#35 years of death metal

[r3tr0r0ck3r]

ℌ𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡, 𝔡𝔦𝔪 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩 𝔰𝔲𝔫

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔐𝔦𝔰𝔤𝔲𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔰, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔪𝔢

𝔖𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔫, 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔫𝔬 𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔍𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫 𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴

𝔗𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔫𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔯

𝔉𝔬𝔯 ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔢 𝔖𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔫 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔰, 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔐𝔦𝔰𝔤𝔲𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔰, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔪𝔢

𝔖𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔫, 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔯

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔉𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔰, 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔰, 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔰

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫

𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰

𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔶 𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯

ℭ𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔩 𝔖𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔫 𝔰𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔦𝔢

𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔖𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩

ℑ𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯

𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰

𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔶 𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯

ℭ𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔩 𝔖𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔫 𝔰𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔦𝔢

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔢��𝔦𝔩 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩

𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔭𝔢𝔯

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔫𝔬 𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔍𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫 𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔉𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - 𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫, 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫, 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔯

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 - ℑ 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔦𝔱, 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫

[babygorewhore]

I wanna make you mine

Spencer Reid x fem!Hotchner Reader

You move back home with your Dad, Aaron Hotchner after turbulent situations as a dancer at a local club. Before you can give a private dance, you see that the client is Spencer Reid. Who not only works for your dad, he also happens to be your college teacher.

W.C 3.1k

Warnings! Exotic dancer! Aesthetic and reader is Hotch’s daughter but skin color is never described in fic. Reader is diagnosed with BPD! Slight angst with her past! Age gap! Reader is 25 and Spencer is 35! Light fingering! Unprotected sex! Daddy kink! Dividers by @xxbimbobunnyxx proofread once because I was sick as hell

The last thing you expected was to be unpacking your last suitcase in your childhood bedroom in your father’s house at nearly twenty six years old. You didn’t have much to bring, having to live on the run for several months years ago when you were a teenager.

You sigh and plop down on your small mattress, bare legs covered in glitter. Aaron Hotchner was your father. The head profiler of the BAU in the FBI and acclaimed in his successes but to you he was just…Dad. Jack was your little brother, someone you hadn’t seen for a few years. When you told him you were going to stay in the house with them, the little boy was ecstatic and crushed your torso in a hug with his kid arms.

“Settling in?” Your dad’s voice snapped you out of your trance and you gave him a tight smile. Hotch stood with his predisposed blank expression with his arms crossed.

“Yeah. I’m good. I’m about to leave for the night.” He didn’t respond to that and you bristled. You knew your father wasn’t happy about the way you were able to pay for school but you were well over the age of being an adult. Your mother’s murder when you just turned eighteen left you with very little choices so you turned to dancing.

“You don’t need to do that. I can find you another job. Something part time. You could still pay for school.” Hotch offered but you shook your head, finally standing as you adjusted your jacket.

“Thanks but I’d rather handle it on my own. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You stepped around him, letting the silence hang in the air as you carried your purse. A change of clothes, heels and mace were secured.

You drove to the club and practiced the mask you’d built for years of your new lifestyle. The separation of your parents, Mom’s death and a series of abusive relationships that followed afterward left you broken. Angry and right now, you felt cold. You didn’t have any friends. How could? Who would understand you? Who would want to? You were full of hate and despair. You kept your job a secret when you went to school during the day. No one spoke to you and you didn’t speak to them.

You felt like a burn victim. Every touch hurt. You didn’t want to let anyone in. You couldn’t handle the hurt that would come along with it. It felt easier to be cold. To put on your favorite pair of heels, roll your body on the metal and turn off your brain. In the club, you could just…be you. Your job didn’t require a lot of words. Your playlist ramped through the speakers as you danced, a practiced seductive smile and a dark look in your eyes illuminating in the glow. Bills were thrown on the ground as you worked the floor, amping up the growing crowd and your regulars.

A pang flashed in your chest as you thought of Hotch's face when you left home but you pushed past it and continued. You had a private dance to give after your time on stage so you mentally prepared for that.

