

Which he'd be embarrassed to admit under any other circumstances, except there's a black, hulking figure with red coals for eyes standing in his dark bedroom, so he thinks it can be excused. 

The second thing he does is try to roll over and grab the nail bat from under the bed, but the figure is too fast. Quicker than he can blink, it is on top of him. His back hits the mattress and the air wheezes from his lungs, needle-sharp claws digging into his shoulders. A hot gust of air tickles his neck as the creature leans in. Steve screws his eyes shut.

“Goddamnit, what part of don't scream didn't you get? Do you want your neighbours to call the cops or what?” 

“Hold on a second,” he says. The creature does not hold on. 

“-not like my history with law enforcement was sunshine and rainbows to begin with,” it rambles, evidently having gone off on a tangent while Steve was busy processing. “But I'd really prefer it if we could keep the number of people who see me like this to a minimum. I’d love to not end up in a zoo or lab, or-” 

“Eddie? Is that you?” 

The creature rolls its eyes. No, Eddie’s eyes - large and round and just as stupidly expressive as Steve remembers - except they're the wrong color. Not brown but red, and glowing with what looks like all the fires of hell burning from within. 

“Well, duh. What does it look like?” it says. The giant fucking bat wings on its back twitch in irritation.

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it again. He doesn't fucking know what it looks like. Except that isn’t right. He knows very well what it looks like, it's just that what it looks like can't possibly be true. 

Because what it looks like is Eddie fucking Munson fused with some monster out of a cheap horror movie, straddling his lap in the middle of the night. He’s still in the clothes that he died in - ripped Hellfire tee, bandana and all. Steve thinks he may have to call his doctor about another MRT. 

What he says is, “This isn't real. You're dead. You've been dead for three years.” 

“Yeah, no shit,” says the thing that's wearing Eddie’s face. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to track you down? I tried your house, but you weren't there, and the girl who was sleeping in your bedroom wouldn't stop shrieking for long enough to get two words in, and then the dad came after me with a fucking shotgun? Whatever happened to small town hospitality?” 

“Dunno,” Steve stammers. “I sold the house after- … What did you do to those people? I swear to God, if you hurt them-” 

“Of course I didn't,” the monster claims. “I'm not a monster. Still wouldn't have killed you to at least leave me a number or something, would it? I can't exactly take a stroll around town and ask about your whereabouts like this, now can- will you put this down, I'm not gonna hurt you.” 

Steve lowers the lamp he just grabbed from the nightstand, but he doesn’t drop it. 

“How do I know that's true?” he hisses. “How do I know you're really Eddie and not some Upside Down creature wearing him like a suit? Oh, or maybe you're Vecna himself, huh? Fuck, this is probably it, right? This isn't real at all, it's all in my- Ouch, what the fuck are you doing?” 

The creature wiggles its clawed fingers in front of his face. 

“I pinched you. It's what you do to prove that something’s real, right? Or is that another thing that randomly changed while I was gone?”

“You could've just pinched my arm, dude,” Steve squawks, rubbing his stinging nipple through the fabric of his pajama shirt. “Why would you-” 

Those glowing eyes crinkle at the corners. When the creature’s lips tug into a fanged grin, a familiar dimple appears at the corner of its mouth. 

Eddie’s grin goes pleased. 

“Oh my God,” Steve groans. “It’s really you.”

“Glad we’ve got that sorted out,” he rumbles. Something brushes Steve’s thigh - something long and slender with a pointed tip that twitches happily. Steve never thought he’d think those words in this specific order, but he really, really hopes it’s a tail. “Now, could you spare a change of clothes? I’ve been wearing these for three years.” 

More Steddie Bingo

[lostintheuniverseslies]

I've been reading a lot of whump!Buck fics and it's been raining here so this came to mind. Hope you enjoy!

Buck is lying on the ground in the rain, staring up at a sky that’s somehow too bright for such a gloomy day. His mind scrambles to catch up. Why is he on the ground? Why does his body feel like it doesn’t belong to him? His breath rattles in his chest, uneven and wet, and though he knows something bad happened, he can’t quite piece it together. 

Then, pain crashes into him like fire. It floods every inch of his body, crushing, suffocating. His chest screams with every shallow breath, his ribs aching as if they’re caving in. 

Somewhere close, someone is talking—frantic, desperate—but not to him. No, they’re talking to someone else. A dispatcher, probably. 9-1-1. 

He’s been here before. Close to death too many times to count. But this time? This time feels different. Final. 

He’s accomplished almost everything he wanted to in life. His sister is happy, married to an amazing man, and building the family she always dreamed of. And Buck? He found the love of his life. He just wishes he could have spent forever with them. 

But that’s life, he supposes. 

He has no regrets.

That thought should scare him. It doesn’t. 

A strange, eerie peace settles over him, maybe because the pain is fading. Or maybe because everything—the rain, the voices, the world—feels like it’s happening miles away.

His breaths come slower, weaker. Keeping his eyes open is a battle he’s losing. And deep down, he knows. This is it. He’s lived a good life. He can let go, knowing the people he loves will be okay. They’ll grieve, they’ll hurt, but they’ll get through it. 

All except maybe one.

Even though they broke up, Buck knows the news of his death will tear Tommy apart. And the thought of him grieving alone is the one thing that makes this unbearable. 

With the last dredges of his strength, he fumbles for his phone. His fingers feel sluggish, barely responsive, but muscle memory guides him. 

One number. 

The one he’s resisted calling, the one he swore he’d never dial again. 

It rings.

And rings.

And rings—until the voicemail picks up. 

“Tommy,” Buck rasps.

His voice is hoarse, strained, barely more than a whisper. The wheeze in his breath is unmistakable. Tommy will hear it. He’ll know. 

“Don’t shut them out again, okay?”

Buck swallows against the burn in his throat. His chest is so tight. He blinks, and suddenly there are tears in his eyes. Not for himself. For Tommy. For the image of him pushing everyone away, hurting alone. 

“You’re allowed to let them be there for you. Please–Please let them be there for you.” 

The wheezing worsens. Buck isn’t sure how much longer he has. He forces out the words that matter most. 

“I love you.” A shaky breath. “I hope you know that. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, as his mind supplies an image of Tommy: kind, gentle, sharp-tongued, funny, sassy. So damn easy to love. 

“You deserve to be loved.” His voice cracks. “I really hope you find the person you’re meant to spend your life with. No matter what you think, I’m grateful. So grateful. That you were my first, and my last.”

He wants to say more. One more ‘I love you.’ One more goodbye. 

But his fingers are numb. His grip slackens. He’s pretty sure the phone slips from his hand, but he doesn’t hear it hit the ground.

He doesn’t fight it anymore.

He said everything he needed to say.

So Buck, feeling the most peace he’s ever known, closes his eyes—hoping Tommy and his family will be okay. 

he's not dead I PROMISE. I'm considering writing a Tommy POV of when he checks his voicemail 🤷‍♀️

Part 2 is here!

[mediumgayitalian]

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Solace, I am going to strangle you."

For someone to claim to have absolutely no Apollonian talents outside healing, Will has an exceptional proclivity for the dramatics. If it weren't for the slightest, barest, most miniscule twitch in he corner of his mouth, Nico would have believed his ruse wholeheartedly.

Instead, he watches that tiny little twitch and the deliberate, sympathetic tilt to blond eyebrows and rolls his eyes as hard as he can.

"You really have my deepest sympathies!" Will insists. He tucks his hands behind his back, glancing down at the ruined, crushed brownie making home in the grass, next to the brazier. "It's -- a tragedy, really. So young, so fudgy. Taken from us too soon."

"You have a lot of gall for someone so close to a fire."

"The last camp brownie of the month, too. Squashed on the grass. It's a metaphor, really. For life."

"Oh my gods."

That cracks him, and he smiles, shoving it down as quickly as he can but Nico sees it, because he isn't fucking slick, because he is an irritant and annoying and an all around pain in his side who has better things to do than taunting Nico about a stupid freaking brownie, but he is not doing these things because he is a doofus. Of the highest magnitude. A doofus with very big blue eyes that sparkle ever so in the evening sun and a very delicate Cupid's bow, that is still fucking twitching.

"You should give it the proper rites," says Will solemnly. "Here, I'll help."

Before Nico can stop him, or strangle him, he drops to a crouch, his own plate of food falling forgotten by his feet, and scoops the brownie chunks in his large hands. He fishes a napkin out of his pocket, smoothing it on his thigh, then lays the brownie ever so gently upon it, picking out the blades of grass and covering it carefully.

He holds out the napkin-shroud.

"O Prince of the Dead, Seer of Rites, Guide of Lost Souls, I pass this Fudge Brownie Supreme onto thine most capable hands; grant, take her, and with great care, bring her to the gates of Hades, so that she may be judged, against the lightness of her heart, and brought to the gardens of Elysium; paradise."

"Are you done."

"No." He clears his throat. "For mine own healer hands could not bring her back to the warmth of the Earthen light --"

"Oh my gods."

Nico watches, with his own two working eyeballs, gobsmacked, as Will begins to glow golden from the palms of his hands, enveloping the brownie corpse in strands of gentle sunlight.

"-- and so I entrust her, O Reaper Junior, O Pipsqueak of Pluto --"

"That's enough."

Faster than Will can stop him Nico tears off a chunk of his shirt, wraps it around the tip of his sword, and plunges it into the fire. Will shrieks and, wisely, bolts; in milliseconds Nico is gaining, now-flaming swords inches from the dumbass's neck, cussing him out in every language he knows one decibel louder than Will's screaming for help.

None comes.

As is life at Camp Half-Blood.

"Okay! Okay! I was joking! I'll never call you Pipsqueak again --"

Immediately, Will starts wheezing, neck swelling with splotchy red hives, and Nico has to take a moment to hold his flaming sword to the side and drop his face in his free hand. He prays to his father for strength. His father, more miffed about the blasphemy than the blatant disrespect of Nico's honor, gods help Will's soul, does not respond.

At Nico's pause, Will falls to his knees.

"Please," he begs, or with his swelling tongue more says pdease. He clasps his hands together, brownie falling to the ground. "Spare me! I'm too pretty to die! Or, at least, I'm too pretty to die by flame! Have mercy on me and stab me lightly in the side, so I have enough time to recite Mercutio's monologue as I bleed out!"

"I wanted to stab you twelve percent more with every word."

"That's what, almost five hundred percent? Surely that is enough for the rage to become funny again. Jester's privilege. I must be spared."

He waves his clasped hands again for emphasis.

Nico's mouth twitches.

Godsdamnit.

"You are the most annoying person in this camp, you know that?"

Will counts seven seconds after his sword is sheathed, just for insurance, then jumps to his feet, beaming.

"Really? Only camp-wide? Aw, you do love me."

His allergic reaction immediately begins to subside. Nico flushes. Will pounces upon his moment of weakness and slings a stupidly long arm around his shoulders, pulling him close enough that Nico's can't flail away or sucker punch his way free.

"I love you too," he says, pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek with a mwah! so loud it echoes from the lake to Half-Blood Hill and causes four separate eavesdropping Aphrodite campers to faint, fanning their faces. Nico's face goes so read his vision starts to swim.

"Your death will be slow and public," he promises darkly.

Will's mouth twitches. "Whatever you say, Death Boy."

[concretejunglefm]

i was shredding my guitar a few minutes ago and hit my bf and then a thought crossed my mind and i can’t stop laughing about it.

Reader is shredding her guitar and gets carried away and forgets that bsf!noah was behind her and she slams the guitar in his face. the other guys witness and laugh their asses off. Maybe a really fluffy ending were noah jokes about „kiss it better“ and reader actually does and left him speechless

AAAAAAAAAAH <- me screaming over this because it's both cute and funny. I'm sorry this took me forever to come back to 🫣💕

Any of them could have foreseen disaster striking. Except for Noah.

When you swing the guitar around your body with the final note, you’re met with a loud crack, a sound that echoes throughout the room, startling the guys scattered around it, who come to a halt, their attention drawn to you and Noah.

Panic surges instantly, dread settling heavily in your stomach as you slowly turn, guitar still slung low on your hip. You come face-to-face with Noah, holding his face, a look of deep betrayal etched across the features not obstructed by his large tattooed hands.

“Did you just…” he wheezes, pulling his hand away to reveal a very pink, possibly swelling nose, “…assault me with a Fender?”

“Oh my God,” you gasp, your face scrunching up as soon as you spot his nose. “I completely forgot you were there. I’m so sorry.”

Amidst the chaos, Folio, who had been dozing on the couch, suddenly falls off, wheezing uncontrollably. He can’t contain himself as he exclaims, “That was the most metal way to get a nose job I’ve ever seen.”

Jolly barely glances up from his phone, but a clear smile spreads across his face, while Nicholas joins Folio in hearty laughter, doubling over in amusement.

You reach out towards him hesitantly. “Come on, let me see it,” you insist when he tries to pull away. Your hands then gently cup his face as you ask, “I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?”

Cheeks in your hands, Noah tilts his head back, giving you the opportunity to assess any potential damage as he mutters, “It might bruise. I could be disfigured forever.”

“Oh, please! The only thing bruised is your ego,” you remark, the dread you had felt earlier quickly dissipating as you realize the extent of the damage to his nose is little to none.

“It might need a kiss to make it better,” Noah dares to suggest.

Under any other circumstances, you’d scoff and push him away, but in this moment, you can’t resist holding him by his cheeks and raising up on tiptoes to him. Leaning in, you press a tender kiss against the tip of his red nose. Noah freezes instantly, all playfulness in him quickly replaced by your unexpected kiss.

“There, it should heal now,” you smile, pulling yourself away from him, while Noah remains still and speechless, his eyes wide and red from the tip of his nose to the tips of his ears.

Behind you, the room erupts once more, with the Folio howling. “Bro’s about to pass out!”

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @bloody-spades @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood

[misfortunelady69]

I like you

Law X Male Oc

Angst

Masterlist

Liking someone like Trafalgar Law was a losing game.

The man was cold, unreadable, always a step ahead of everyone. He didn’t joke around like Luffy, didn’t flirt like Sanji, didn’t even throw insults like Zoro. He just… existed in his own little world of logic and strategy, untouched by things like romance or sentimentality.

But I—like an absolute idiot—fell for him anyway.

I told myself it wasn’t real. It was just admiration. Respect.

Then why did my stomach flip every time he said my name?

Why did I find myself lingering around his crew, watching him when he wasn’t looking, waiting for the rare moments when his cold exterior cracked just a little?

It was pathetic.

And the worst part?

He noticed.

I had a problem.

Law was strong. And that shouldn't have been a problem, except I was obsessed with proving myself to him.

So, I trained harder. Pushed myself beyond my limits. Even when my muscles screamed at me, I kept going.

And, like the dumbass I am, I got cocky.

One day, we were sparring on the Sunny. The crew was watching. Luffy was hyped, Zoro was analyzing our movements, and Nami was placing bets.

Law, as usual, was calm. Effortless. Like fighting me was just a chore.

I was tired of it.

So, I went all out—charging in, throwing a punch faster than I ever had before. I thought I had him.

Then—shambles.

My whole world flipped, and suddenly, I was flat on my back, staring at the sky.

Law stood over me, unimpressed.

"You don't celebrate until the fight is over," he said, his usual deadpan tone cutting deeper than any insult.

I sat up, my face burning. The crew was laughing. Luffy was wheezing. Even Zoro smirked.

I wanted to sink into the sea.

I should have stopped trying.

I really should have.

But one day, Law was patching up some of the crew after a fight, and I thought—maybe if I help, he’ll see me differently.

Maybe he’d say something like, "You’re not so useless after all, Nova."

Maybe he’d… smile at me.

So, I grabbed some bandages and went to work.

Problem? I had no medical experience.

"You're doing it wrong," Law said immediately, not even looking up from stitching Luffy’s arm.

I huffed. "I think I can handle wrapping a bandage, Doc."

I could not.

The bandage slipped. Then tangled. Then somehow tightened way too much.

"Ow! OW! Nova, what the hell?!" Usopp yelled, his arm turning purple.

Law sighed. Heavily.

"Step away before you kill someone," he said, pulling the bandage off with a flick of his wrist.

I mumbled an apology and backed away.

He didn’t look at me again.

It was stupid.

I was tired. We had just fought off another enemy, and my brain was fried.

We were alone on the Polar Tang’s deck, the sea calm around us. Law was leaning against the railing, lost in thought.

I should have left.

But no. I was a glutton for punishment.

So I stood next to him, staring at the waves, pretending my heart wasn’t slamming against my ribs just because we were alone.

Then, it happened.

"I like you."

I didn’t mean to say it.

I didn’t even realize I had said it—until I felt the air change.

I turned. Law was staring at me, eyes dark and unreadable.

My throat went dry.

No. No, no, no.

I must have looked pathetic—wide-eyed, breathing too fast, desperate to take it back.

But it was too late.

Law sighed, rubbing his temple. "You’re joking, right?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

His eyes sharpened. His voice turned cold.

"You think this is funny?"

I panicked. "N-No, I—"

"Then what?" His tone was detached. Uncaring. "You thought this would change something?"

I felt the rejection before he even said it.

"Listen, I don’t have time for pointless feelings."

Pointless.

The word hit harder than any punch.

I swallowed, my chest aching. "I… I get it."

"Good," Law muttered. "Now forget this ever happened."

Then he walked away.

Just like that.

I stood there, staring at the sea, the wind cold against my face.

I should have known better.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

AN: I'm considering making part 2... I'll add more characters of course, tell me what you think, part 2?

[ganxiously]

This is the part of the helicopter crash fic I started writing today. I don't know if I'm going to post it to ao3 but I did want to share it here. Now, this first update is angst so read at your own risk, but it will be a happy ending, I promise. This is Tommy's pov and I'll be back with Buck's side of things and the aftermath as soon as I have finished writing them —

The silence is stark in the aftermath and Tommy’s ears ring like they are still expecting the screech of the altitude alarms or the roar of metal crashing into rocks and trees. He’s not sure what happened, one moment he was flying his helo back to Harbour and the next, the altitude alarms started going off one by one. He had tried to fix it, tried to pull the bird up even as it became amply clear that nothing was working. They had dropped fast, swinging this side and that with the wind and then his tail had hit the cliffside, sending him and his medic rolling down the mountain in a 30-tonne metal can. He doesn’t know what happened to her, Amy, a new recruit with a penchant for keeping to herself. That’s why they worked together so well, a good thing until it led them here.

“Amy?”, he manages to ask, his voice coming out hoarse. “Medic Garcia?”

There is nothing. Not even the sound of feeble breaths. Tommy swallows the burgeoning feeling of grief and panic and tries to think of a way out. It’s dead of the night, the scenery outside the broken glass of his wind-screen pitch black, the flickering lights of the city not even visible from where he’s landed. He tries to move himself and then immediately freezes as the pain threatens to take away his consciousness. 