After a while, you sauntered off the stage and touched up your makeup. Time to make yourself as desirable as possible for this lap dance. You took a breath, plastered on a smile and opened the curtain for the hidden room before your eyes widened.

Spencer Reid was sitting on the velvet couch, legs spread and his pants obviously tightening. His lips parted in shock when he saw your nearly naked body and you stood there still as a statue. You saw this man every single day for hours. He worked with your father at the BAU and worst of all?

He was the instructor at college.

“Uh-” You began.

Spencer shot up and gave you the decency of averting his eyes from your breasts. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know you were a dancer here. This is extremely inappropriate. Here,” Spencer dug out a wad of cash out of his pocket, shoving it into your palm.

“Wait, I didn’t actually-” But he was storming out before you could finish the sentence.

After the awkward as fuck encounter with your teacher, the rest of the night went smoothly. You crashed into bed after counting your cash to sleep for an hour. Hotch was already gone but he did make another pot of coffee in his departure with a note. You push back your wet hair as you pour the liquid into a cup and read the paper.

“Have a good day- Love, Dad.”

You grit your teeth and try to bite back the anger percolating in your chest as you leave the house.

The university was large so you usually went unnoticed as you settled into your usual seat in the middle of the room. Another thought you didn’t allow yourself to entertain was…you thought about Spencer.

Alot.

Ever since you saw him the first day, you were almost obsessed. His long waves that hung by his ears, tall lean body with a hint of muscle and his converse he always wore. He was ten years older than you but younger than the other professors. He was awkward. Tended to ramble and sometimes he showed a sense of self doubt. But he was so fucking adorable. You almost felt like a girl again, doodling little hearts around his name in your notebook yet you never approached him. You never raised your hand.

Spencer came in with seconds to spare, checking his watch and he settled his bag behind the desk. Your pulse quickened when his eyes found you briefly and then he began to speak, “Class, we’re going to pick up from yesterday. I’m going to give a lecture-“ He went on with his lesson plan but you focused on his hands gripping the wood of the table as your lips found the tip of your pen.

You were a good student, smarter than people gave you credit for so you got away with only half paying attention as he talked. He was avoiding your stare and you felt a little sense of power.

When class was over, you took your time standing from your seat but you didn’t expect him to say, “Ms. Hotchner, do you mind staying for a few minutes? Unless you need to catch the next,”

“Of course, Mr. Reid. No problem.” You smiled and waltzed over. You popped your hip, tilting your head as he swallowed and waited for the rest of the students to leave.

When the classroom was empty, Spencer cleared his throat and his brown eyes flicked over your body. You wore form fitting clothes with an oversized jacket, your hair was dry now and you pursed your gloss lips.

“I want to apologize for last night. That was inappropriate. I hope I don’t make you feel uncomfortable but if you want to transfer out of this class, I will sign the papers.”

“Transfer? Why would I do that?” You raise a brow. “It’s not a big deal. I have to pay for school somehow.” Spencer flexed his jaw and nodded.

“There’s a professional courtesy here and I don’t want to break that.” You smirk at him.

“So it’s not because you work with my scary dad? You just don’t want to feel awkward since you saw me half naked.”

“Let’s just agree to not bring it up.” He interrupts and adjusts his shirt. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

You shrug. “That you went to strip club last night for a private dance? Your secrets are safe with me.” You wink.

“Stop doing that.” He says sharply and you laugh breathlessly as he narrows his eyes at you. Leaning down, Spencer speaks quieter. “Don’t flirt with me. It’s not right.”

“Who said I was flirting with you?” You contradicted the statement by casually exposing the length of your neck as you peered at him with darkened eyes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Spencer turned to leave but halted when he felt your fingers brush his shoulder.

“Running away again?”

Spencer’s Adam's apple bobs as he looks at your hand. You allow it to fall away as he speeds out of the room with a growing fire in your veins. You only wanted him more now.

When you got home, you completed homework and set a timer for a thirty minute nap. You stretched your arms over your head and peeked out of the window. It was getting dark out. You’d be leaving to go to work in a little bit but you narrowed your eyes when you saw two cars in your driveway. One was your father’s and the other was Spencer’s.