This is bad, he thinks. I don’t know how to get out of this one.

He is still strapped into his harness and beneath that, his flight suit is soaked with blood. It feels tacky and slippery against his skin, enough of it that he knows wherever it’s coming from, it’s not good news. It’s not survivable. His legs are pinned and he’s pretty sure the wet feeling around his eyes is blood. His ribs hurt and when he tries to move his hands, his shoulders refuse to bear the weight.

Oh, I am definitely not getting out of this one.

The realisation hits like G during a rapid climb and for the first time in long while, Tommy’s scared. He is terrified, as terrified as he hasn’t been since he was a wet-behind-his-ears boy seeing war for the first time. He thinks his hands would shake if he could move them that fast, his breath would stutter if it already wasn’t, wheezing past the damage, past the blood and tickling at his lips.  He doesn’t want to die like this, the thought occurs to him. He doesn’t want to die at all. He wants to turn back time and return to those scant months when he had been, for once, truly happy. He wants . . . he wants Evan. Beside him, holding his hand, his fingers tracing the lines on Tommy’s palm as he talks about anything and everything that comes to his mind.

Maybe that is the thing about impending death. Its finality, its loneliness puts things into perspective really fast. When he had all the time in the world, he had faltered, he had a thousand and one excuses ready as to why it was a bad idea. Now that Tommy’s out of time, there is not one that seems to hold up to reason. He wants Evan, he loves Evan and he should have told him that when he still had the chance. He should have spent every second he had left loving him.

He somehow manages to take his phone out of his pocket, surprised to see that it’s still mostly intact, except for the one thin crack down the middle. He thumbs it open and there he is, brushed golden in the sun and laughing at something Tommy had said. It’s a damn shame he can’t remember anymore what that something had been. There’s no cell service on his phone, which is bad but it also relieves him. He doesn’t have to make a 911 call, only to tell them they are already too late and like this, he won’t give in to the urge to hear Evan’s voice one last time.

He opens their message thread like he has done so many times these past couple of weeks, typing and deleting messages that never seem to be able to convey his complicated thoughts. He clicks on the typing bar, watches the keyboard pop up and then just keeps on staring, looking at the bloody fingerprint on his screen as he tries to think of what to write. What last words do you text your ex-boyfriend who you broke up with? That I’m sorry and I think I’m an even bigger asshole than you probably think I am?

The pain in his body notches up, so spread out that he barely knows where it originates from and he grits his teeth with an effort to keep himself from screaming. Eventually, it passes and Tommy takes the opportunity to click on the voice message button to the right.

“Buck.”

He hates that name on his tongue. 

“Evan.”, he starts and then stops again because it still doesn’t feel enough. It doesn’t feel like it encapsulates everything Tommy associates with that name — the warmth, the safety, the incredulous how is he real? and the helpless adoration that he just can’t seem to keep at bay no matter how much he tries. So, he gives it one more shot, “Evan. My Evan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about a million things.”

A cough stops him, the movement jostling him enough that pain rips through him anew and he is left gasping and sobbing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay away. I’m sorry I didn’t leave earlier and I’m sorry I left when I did . . . I’m sorry I hurt you.”

He swallows the blood in his mouth or at least, he tries to but all of it comes out with the next cough.

“I should have stuck around. I should have stayed and I should have loved you as long as you let me. I should . . . I should have told you I love you. Even—even if you don’t and that’s okay. You should— you shouldn’t love someone like me but that was no reason to not tell you I did. I just . . . I should have loved you as hard as I could while I still had the chance, Evan. You, at least, deserved that.”

He’s getting colder by the second and the part of his brain that still works, tells him that he is going into shock. Tommy’s running out of time and he’s running out of time fast.

“I don’t want to die.”, he manages to say through the sobs racking through his throat. He thinks he should feel pain but there isn’t anything beyond numbness anymore, “I don’t want to die and I don’t want to go through death alone. I want you . . .”

No, but that’s not right, is it? He doesn’t want Evan in this mess. Evan doesn’t deserve to get hurt again just to accompany Tommy in his last moments. He should be far away, happy, healthy and at peace. Maybe it is better that they broke up. If this was always supposed to be the end, it is surely better that Evan no doubt hates Tommy a little bit now. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Evan will leave a flower on his grave one day.

“I really wanted to be your last, you know?”, he finally says after a minute of silence, the words spilling out almost conversationally, long after he thought he’s run out of things to say. “But more than that, I wanted you to be my last and I’m happy that I got it, even if it’s not in the way I wanted it to be.”

And it's so fucking typical of him, isn’t it? He is being so selfish right now, ruining Evan’s life like this just so he can get some things off his chest. And he knows Evan, he knows what this message will do to him. Evan will go through life with the burden of Tommy’s regret on his shoulders and he hates how tempting that thought is, that if not in his heart, Tommy’s existence will at least have a place in the scars he carries for the rest of his life.

Here lies Tommy Kinard. He’s the bastard that broke my heart once upon a time.

But no, he can’t do that to Evan. He’s been selfish when he kissed Evan the first time, when they decided to give it a second try and when he hurt Evan to protect himself. He’s been selfish every moment that he managed to steal in between.

“Nevermind.”, he breathes out, smiling through the blood that’s threatening to choke him. “Nevermind, Evan. You— you don’t need to know all that. You should forget me. Forget there was ever a Tommy Kinard who loved you. Live a happy life and maybe . . . maybe in our next one, I’ll get to keep you. I’ll delete this now. I would have deleted myself out of your life too if I could’ve but this will have to do. I’m really outta time here, kid.”

He tries to blink away the blind spots around the edges of his vision but he’s fading fast. He fights against the unmoored feeling that is taking over, tries to swipe his screen in hopes of deleting the message but his hands are too slick and too weak to do anything anymore. The phone slips from his grasp and falls with a thunk somewhere near his feet, not that it matters. Not when he can barely remember what he was doing with the phone in the first place. Something to do with Evan. Maybe.

He huffs at his uselessness.

“Evan.”, his lips shape the word with care even though his voice doesn’t quite manage to colour it fully but it’s enough. It’s enough to have that be the last thing he speaks, to be the last thing he thinks about. The name washes away the cold like dawning sunrise on a crisp winter morning and Tommy is at peace, he is content.

“Tommy?”

That’s Evan’s voice. He has to go. He has to answer. He has to—

[cupcakewebkinz]

Pillow Fight

ᰔᩚ Vee starts a wholesome little pillow fight with Shelly because she's a menace like that lmao (its really short I'm sorry I just needed fluff rn bros) ᰔᩚ

ʚ Caretaker Shanon au is mine!! ɞ

♡ @crayons-are-yummyy + @soupiestzilla + @stormflypirateskin pspspspspsing you all right now cmere read my short fic lol ♡

────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────

It was a cozy, rainy night, and the two had just gotten changed into their pajamas. Shelly was sat on her bed, adjusting her pillows, yawning sleepily as she did so. Vee was on her own bed, watching quietly, kicking her legs as she grabbed a pillow.

"Not cuddling tonight?"

"It's summer, Vee, you always kick me off the bed when we cuddle in the summer because you get too hot and I actually want to sleep tonight." Shelly pointed out groggily, yawning as she stretched, not caring if Vee saw her stomach show from under her tank top. Vee smiled at the vulnerable moment, and she soon threw the pillow she had in her hands right at Shelly, making her go "oof" as she froze mid stretch.

"Vee. What the fuck?"

"Lol-"

"Did you seriously just text speech out loud?" Shelly questioned, throwing the pillow right back at Vee, watching as it bounced off her screen and onto her lap. Vee immediately picked it back up.

"Lmao"

"VEE STOP-" Shelly wheezed before she cracked and started hysterically laughing, catching the pillow in mid air whilst laughing. Vee snorted before bursting out laughing herself, getting up to grab her pillow back, but Shelly just slapped her with it.

"Get back fiend! You threw it at me twice, it's mine now!" Shelly teased, making Vee gasp.

"You fool!! This calls for war!!" Vee stated, turning around, though Shelly just smacked her on the top of the head with a second pillow.

"Fight me, fool." Shelly stated, giggling like a giddy little kid after she left the pillow on the robot's head. Vee just grinned and pulled it off, nodding once.

"You're so on."

The two immediately were slapping each other with their pillows, squealing and laughing as they slapped each other around. At one point, Vee had climbed onto Shelly's bed, the two switching between smacking each other with pillows and hugging and cuddling with each other. They were laughing at everything, squealing every single time they got hit, both flinching despite never being hurt. It lasted for hours. It ended with Vee finally giving in, defeatedly flopping into Shelly's stuffed animal pile, fake low battery warning on her screen.

"Oh no! I'm running low on battery! Oh shoot, you win!" Vee very dramatically stated, then displayed a fake dead face, x-eyes and tongue out and everything. Shelly just burst out laughing at her, sitting beside her, then she yawned as she slowly laid down against her.

"I... I win... I love you..." Shelly sleepily stated, laughed once more, then promptly passed the fuck out against Vee's chest. She was drained, and Vee knew it, as she changed her display back to normal and wrapped her arms around the passed out fossil.

"Goodnight sweet little Cinnabun, I love you so much." Vee whispered, then she gave her a kiss on the head. The rest of the night the two just cuddled right there, Vee purring as she gave her passed out fossil all the love in her soul. She loved her wife, and absolutely loved teasing her wife, and she wouldn't have changed a thing about that night.

Except for how absolutely hot it was, but she somehow lived without throwing Shelly off and yelling about being too hot lol

[kiyomitakada]

At last the warehouse is silent except for Light Yagami's wheezing breaths.