A deranged giggle escaped you as you changed clothes. Putting on a tank top, shorts and you pulled your g strip higher over your hips.

You heard both your father and Spencer talking when you came downstairs. You see open folders on the dining table, the coffee pot and both men looking up at you.

“Hey,” You greet casually and Hotch simply nods at you.

“Are you going in tonight?”

Spencer shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His suit shirt is unbuttoned partially, hair messy from running his fingers through it and his lips part.

“Yeah I am. I just wanted to come down and say hi to my favorite teacher.” You refrain from biting your lip as you see Spencer breathe heavier and Hotch returns to scanning the paperwork.

“Jack is at a sleepover for the night since it’s the weekend. Reid and I are just going over Case details. I’m not going to try and convince you to stay home-“

“Then don’t.” You snap at him.

“But there is a killer out there and I’d rather you stay home.”

You scoff and lean against the wall. Arms crossed as Spencer focuses on the floor. Your dad’s expression is made of stone. “Dad, just say it. You’re embarrassed your daughter is a fucking dancer. You don’t need to beat around the bush.”

“I’m not embarrassed. You fit the victim profile and I don’t want you to get hurt.” Hotch responds with a hint of frustration.

“Oh? Like my step mom?” The words leave before you have a chance to think and you shake your head. “Dad. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yes. Just like your mother. You’re a vulnerable young woman. You’re coming from a stressful situation and you work late at night. That’s exactly what the unsub looks for.” Hotch flashes a glance at Spencer. “And if you are going to work, then Reid will follow you there.”

The younger man doesn’t argue with your father. You don’t either and you nod. “Sure thing. You can be my stand in daddy.” You could have sworn you saw fire flash in Spencer’s eyes but he gave your father a tight lipped smile.

“Guess I’m on a bodyguard shift.”

Hotch swept over the table and returned to looking at the paper. “Bodyguard isn’t the right word. Keep her in your sights.”

Spencer tried his best to remain invisible but you kept your eyes on him the whole time you danced on stage. You hustled harder than usual. Wearing the crowd's favorite set and you made sure to give him the best angle of your ass while you humped the floor.

You didn’t have any private rooms yet so you were going to focus on customer service as much as possible as the brown haired agent stood awkwardly in the corner when you had an idea.

You step off the stage and make your way towards him. Spencer tries to press himself into the wall as you get on your hands and knees. You crawl towards him as he looks down at you with flushed cheeks. People start whistling as you turn around, slowly standing and sitting down on his lap. You’re lost in the rock music as you grind down on his pelvis, feeling him grow hard.

“I know you want to touch me,” You tell him as you lean your head back against his shoulder. Spencer groans as you feel his arm shaking. “Go ahead. I won’t tell my dad.”

“You’re playing a game with me,” He says against your ear. “And you’re going to lose.”

Spencer lifts you up off his lap and you use the momentum to spin around. Setting your heeled shoe in between his legs. His gaze is filled with desire but he won’t break by this. Yet. You could tell.

“I never lose, Spencer.” You bite out his name as you remove your leg. You allow your hands to fall on your tits as you continue slowly dancing.

“And I don’t fuck around with desperate little girls trying to act out a fantasy.” His statement ignites your fire. You’re the desperate one?

You remove yourself from him and storm off. You hear him call your name as you go into the dressing room, slamming the door shut as you throw your clothes over your body. You weren’t sure if it was what he said or just the build up of everything but you wanted to rage out.

“Hey girl, are you okay?” One of your friends asked you as she got ready.

“I’m going home. They can deal with me being gone early one night.” You growl as you march out and you rip open the entrance.

You storm to your car, climb in and try to start it. But it won’t turn on. You turn the keys to no avail and you let out a scream. Pressing your forehead to the steering wheel, you huff when you feel a knock on the window.

Spencer opened the door and you glared at him.

“Car won’t start?”

“Um yeah no shit.” You bark and Spencer sighs.

“Come on.”

“What do you MEAN come on?” You ask him and he holds out his hands.

“I’m going to drive you home.”