Teru stands. His nice shoes are stained with viscera. He has just killed seven people.

He has never particularly cared about victory.

"Mikami," Light gasps out. "Mikami. You did it."

There is the blood of an eighteen-year-old boy splashed on Teru's dress shoes. He's never fired a gun before. He's handled plenty as a prosecutor, of course, typically while cursing the murderers whose fingerprints littered the handles.

"You're not God," Teru says.

"What are—you talking about?" Light manages a smile. It twitches oddly on his face, like a dying butterfly. "We won."

Teru just looks at him. Looks and looks and looks.

He used to wonder what God looked like. It was an idle thought, one only entertained in the depths of night when the sleep medication hadn't quite kicked in yet. He told himself it didn't matter; God was an entity that surpassed shallow things like appearance, and Teru's job was to follow him no matter what. Teru was not like the rest of Demegawa's little cult, who followed God only for the sake of personal safety and money. Teru was righteous. But he had wondered, regardless.

He had never settled on an answer. But Light Yagami, bleeding from the shoulder, brown eyes and manic grin—

Pathetic, Teru thinks. You're pathetic.

"Listen, Mikami," and Light tries to sit up, but hisses through his teeth and props himself awkwardly with one elbow instead. "You've done well. I'll reward you. Anything you want."

"Your watch," Teru says.

"My—what?"

"Your watch."

The boy, before he had been gunned down by Teru's own hand, had thrown a match. Teru has never been the type for schemes, but he knows for certain that whether real or fake, all of the notebooks are now ash.

"No," Light says, clamping his free hand around his wrist instantly. "You can't—it's from my father."

Teru could almost laugh. How nice having a father must have been. How inconsequential.

"I don't care," he says.

It's a fitting choice for a sacred compartment. Something paternal, something time-keeping, something small. It must fit right over Light's pulse point.

"It's not enough," Light tries. "It's—it's a tiny scrap of paper. It could fit ten names at most."

Teru feels his face fall. He can write very, very small, but the idea of the paper running out is terrifying.

Still. It's better than nothing. Perhaps he'll never even write in it. Perhaps he'll keep it on a necklace or frame it on his desk. Teru can do good work without the Death Note, but he cannot go on without God.

"I don't care," he repeats, and strides towards him.

Light flinches. He tries to get up again; his arm fails him, and he starts dragging himself backwards instead. Like a worm, Teru thinks. That's all he is. A worm and a murderer.

"Don't get closer, Mikami," he says, voice cracking with the beginnings of nervous laughter. "I still have—"

Teru punches him in the nose.

Light collapses. Teru very easily slips the watch off his wrist.

The shinigami is cackling.

"You don't know how to unlock it!" Light reaches for him. Teru yanks the watch away from his grasp. The idea of being touched right now is more repulsive than the blood. "I never told anyone!"

"I saw you do it," Teru points out. Just before he'd broken out of his restraints he'd seen Light twisting at the crown of the watch to kill Nate River. Four times. A holy number? Or just habit?

"Ryuk!" Light shrieks. "Stop him!"

Oh, there it is. The appeal to a higher power. But Teru's God loves him, and Light Yagami's false idol does not.

It's almost sympathetic. Teru is not a heartless man. He knows how it feels to be screaming for help that never comes.

"I'm not going to kill you," Teru says, folding the watch carefully and slipping it into his breast pocket. Light stares at him, eyes wild. "You're just misguided."

"How dare you—"

If Teru was more inclined to humor, he might have said One day you'll see the light. As it is, he closes his eyes. A sense of beautiful, serene inner peace descends on him. It was foolish of him to put so much faith in a human voice over the phone, to be honest. Teru knows better now.

This time, he'll get it right. This time he will please the real God.

In the meantime, he might as well spread His word.

Teru rolls his sleeve down. He grabs Light's bare wrist through the fabric and, before Light can pull back: kisses his palm.

A day ago, this would have been reverence. Now it reveals itself as pity.

Light sucks in a breath, sharp, pained. Teru lets go.

"Good luck," he says, and means it.

"Mikami! Where are you g—Mikami!"

Teru does not look back. The shinigami's cackles fade into the distance.

(Teru Mikami dies of unclear multiple system failure ten days later.)

[ @deathnotetober day 18: worship ]

[greenunoreversecard]

Hi! I rlly like your writing and was wondering if you could do a platonic fic w a gn teen reader and parental figures Charlie and Vaggie? I was thinking the reader is new to hell and the hotel and is very cautious around everyone except for Vaggie and Charlie who they’re very clingy and sweet to. Thank you<3

Hellp I 'accidentally' stole a person and now they think I'm they're mother-> chaggie x teen! reader (platonic)

A/N: joke about fucking milfs, joke about being ass r@p3d. Uhh, also familial cuddles.(gif charlie guiding sinners to redemption be like)

You didn't expect it to end like..that, much less the endless abyss and free fall that nauseated you after. And if you didn't expect the falling, you sure as hell didn't expect the crash.

It felt like you broke your spine, and on top of the pain there was a barage of sound, screams, moans, crashing. You name it, you hear it.

You groan pitifully, shakily rolling onto your side and curl gently into a ball not bothering to open your eyes.

As you lay in your current predicament, you hear a small gasp and rapid footsteps.

"Oh my Satan, are you alright? Oh my gosh, what am I saying of course your not alright- i- Vaggie!"

The what sounds like a girl says rapidly as she seemingly approaches, cracking your eyelids open as she kneels in front of you calling to this 'Vaggie'.

Blonde hair and pale composition, with cherry red buttons on her cheeks and startling bright eyes full of worry. Her hand reaches out to your shoulder, gently touching as rapid footsteps come from behind her.

"Charlie, what the fuck, you can't just-"

The other person stops as she peers over the girls, whom you now know as Charlie's, shoulder.

She has long white hair, skin a similar colour to that of a gargoyle. Red shirt a bright contrast to the Grey of her skin. She's seemingly short in stature, and has bangs covering one of her eyes. Her hand goes up to her mouth as she quietly gasps.

"Shit kid, you alright?" She quietly asks, voice much smaller and calmer than when she was repremanding charlie. She kneels down next to her, hand on her shoulder.

"I feel like I got ass raped to be honest." You wheeze out, rolling back onto your back and arms splaying out by your sides.

"I- here hon, let's get you back to my hotel-I-we should-uhmmm we can get you-"

As the first girl starts rambling about helping with injuries, and a 'Hazbin Hotel the second gently lifts you up, cooing lightly as you hiss from the pain. Honestly, you don't remember much as you zone out during the rambling, to focused on not falling asleep with the gentle sway of being held while walking.

And this was just the beginning.

-----

~some time later~

"Alright n/n, let's go over it again. What do we say when you feel like things suck and we need help from others?" Charlie says, smacking her thighs and sighing.

"To solve one's problems take off a mom's bottoms"

Angel snickers from beside you. Vaggie groans.

"Uhm. No. Don't, dont, uh- don't sleep with-"

'"What if I want to sleep with a milf?"

"n/n. Please"

"I-"

Before you can reply, a timer goes off. Charlie sighs again, as does Vaggie. Everyone in the group starts to head off to their own thing, and Angle nudges your arm and whispers a 'good one, kid' as he saunters off. All who's left their is you, charlie and vaggie.

"N/n, I know you don't.. aren't really like, well acquainted- yet- with the others, but please, I'm begging you try to awnser appropriately."

You sigh. It's been a few long months since winding up here, And charlie and vaggie have been a rock in this adjustment. You even met Charlie's dad, Lucifer and he spontaneously burst into tears at "His baby ducklings little duckling". Whatever that means, I guess. But, it does seem to sum up the relationship between you and the two women. The mothers ducks and their chaos child.

"M sorry char. I- I just-" you stutter, curling into Vaggie's side as she sits next to you. Charlie comes and sits on your other side, drapping herself accross you back and staying there. Grabbing Vaggie's hand as she reaches across your curled frame thats laying partially in here girlfriends lap.

"I know... It's hard. I get it, trust me. I just wish you gave the others a chance to see the amazing person you are. Because I know you know the actually anwsers.. I just wish you let others see the you we see"

You snort a small laugh. "Gee, thanks ma. Such encouraging words."

"She's serious, n/n. You're a good kid" Vaggie chimes.

"Mm, I guess." You add noncommittally snuggling further into the pillow you've now dubbed one of the two you now consider your parents.

It will take time, but Charlie and Vaggie will be there to help.

---

A/N: rushed ending bc I didn't know what or how to end it dhsjjfjej hope its ok and hope you enjoyyyy :)

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! This feels mean but what about ❛ i know i have a heart because i can feel it breaking. ❜ for Justice?

@pinkfadespirit, you said this feels mean but I feel meaner! Have some backstory-compliant whump from the perspective of our favourite maybe-demon...

@dadrunkwriting

Anders/Justice (implied), post-Awakening, pre-Dragon Age 2, implied cannibalism, angst/hurt/no comfort

the hardest of hearts

According to Anders, spirits are not meant to concern themselves with mortal matters that slip the boundaries of their nature. A Spirit of Justice is not a Spirit of Wisdom or Desire, though Compassion comes close to their nature - they both see a hurt, and desire amends to be made for it - Compassion through healing, Justice through ensuring such harm is not repeated. Emotion is not supposed to come into their nature - only the clean, bright line that connects what is to what must be. And yet-

To live in a mortal body, even a deceased one, is to feel echoes of all that it felt. When Aura appears at Vigil's Keep, he feels the echoes of Kristoff's love spark up in a heart that has not beaten in months, feels his grief at her sorrow, his helplessness at their inability to help, their inability to do anything but hurt her more. It is not in Justice's nature to be futile, to be useless, but there is nothing he can do for Aura except die, and that- that he cannot quite countenance. Not when he has seen the merciless cruelty of this world beyond the Fade, and how badly it needs him to sweep through it and set it to rights.