You want to refuse and be petty but you were honestly too tired to fight about it. You slide into his passenger seat and turn away from him. Spencer gripped the driving wheel firmly as he drove you home. The ride was silent. As he shut off the engine, you quickly exited and entered your home.

He was on your heel, “Will you stop for one second?” You spin around but start to stumble in your heels and before you hit the ground, he catches you by the arms.

“Whoa; whoa it’s okay, I got you.” His voice was gentle and he steadied you to sit on the couch. “Let’s take these off,” Spencer crouched down and started undoing the straps around your ankles, his long fingers grazing your skin and you stared down at his brown curls. Without thinking you tousled them and he glanced up at you with a hazed expression.

“Your hair is soft.” You whisper and he gives you a tiny smile.

“Everyone says that,” He chuckles and pulls off your heels. Spencer’s brown irises trail over your legs and then flicker around the room. He puts his hands in his pockets.

“You know bottling everything up isn’t going to help you.” You bristle and start to scowl.

“Who says I’m doing that?” Spencer raises his eyebrows.

“It’s also my job to study human behavior.”

“Oh? So you’ve been psychoanalyzing me?” You challenge and he shrugs.

“You make it easy.”

You make a growling noise at the back of your throat and roll your eyes. “You sound like the shrink I saw after Mom died. That’s when she told me I have borderline personality disorder.”

Spencer nods in understanding. “That’s a hard one to live with. It makes sense after what you’ve been through. But you…don’t need to push away your dad. He’s just trying to be there for you.”

“I don’t need anyone.” You ground out.

“Everyone does. It doesn’t make you less because you have needs.” Spencer offers simply and you stand up.

“Spencer, you can’t just say things like that and then pretend I don’t exist.”

“You’re ten years younger than me. I work with your father. I’m your teacher. This wouldn’t be possible-“

“I’m a grown ass woman, Spencer. Just because you’re scared doesn’t mean I am. But if you don’t want me,”

“You think that’s it? You think it’s because I don’t want you? You’re all I fucking think about. It takes everything I have not to excuse everyone out of the classroom and take you right over my desk.” He says with a husky voice and you run your tongue over your lips.

“Maybe you should stop being a pussy. And actually do it. Come on, Spencer. I know you probably have some pent up anger you need to take out…why don’t you show me exactly what you’re made of?”

That was all he needed. He crashed his mouth to yours in a kiss, you sucked his lower lip and gripped his collar as he backed you back onto the couch. Spencer mounted you, hauling your knees apart as he ripped away and stared at your soaked pair of panties.

“Creaming yourself over a little kiss? God damn princess,” He breathed and peeled them off. He tossed them over his shoulder, rubbing his digits over your swollen clit. “Such a pretty pussy.” He praised and worked you over.

He dipped his fingers inside you, curling them as you tightened around him and clawed his shoulders. “Spencer, don’t tease me. Fuck, I need your cock. I need you to fuck me.” You whine.

“Desperate for my dick already? Aww, that’s so cute. But I can’t say no to that pout of yours. Fuckin gorgeous.” He shoves down his pants and boxers, pumping his precum leaking dick a few times before slamming into you.

You throw your head back as he thrusts into you aggressively, his thumb working your clit as he moves and buries his face into your neck. “You’re just a good girl, huh? Needed me to take care of you? You want me to fill you with my cum and make you daddy’s doll?”

You harmonize with his moans as you grow close, “Daddy I want you to breed me, don’t let anything spill out. Just stuff me,”

You feel his ropes of cum spill into your cunt and quickly follow suit. You wrap your legs around his hips, keeping him in place as he rocks into you. Fucking you through as his balls slap against your ass.

“Don’t worry, princess. Gonna fuck you all night long. Since you wanted to toy with me during class. Now it’s my turn to toy with you.”

Spencer heaved you up, carrying you to your bedroom and shut the door. Thank god you fucking moved here, right?