Anders thinks this is funny, or at least pretends to. He likes to treat Justice's complaints like they are futile, his plans as though they are impossible:

"You're a dead man walking," he reminds him, "You're hardly going to sweep into Denerim and demand the king reform his taxation system to make the wealthy pay their share. They'll burn you at the stake!"

"That may be so," Justice retorts, "but at least I yet walk. Have you truly given up on leaving this world better than the state it remains in?"

Anders scowls at that, "What do you expect of me?" he retorts, "It's a big, horrible world out there, especially for people like me. It was hard enough to win my own freedom - I don't have any more fight in me."

Justice knows this is untrue - Anders is perfectly happy to argue with anyone, up to and including the Warden-Commander, if her orders go against his ethics, his own internal sense of justice that runs so close to his compassion that they cannot be disentangled. He knows this is untrue when he comes to him in his cell and winds his fingers through Justice's own, ignoring the withered skin that now peels too easily, the loose, overflexible tendons, the stench that wrinkles his nose that Justice himself cannot sense.

"Please," he'd said, golden and bright as hope in the firelight, "I'm ready now. Let me help you."

He knows what this means, has known it in his bones, in the spark at the core of his nature, since Nathaniel first asked, so casually What would occur if a mage invited a good spirit to possess them? Would they still be an abomination?

He knows that, if he were truly a good spirit, at least the kind that Anders believes him to be, he would refuse him now. It was one thing to use Kristoff's body - it had been accident, rather than choice, and Kristoff had no longer been an active force within his own body, despite the memories he left behind. It was another to make the decision to take on another form, and one that was already in use, however willing Anders was to make the offer.

And yet- there was so much left he could do in this world. So much that they could do together, if Anders allows it.

"You have shown me an injustice greater than any I have faced." His voice emerges a cracked, broken wheeze, and he knows that in a little time, he will lose it all together. "Do you have the courage to accept my aid?" Do you want this? Do you understand that my nature is a heavy thing for a mortal heart to bear?

Anders closes his eyes. "I have the courage for that," he says, soft and ragged. "I don't have the courage to lose anyone else. Please. Now, before- before it's too late."

He wishes he still had the strength, the clarity to refuse, but while a part of him remains willing, his flesh remains so very, very weak, and in these matters, he is finding, the body's urges win out in the end, even a body as dessicated as his own. It is all the permission he needs, and Anders' soul is wide open, waiting for him alone, and he pours himself down the connection between them, filling him until they commingle and overflow, until his skin cracks and light pours from it, and there is a scream, and he does not know whether it is agony or ecstacy or the simple, impossible sensation of becoming-

They are becoming. They are one. They are Anders and Justice, and Anders-and-Justice, two souls now indivisible, and for a few, precious days, it is precious, it is holy, their souls sing a rapturous harmony, finding the chords that ring the same, the similar threads in their nature that pulled them together, and he thinks, perhaps, this body can hold them both, that Anders' soul - magnificent, capacious, beautiful - is enough to hold his nature in balance, to contain them both.

And then the Templars come, and the Wardens betray them, and the world is as Anders has always told him - far vaster and crueller than one man alone can conquer, and Anders- Anders dies, for what they did, for what Justice asked for, and that is the greatest injustice of all, and this cannot stand.

He kills them, of course. He tears them apart until every blackened fragment of cruelty that stains their souls is erased from their remains, with magic and rage and inhuman strength, because such people- such things should not walk this earth, because the world is far better with them in scattered, devoured, irreperable pieces than it is with them alive, because they have cast the sun of Anders' soul into shadow, and no good they could ever do will make amends-

This slaughter is not the worst, though. The worst is when he feels the creeping dawn of Anders' awakening, and realises that, within the chest the Templar pierced, his heart still beats- beats and breaks. At first he thinks that it is the betrayal, the cruelty, the injustice perpetuated upon him by those he called brothers- but then he cradles half a corpse in his arms, and weeps, and begs for forgiveness that cold lips cannot give, and it is then he knows what he has done, in his rage, in his vengeance, in his inhuman, unfeeling need to fulfil his nature. The Circle, the Wardens, the Templars - they could not break Anders, but Justice… oh, Justice has broken him with careless, merciless hands, and in doing so, he has learned the last and most terrible of human things Kristoff's body could not teach him - the sharp, brittle edges of a broken heart.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

So, my sister isn't into danmei fandoms, right? Not that she has a problem with them or anything, BL just isn't her thing and while she'll listen to me ramble about it and whatnot, she doesn't usually go and watch/read them herself. Now, this isn't a problem really, except I'm trying to explain the fengqing fanfic I'm writing to her, and she knows nothing about the characters.

Trying to make it easier for her to read through the plot, I had the bright idea to translate tgcf characters into somewhat similar harry potter characters since it's the fandom she and I grew up in and she will definitely know what's going on.

SO ANYWAY YEA, I have made a cursed draft of my fanfiction that I just.. cannot take seriously at all. I'm wheezing. I'm laying on the floor crying real tears guys. I can't breathe.

Feng Xin and Mu Qing translate best as Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy and now I have an entire outline of a dron fic in my draft folder just for my sister's eyes and it's haunting me. I'M NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO TAKE THIS FANFICTION SERIOUSLY AGAIN.

My very serious angst cover angst with angst filling hanahaki love child with satan has now warped into a crack fest and every single line is like a punch to the gut of hilarity.

I don't know if I'm going to recover from this 😭🤣

[themaclean]

hi i just came from ao3 and firstly, i have read ur vaultghoul fic probably 20 times already it’s just so good with spot on characterization and amazing writing, thank u so much 🙏

secondly, i was reading the comments on it and came across one abt wanting to see a pre-war au where cooper and lucy start an affair and immediately my ears perked up like 👀 all i could imagine is her being cast as his love interest, her being a big fan of his already, and them having a wedding scene where they fuck in her wedding dress after they call cut

n e way so sorry for rambling haha but unfortunately ive got the brainrot now

I MEAN HYPOTHETICALLY -- I'm mobile (and somehow wrote 2k words still wheeze) so I'll finish this when I'm on my PC but I played around with the idea a bit thanks to this ask. :)

...

Summary; Cooper Howard x Lucy MacLean, 2077 AU where Lucy and Cooper star in a movie together.

...

There's a whole host of ways that Vault-Tec could have cracked down on Cooper. Given the infringement of their security protocols and the divorce and the way they choked him out of all the good roles...

It wasn't such a far stretch that he'd have to take place in the biggest circle jerk of a film production where his super-fan shoved his daughter into a starring role using Cooper's connections.

Because, so far as the public knew, he was still a supporter of Vault-Tec and he'd do just about anything to sell that delusion.

Cooper crushed the heel of his palms against his eyes, a limp cigarette hung between his teeth.

The girl was a nightmare.

Stiff, picky, absent-minded. No emotion, either, no semblance of self-awareness. It was like some Disney Princess popped out of the cartoons in the worst way, quick to parrot the lines she was meant to say with perfect diction but nothing more than that.

And it was somehow his fucking job to coach the girl -- Lucy -- into a leading lady. The idea was that she was the daughter of the Overseer, played by her actual father, and Cooper was some vault dweller from another section.

The whole thing was convoluted. He did cowboy flicks and the sort that had a showdown at the end. This sci-fi garbage went right over his head, this future projection of the what-if. He didn't have time for the what-if.

He had a daughter he needed to vy for custody of and an expensive divorce on the horizon. And Barb had the best lawyers money could buy and he'd never thought they'd end up like this. There was no pre-nup and nothing to protect him.

And he didn't have a goddamn lighter.

"You shouldn't smoke."

Cooper near growled around the butt of his cigarette, only just keeping himself civil at the last moment. He turned towards Lucy, unable to mistake her for anyone else. There was something about her vacant, pretty face that irked him, those giant goddamn eyes.

"It's bad for you. I read an article about it."

"Maybe you'd be better off reading your lines again," Cooper said with a wave of his hand. He dug in his jacket pocket, the one he'd worn to set.

Bingo.

Lucy crossed her arms and leaned against the vault railing. It was strange to do the filming down, a hundred feet or so beneath the surface, but it made for impressive sets. They were around the corner from the rest of the camera crew and cast.

And they were alone for the first time since shooting. Most times, Cooper had a few stage hands or interns at his heel. And he didn't see Lucy around much, except for scenes. Didn't chase her down, didn't much think of her.

Except now he's aware she's still in the wedding dress she'd been in earlier. Stage blood soaked the stomach of it, thick streams of blood from where she'd been stabbed. But he'd saved her and they'd shared a chaste kiss for the camera.

And then he hadn't seen her.

"I thought you'd be a better kisser."

Cooper didn't withhold the glare, couldn't bring himself to give a fuck. "Pardon?"

"Just -- the kiss. Didn't really..." Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. "I grew up watching your movies. My dad is a big fan. I always figured you'd be a good kisser, but you aren't."

"You ain't much yourself, either," Cooper said with a raised brow. "Like a fish, sweetheart. Cold."

"I'm not a fish," she snapped back. "That's very mean. I -- I know I was mean first but I just thought you could do better."

Cooper couldn't help but laugh to himself at this miserable brat who'd sought him out to complain about an on-screen kiss. He took a long drag, his gaze slanted across the backs of his knuckles.

"You're here 'cause your daddy yanked some strings," Cooper shrugged a shoulder. "My only obligation is to make a movie for the studio. I'm not your damn boyfriend-for-hire, trying to get you off for the cameras."

Cooper was a professional and on his best behaviour -- usually. But the long days of filming for a corporation rooted in the exploitation of the country he'd fought for... That patience wore thinner with each moment he was alone with this brat.

"I'm here as an actress -- "

"You can act?" Cooper asked, mock surprise as he pressed a hand to his chest.

Lucy had the gall to look offended.

Cooper took another drag, his hip notched against the railing. "It's a movie, darling. I've been doing this shit for years. They ain't gonna let people tongue each other to high hell."

"That..."

"That is exactly how it works," Cooper said as he ashed his cigarette onto the grate beneath his feet. "It's not about you, it's about the shot."

Lucy looked at him like he'd slapped her. "I know it's about the shot."

"Could've fooled me." Cooper huffed out a breath. He'd kissed plenty of women for his films and he was a consummate professional. If the audience bought into it, that was all he needed. He didn't give a damn if his co-star got butterflies over it.

Especially not the daughter of some jackass at Vault-Tec, for a project that was nothing more than an empty propaganda piece. But he didn't have much choice.

"I'm here because it's important to my father. Vault-Tec wanted to keep as many roles as they could within the company -- "

"Nepotism."

"To promote the culture they want within the movie, which is carefully curated -- "

"Cultish."

"To their... Could you stop doing that?"

Cooper crossed his arms, his cigarette nearly finished. The vault had good enough ventilation that the smoke disappeared but the smell lingered. He pushed away from the railing, his expensive smile slack across his lips.

"I had my fill of the Vault-Tec propaganda, sweetheart. Don't make a difference if it's from a pamphlet or a pretty girl, I'm just doing what I'm being paid to."

"Wasn't it your wife -- ex-wife -- who brought you in originally?"

Cooper's neck twitched as he looked down at Lucy, as she smart-mouthed her way right into some shit she didn't know anything about. He tipped his head to the side, the annoying collar of the vault suit biting into his jawline.

"So you believed what Vault-Tec thought originally." Lucy toyed with the stain on her white dress, her fingers tugged at the frayed edge. "What changed?"

"Nothing," Cooper said, his voice flat.

Lucy met his eye, her head tilted to contrast the angle of his head. She settled a hand on the railing, uncertainty replaced her uppity edge from before. "I'm not trying to spy on you or get information. You just -- had your life together, and then you're getting divorced."

"It happens," Cooper said, aware now that she was between him and the crew. The vault split into spidery webs in all directions, though. He could leave her if he wanted. But then he'd end up who knows where, deep in the belly of this steel nest.

But they were alone, and she'd inched closer to him.

Cooper saw the leading ladies he worked with as colleagues. Sometimes they'd have to kiss or imitate gentle moments or intimacy -- but for the most part, he could compartmentalise it. But Lucy didn't act. She couldn't. She was an atrocious leading lady and she read everything as if she were saying it herself.

Like a porn actress, saying shit to get through to the action, rushing through the writing like it didn't matter.

It wasn't her fault. He had the sneaking suspicious she had no interest in acting or in this movie; that she was only doing it because her father asked her to do it. Maybe even so she could have an excuse to meet him, he realized dimly as she looked up at him with wide hazel eyes.

That separation -- of leading lady and of a romantic partner -- muddled with her. Because he didn't even like her. He didn't want to get to know her. He hated her father and he wanted nothing to do with this company.

And she was closer to him than not, and they'd kissed a handful of times, and she'd said he sucked at it.

Cooper rolled his jaw as Lucy didn't have the guts to do more than she had. Her moony eyes fixed up at him like a challenge. And then he felt his resolve snap because it wasn't like he had much to lose. This wasn't a real acting gig and she wasn't a real leading lady.

His hand snapped out, fingers and thumb dug into her cheek. He brought her close, to see what she'd do. The answer was -- not much. She didn't shout or push him away, their mouths inches apart as he hovered close to her, examining her beneath his lashes.

"Bad kisser -- that what you said?"

Lucy swallowed hard enough to nudge his hand. "Well, you were. I'm not going to lie to you to spare your ego."

Cooper made a soft sound from the back of his throat as he kissed her. The distant crack and shift of the crew as they moved their cameras from one vault room to another should be a deterent but Cooper doesn't care.

He's single, isn't he. Has been for a few months. He'd not acted on it, hadn't felt the urge to, but he's as trapped as ever in the shadow of what Barb had done to him. It's only fair he make use of that shadow to indulge, even if it's just to prove a point to this girl Lucy.

There's some inherent amusement to how she melted into the kiss. She wanted it far more than she'd let on, that soft mewing, moaning neediness as he stroked her long brown hair out of her face. He threaded his fingers softly through her hair, hand on either side of her face, fingers combing through her hair.

Her back was arched over the railing as he gave her the kiss she'd probably expected earlier, the one he wasn't about to throw out on camera. There's standards for cinema and he didn't want to waste film or time.

But then her fingers were on the zipper of the stupid fucking vault suit. He didn't stop her, even as she yanked it down and slipped her hand along his stomach.

If anything, he pushed harder against her. The fluffy white skirt of her wedding dress made it hard to get much for himself. But with a yank of her knee and the shift of her weight, he had her seated on the railing. Her shoulder caught one of the metal frames, to keep her pinned in place.

If this were any other job or any other actress, he'd give a fuck.

But it's Vault-Tec, through and through.

[liesonmytongues]

While y'all are waiting for the second hillbilly fic, have this draft I never posted 👍 it's old, so I'm not as happy with it anymore, but oh well!

Slasher(ish) x GN!Reader

Summary- You get a late night call from your boyfriend, nothing out of the usual. Except...he did something really, *really* bad. Won't you please forgive him? It was all for you.

Warnings- Graphic depictions of violence, old fanfic, Angst, Hurt/comfort, Murder, Yandere character, Caretaking (sorta), Slasher in the making, Pathetic men, Emotional manipulation

Word count- 5,200

A/N- This was written from a prompt by TrickedTreat on J.AI, and the first few paragraphs (while heavily edited!) largely belong to them.

Peter really hadn't meant to do it. But, God, it felt good.

"Shit...what did I just do?" He stood in the middle of the deserted street, leaning against an old rusted phone booth. He looked like a drowned rat, except the splatters on him were blood, not gutter water. The rat part was still accurate.

Peter's eyes flicked to the trees nearby, where the body was buried. It wasn’t a great job- first time for everything, right? The last dead body he'd seen was his mom’s, slumped over with a bottle of pills still clutched in her hand. But this was different, it was a body Peter had made. That creep that had been in the convenience store with him, the one who had been following his partner around town for weeks- huge, balding, bearded, reeking of sweat and stale beer. The same asshole who had been hitting on them with lecherous looks and filthy comments, despite being told off multiple times. Tonight, Peter had been working his shift when 'Baldy' swaggered in, grabbed a six-pack and a box of condoms. Disgusting. Peter didn’t want trouble. He tried to keep his cool, but seeing the guy up close made his blood boil. Not enough to kill him yet, no no, but his hands and teeth clenched and he really wished he was a little bigger. A little more intimidating. Maybe if he'd gone to the gym like you suggested, he would have been able to get out of this mess...

"I’d appreciate it if you left them alone," Peter said, voice cracking like a scared kid’s. "My partner. You've been scaring them."

Baldy laughed, loud and cruel. “They’d be better with a real man, son. Not some scrawny store clerk. Look at you, just skin and bone.” He shoved Peter hard, knocking him into a shelf. Pain shot up his back, but Peter didn’t flinch. "Tell you what, boy. I’ll treat them right. Saving this just for them," he said, patting the condom box. This fucking... He could’ve screamed and swung right then, but all he did was tremble and ring up the asshole’s purchase. Peter swallowed his rage as the man laughed his way out of the store. He felt useless.

Peter gulped, "Have a nice night sir." The words sounded pathetic even to him.

That’s when he heard it. "Coward." That word. The last straw. Coward? No, that's true. He's not a coward. Not when it comes to this- maybe when it comes to everything else, but not his partner. From the moment Peter flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and followed the creep to his ratty pickup truck parked in the dark everything was blurry. The neon smiley face from the mart lit up the pathway like a horror movie, and his boss was too cheap to fix the cameras, so there’d be no footage. Peter had always known the bat he brought to work could come in handy, but not like this. He didn’t even know where the strength came from, but the sound- the muffled crack of the bat against the man’s skull- was something he’d never forget. That wet, sickening squelch that followed? Even worse. He hadn't known human bodies could make such disgusting sounds, or that corpses didn't look anything like they did in the movies- definitely not. But the worst part had to be the wheezing and rattling that came up out of ol' Baldy's mouth and made it seem like he was still alive even after the fifth whack. The wet brain matter on Peter's bat told a different story. He never thought he'd get to know that the human brain smelled sweet- or that it was the consistency of soft fat. Never would have guessed that someone's face keeps their last expression...

Snapping back in the present, Peter clutched the phone cord, wiping his face, trying to steady his breathing. He had wrapped the body in trash bags and cleaned the scene in a trance, like he was on autopilot. It had all felt so natural- like he was born to do it. Now the parking lot was spotless, his bat was wiped down with bleach, and that fuckers car was in the bottom of a lake about a mile away. He's never felt that level of control before, it was a high even though the realization made him sick. He remembers the begging and then himself laughing- Peter had laughed after he killed a man with his own hands, and it felt so goddamn natural. He dry heaved a couple times thinking about it.

Peter held his breath the whole time the stupid phone line rang, squeezing the corner of the glass stand until his palm started to bleed from digging in so hard. But then you picked up, and he calmed down instantly- just like he always did when he heard your voice.

"H-hey...baby, Hope I didn't wake you up or anything. I'm getting off my nightshift early." He started, clearing his dry throat. "Can you come get me? The bus isn't coming for another couple hours..." God he sounds pathetic, it makes him want to cringe and curl in on himself all over again, but he needs to try and keep at least some semblance of cool until you get here- he can't have his darling getting panicked and scared while he's still all alone out here.

Peter really didn't want to be dragging you into this mess- god only knows what could happen to you, and that thought made him even sicker than realizing he just killed a man. But he didn't know who else to call. He has no one else he can call- and you've been here for him for so long. Surely you'll be here now too.

"Don't worry, you didn't wake me up, I was watching a movie. Are you ok? Why're you getting off early?" You sounded tired. Peter never liked to make you come get him in general, and now is even worse because it's so late at night and he's, y'know, deceiving you. Fuck he feels like he might puke…

On your end, the call came out of nowhere- you hadn't been lying about watching a movie instead of sleeping, but you were tired enough that it still startled you when the ringtone suddenly blasted through the house and interrupted whatever was being said on the TV. If it had been anyone else you would have hung up immediately, and honestly, you were thinking about just not answering. Seriously- who calls at almost 1 in the morning except for tele-scammers and salesmen anyway? The only thing that had you getting up was thinking that it might have been an emergency, and you wouldn't have been able to live with yourself if you missed that just because you didn't wanna get up.

"Yeah, thanks, babe. I'm just... I-I don't feel so great, y'know? It's been a rough night." ‘Rough night’ tended to mean a panic attack or two and being jeered at by some high schoolers who figured Peter was a good target- he didn't exactly seem like a gym rat, and most people that looked at him probably tended to think he's more likely to end up on America’s most wanted rather than America’s sweethearts. So much for proving them wrong. And so much for any cool nickname if he gets caught- ‘The convenience store killer’ didn't really have a good ring to it.

"Y'know what, you can tell me on the ride back. I'm putting my shoes on, ok baby? I'll be there in 10. Love you." You hung up right after he managed to stumble his way through a ‘love you too’ and put your shoes on right away- didn't matter that you weren't dressed for going out. It's not like anyone will be likely to see you anyway other than that creep who's been practically stalking you. Peter hung up the phone and paced back and forth, making the gravel crunch under his sneakers- Like Baldy's skull his brain supplied. He couldn't help looking around frantically every time he heard a noise- it was like everything was closing in on him. Every rustle of the wind, every distant car noise made him tense up, and he honestly wasn’t sure if it was from the fear of getting caught or the thrill of what he had done. Probably both.

Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, feeling the outline of his house keys and the chilly night air biting at his cheeks. His mind raced with what he would say to Micah, how much to reveal, and how much to keep buried. Like the body in the woods. He chuckled and then physically slapped himself for making a joke right now- it is really, really not the time. He owed you the truth, didn't he? But at the same time, protecting you from…this…felt paramount. Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the pair of headlights approaching until the familiar rattle of your old car pulled up beside him. Peter forced a weak smile, his stomach doing flips as he just stared at you through the broken window that you two really needed to get fixed up but hadn't found the time for.

"H-hey, thanks for coming to get me," he murmured, trying to sound normal as watched you climb out.

"I'm sorry… I..." Peter trailed off, his gaze fixating on the door, unable to meet your eyes. The smell of your old car, the faint scent of your deodorant, it all made him want to spill everything, to break down and cry in your arms like he's done a million times while you pet him and promise that everything would be ok.

…Will everything be ok?

You smiled like a worried, lovesick idiot when you climbed out of the car. Of course Peter wouldn't ever use the 'idiot' part- he wouldn't dream of ever insulting you, even in his head. Plus he's worse, so he doesn't really have any ground to stand on there. He was really hopeful you wouldn't see the blood on him until you were back home- hopeful that if you did you'd just brush it off as oil or dirt like Peter tended to get all over himself whenever he worked. Luck’s never really been on his side though, has it? And apparently the light from that stupid smiley face sign that never turned off was enough to tell that what's on him didn't really look like dirt or oil.

"What's on you?" You leaned in closer- like you were more curious than anything -and Peter wanted to cry. "Oh my God..." Squinting your eyes and rubbing some of the blood off Peter's face, you looked at it on your hand. It only took a second of rubbing it between your fingers before the smell hit you.

"Oh my God- are you ok? Are you hurt? Talk to me baby, what happened?" That's about the reaction he expected. You flicked on the car light and started examining Peter's body frantically- turning his face back and forth, patting his chest and sides, lifting up his shirt -just trying to check that he was ok. He let it happen. Let you examine him and force him this way and that and tug at his clothes to try and see if he was hurt. That's when Peter had the thought that he maybe should have cleaned up some of the blood on himself too- or maybe gave himself a couple cuts so it looked like he got into a fight. Anything so that this didn't look like exactly what it was.

Peter's heart was hammering in his fucking chest as your hands moved over him- how could he explain this? The blood wasn't his, that was easy enough to say and would calm you down a little- explaining why he had blood on him but that it wasn’t his was a whole other thing. Saying he picked up a dead animal or something wouldn’t explain the splatter, and because he didn't think of hurting himself, he can't say that he got into a fight with a customer. Fucking fuck, why does it have to be so hard to lie to another person when they caught you red handed after a murder?

"I-I'm not hurt, baby, I swear," Peter stammered, catching your hands in his, he needed you to stop being so concerned or else he was gonna spill.

"It’s not my blood." He'd gotten all quiet and was trembling like a leaf, but at least you weren't manic-groping him anymore. He knew he had to tell you something, give you some amount of the truth without dragging you into this mess he'd just willingly stepped into.

"There was a fight at the store," He still couldn't look at you. Couldn't look you in the eyes and lie after everything you've done for him- he knows you don't deserve it. But he also knows he can't tell you the truth yet when there's still a chance you could dump him and leave him in the woods with his mess.

"Some guys got into it right at closing. It got bad, and I-I tried to break it up. That’s how I got…this…on me." He gestured vaguely at the blood stains- it was a stupid excuse even to his own ears. Peter watched you, trying to gauge your reaction. You’re smart, obviously he won't be able to keep up the lie forever. Fuck, he doesn't even know if he'll be able to keep it up for a day, god knows he tells you everything. You know enough about peter- and all the people he works with -to freak out anyone. But this has to work for now.

"I managed to get them to leave, but it shook me up pretty bad," he muttered a few seconds too late to be believable- but he's hoping that the fact he's so obviously distressed will at least make sure you don't ask questions. For now.

"I'm so sorry for dragging you out here like this, especially so late. I just…I didn't know who else to call. I was scared, and I... I just needed you." His voice broke on ‘needed you’, and that plus his lip wobbling and the tears on his face turning pink when they streaked through the blood was enough to get you to drop it for now. He's your weak spot, that's for damn sure, and when he got like this all you wanted to do was hold him and give him everything he asked for- which was usually just cuddling and sweet words, but right now was probably a bath. He didn't look like he was in the condition to give himself one right now.

You gnawed on your bottom lip for a few seconds and stared at him while you debated whether or not to let him get away with this. He's not a good liar, especially when it comes to you—couldn't ever look you in the face (like now), voice all wobbly (like now), fidgeting and stumbling over his own feet (wow, just like now) —but usually you knew not to pry. If the man who would rather rip his own tongue out than so much as fib is telling a full on lie, it's probably for a good reason.

"...Ok, let's get you home and clean you up, baby." You wiped some blood away from Peter's mouth and kissed him before walking over to the passenger side, opening his door for him. He deserves a little pampering if he's this shaken up. Peter can tell that you definitely don't believe him. It took just a little too long for you to respond, and you were still all tense- a couple of great signs that Peter either needed to come up with a better lie asap or just…tell you he murdered a man. He just needed a good way to tell you. So you didn't leave him. He couldn't take it if you left him because of a stupid mistake. He watched you walk around the car and hop into the driver's seat, and kept staring when you pulled the car out and started driving back home. Peter's totally rigid, he can't stop staring and he can't stop thinking about what's going to happen later- he just can't stop rehearsing all the things you might say and how he could convince you not to leave him no matter what.

You were white knuckling the steering wheel pretty much as soon as you made it into the main roads, and it couldn't be good for your teeth how hard your jaw was set. It was clear that you're deeply concerned, and Peter hates himself for being the reason you were so stressed. He needed to find a way to ease you into the truth, to somehow make you understand why it had happened—why Peter had felt so compelled to protect you that he crossed a line he can't un-cross.

"I... Um…thank you. F-for being here and everything. I love you. I really, really love you," Peter murmured, barely audible over the hum of the engine. "I don't know what I'd do without you. I need you.” He meant what he was saying, but he'd be an even bigger liar if he wasn't trying to get you to feel worse for him. He can't help it! He doesn't want to be doing this, but you're the only person he's ever loved, and you've done so much for him! You're perfect, and he can't let you leave. You didn't say anything back. You didn't say anything the entire ride back. You were still too busy thinking about what actually happened to get Peter covered in blood and scared out of his mind, and you didn't want to say anything upsetting. This is serious- probably more serious than anything else you've been through so far, which is really saying something considering everything you've both gone through together. If something bad happened- like really bad happened -you need to be able to mentally process it. Which is why even as you neared your apartment, and Peter got visibly more upset, you just let him stew. The reality of what might happen was really starting to settle in for him- he had a chance to come clean, or he could push it down as far as possible and keep up his lie until you believe it. The thought made him feel sick. He's honestly shocked he hasn't vomited yet. When you pulled into the , Peter hesitated. He didn't want to get out yet- right now things were safe, albeit shaky- so he kept his hand on the door handle, feeling it bite at his palm.

"Hey, um, would you mind if we just sit for a bit? Before going up?" He wasn't ready. He needed this moment, however brief, to gather his thoughts. To find the right words. Because if there was one thing Peter knew, it was that you deserved the truth—the whole, unvarnished truth, no matter how horrible and murder-y it is. And he needed to find the courage to give it to you. He can’t look at you right now. It was fine a few minutes ago when you were staring out at the road and he didn’t have to see your eyes, but not now. Now he can only stare at his hands and lap and try to keep himself from crying. Knowing that he's the reason you're so anxious is making Peter feel a million times more nauseous- he knows he can't do this. He can't lie to you, he's so bad at it! He just can't stand seeing you upset!

"Yeah, of course." You unbuckle yourself and turn in your seat to face Peter. He just sits there and fidgets with his hands for a second, trying desperately to find the right words for what he did- some explanation that won't leave him kicked to the curb and have you leaving his life forever.

"Peter, baby. You can tell me anything, you know that right? I'm here for you. Talk to me, hun." You say when he doesn't do anything after a few seconds. Oh god, he can't do this! Not when you're talking so sweet and gentle and being so understanding even though he hasn't told the truth yet! He's gonna cry. Or puke. Or both. Peter could feel the lump in his throat getting bigger, like it was trying to choke him out and make him confess. Your gentle tone, the softness in your eyes, it all made it so much harder. How could he confess to such a heinous act to someone who looked at him with so much love and trust? He swallowed hard, his hands fidgeting in his lap, knotting and unknotting as if they had a mind of their own. Every fiber of his being screamed to keep the secret buried, to protect you from the ugly truth, but he also knew he couldn’t live with himself if this continued. It would eat away at him, at the ‘us’ you shared. Taking a deep breath, Peter finally looked back up at you, big, fat tears dripping onto his shirt and lap and making his nose run.

“Baby, I...” His voice broke, and he had to start over. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to lie to you. I just... I was scared. Scared of how you’d look at me after knowing what I did.”

He paused, taking another shaky breath, trying to steady his voice. “The blood wasn’t from breaking up a fight- I hurt someone.” His confession tumbled out in a rush, his words tripping over each other. “That guy who’s been bothering you? He came into the store tonight and kept saying things. I didn’t plan to... I mean, I just wanted him to leave you alone, and I tried, baby, I tried to just make him go away- but things got out of hand, and—and I hit him. I hit him hard, and I couldn’t stop, and it was so messy, and- and... he’s not going to bother you anymore! He’s... he- I-” Peter was cut off when that lump in his throat finally went away and a loud, hard sob forced its way up and out. It hurt with how rough and sudden it was, and then everything was coming out all at once and he couldn’t make it stop. He curled in on himself and kept sobbing and whimpering like a kicked dog- looking down at his hands clasped together, bracing himself for rejection, for disgust, for anger. For anything, because this is an insane situation and he just admitted to murdering your stalker for you.

“I’m so s-sorry, I didn’t k-know how to tell you. I didn’t want to d-drag you into t-this. I love you so much, and I c-couldn’t stand the thought of losing you over this... this terrible thing I’ve done. But- but I couldn't do it! I can’t lie to you- I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry, baby-” His voice kept cutting out in between sobs and sniffles, and Peter’s throat was starting to get raw- which really only served to make him sound even more pathetic and sad. You were upsettingly quiet for a solid minute- really, you just didn’t know how to react. Sure, you had spent the whole ride back home wondering what actually happened, but you never would have guessed murder! Your horribly anxious, barely able to leave the house without you, shy and never once violent boyfriend just killed a man. Should you call the police? Should you run away? Both, right? Probably both- no matter how much you loved him, no matter how much you wanted to hug him and let him wipe his tears on your shirt, no matter how well you thought you knew him - he just committed murder! You should lock him in the car and run up the stairs immediately, because he could hurt you- you should-

"Ok. It's ok." You surprised yourself, you hadn’t even been thinking about saying anything yet, and it came out so breathy that it didn’t even really sound like your voice. And obviously you surprised Peter as well, because he shot his head up and stopped sobbing almost immediately- like you startled him breathless or something. To him, you looked like you were thinking really hard- eyebrows all furrowed, hands clasped in your lap hard enough that it was starting to hurt. But then you actually started to think about it. You didn’t want to do any of those things you were considering. Because yeah, you really, really love him- he’s never so much as raised his voice at you, and the only time he ever hurt you was when he got so excited turning around to talk to you that he accidentally smacked you. And then spent 10 minutes apologizing. Plus…this was your stalker that was dead, not some random person. Peter hadn’t just killed some random bystander, and he sure as hell didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. You had to take a deep breath before attempting to look a little more relaxed again.

“...W-what?” Peter sniffled and sobbed a little bit softer and tried wiping his face with the back of his hand, but it really just smeared everything around.

"Everything is going to be ok. Alright, baby?" You smiled and pulled Peter in for a hug. The blood on his clothes was dry enough that not much got on you, but you’d definitely still need to get rid of these clothes- christ, you’ll probably have to burn them. Along with everything Peter is wearing too- because apparently you’re going to help him get away with murder.

"Everything will be ok... Let's go inside and get you cleaned up." You rubbed your hands up and down Peter's back for a minute to try and soothe him while he finished crying. He was insanely tense- probably a mix of being horribly confused and relieved -and he was getting snot and tears all over the shoulder of your soon-to-be-burned top, but you really couldn’t bring yourself to be grossed out right now.

"Really? You're not... you're not mad at me?" His voice was muffled against your shoulder, his words soaked with relief and residual fear. The possibility of losing you was the worst thing he’d ever gone through- worse than his mom, worse than his anxiety, worse than…earlier. But here you were, holding him, reassuring him that things would be okay. It felt surreal. You pulled back a bit, just enough to look Peter in the eyes. You still didn’t look 100% convinced, but he could deal with that- he’d make all of this up to you. He’ll convince you that this was the right choice, and then everything will be ok again. It made Peter's heart swell with a cocktail of love and guilt. How did he get so lucky, and how could he make sure never to jeopardize this again?

“I’m…I’m not mad.” You weren’t mad, but you were careful not to say that you weren’t upset. Because you were definitely upset- even if you couldn’t really put a finger on the exact emotion besides vague dread, mild panic, and wanting this to be over and taken care of. And also a sudden and intense relief that it was late/early enough that no one would be outside to see the both of you. Still, staying outside wasn’t a good idea, so as soon as Peter got himself together enough to open the door, you turned the car off and hurried him inside. As soon as that was done you locked the door (with all 3 locks, just to be safe), and had him strip off all the bloody clothes before going further inside. You were fine with a little cleaning if it meant the blood was gone, but getting blood all over the hallway and bathroom didn’t sound fantastic.

And then there was the fun part.

While Peter stood in the hallway, naked and still trembling a little bit while he waited for you to draw him a bath, you went over to the fireplace and lit a match- tossing all of his clothes and your own shirt into the brickwork once the fire was big enough. The smell of copper immediately smacked you in the face, but it wasn’t as bad as you expected- good, because this was going to be burning until everything was ash. Fuck, you’d probably have to completely scrub the car out too- and you should probably go with Peter back to the store tomorrow night and make sure everything is totally cleaned up. You didn’t see anything obvious when you picked him up, but you also barely got out of the car.

“Baby?” Ah, right. You’d kinda just been standing there staring at the fire- your boyfriend needed to be taken care of too. Peter didn’t sound particularly scared anymore, but he did still sound kind of pathetic. Which wasn’t helped by the fact that he was nude, and when you looked at him he seemed completely exhausted.

“I know. C’mon, let's clean you up.” He followed you into the bathroom like a sad, lost puppy- complete with holding onto your waistband with a couple of fingers like he just really, really wanted to touch you. “In we go.” You turned the tub faucet on and helped Peter climb in while it was filling up, rubbing his knee while you fidgeted with the temperature. Luckily most of the blood had gotten onto his clothes, so you really only needed to wash his face and hair- easy enough. Peter was pretty quiet the whole time, but he let you move him however you wanted so you could wash him properly- and, unfortunately, you almost gagged when a little chunk of what you could only assume was human brain fell out of a matted, bloody chunk of hair. Disgusting… You didn’t bring it up though, just tossed it into the toilet and kept it up with the soap and conditioner, figuring it was probably for the best to not remind the poor man of what he’d done. Of course that was sort of a difficult task by the end of the bath, because even though he was clean of all the blood, the water definitely wasn’t- stained light pink all around. Just another thing you’ll have to disinfect.

“I’m sorry…” Peter whined after you’d drained the water and brought him back into your bedroom. He was drying himself off, and you were setting up the bed so the both of you could finally sleep- god knows you need it. “I’m so sorry… I love you so much.” He looked at you like he might cry again, and all you could really do was sigh and pull him over to the bed. You fell onto it with a grunt and pulled the covers up, where Peter instantly wrapped his arms around you and snuggled into your neck.

“I know, I love you too.” God…What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?