Tagging @xxbimbobunnyxx @littlexdeaths @oceanblvd111 @lilacheavenn @oceandriveab @starkeysprincess @redhead1180

[carnivore-voyeur]

A Lengthy List of Per Eriksson Facts for Future Reference

(Based on the Live he did on Instagram. I rewatched it and made a list so you don't have to)

He's a t-shirt collector and he (allegedly) has more t-shirts than Jutty Taylor.

He says he barely paid attention in school b/c he was too busy playing guitar.

His favorite tattoo is the one on his chest. It was his first tattoo.

The back tattoo took several sessions and 30+ hours. It was very painful.

His stomach tattoo hurt the most. It's his least favorite and he wants to get it removed.

He took out his lip piercing b/c it was uncomfortable to eat with. He kept biting it.

He likes playing realistic first person shooter games. He's a PC and Xbox gamer.

His favorite guitar is the Fender Stratocaster. It's the one he uses in Ghost.

He was invited to see Rite Here Rite Now in LA.

He saw Ghost for the first time in 2011 when he was in Katatonia.

He started out as a touring guitar tech and worked for Opeth, Meshuggah, Dark Funeral, Katatonia, and more.

He's been playing guitar for 35 years and he thinks he's a mediocre guitar player.

Per started out learning how to play drums b/c his older brother was a drummer.

He had his necklace custom made in 1999/2000. He rarely takes it off.

He says his Finnish is not good.

He doesn't speak Spanish very well either. He understands more than he can speak.

He's a Snoopy fan b/c his mom got him a Snoopy plushie when he was two. He still has it.

His favorite horror movie is The Shining. He prefers the movie to the book.

His favorite Katatonia song is Sweet Nurse.

He loves animals.

He does enjoy black metal.

He thinks his hair sucks.

His favorite horror game is Silent Hill II.

He had an apartment in Barcelona, but he no longer lives there.

He was in a band called Genocrush Ferox that he says was a technical death metal band.

His favorite food is tacos.

His favorite band is Macabre.

His favorite colors are black, red, and purple.

He's seen Metallica live many times. It was his favorite band when he was a kid.

He says the hardest part of touring is traveling and boredom.

He loves true crime and he studied serial killers. He doesn't support them, just interested in their psychology.

He'd love to play with King Diamond some day.

He prefers still water to bubbly water.

He's seen SOAD live a couple times.

Toto was one of the first bands he saw live.

He's played Dead by Daylight but it gave him motion sickness.

He gets nervous playing live.

He loves good drummers.

He plays guitar, bass, and drums. He likes to sing too but says he's not great at it.

He says he had a bad experience meeting one of his heroes.

He's seen Rammstein and loves them.

He loves the word dong because they use it in his favorite show, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

He doesn't understand why he has fans.

He says he will never do anything with Bloodbath ever again.

He hates social media.

He absolutely loves his baphomet plushies.

He prefers dark evil horror than gore.

He likes it when people call him babygirl.

He doesn't like anime.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

BABES IM ON THE FLOOR 😭 I watched this Price Voice Lines Video and my god 🫠 His voice is so deep im litrally insane. Could you maybe do something with his lines around the 13:35 mark, where he’s being a self-sacrificing jerk? 🤭 Maybe the Reader is with him on a mission or something and like their both super protective and trying to save eachother or something ❤️

All, Most, Some, None

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS:  Snow melts in the heat of blood.

WORDCOUNT: 2.4k

WARNINGS: Angst, major character death(s), some fluff in the beginning, protective!Price, pre-relationship pining, obliviousness, blood, bullet wounds, hurt/no comfort, etc. no happy ending

A/N: You know I have to finish out my requests with just pure heartbreak.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You look out over the dark landscape and take down a breath as the atmosphere of the camp behind you murmurs like a warm drink. Night had fallen swiftly two hours beforehand when you’d first volunteered to take watch, your smile bright and eyes eager. Snow was just beginning to slide down from the gray sky, thick clouds hanging like a navy cloth—splotch marks of yellowish stars a far-off glimmer of infinity. 

When the footsteps echo out, coming to your position, you already know the weight and pace of who it belongs to; can trace the way his feet will conform to the dirt and the crunch of white powder. A grin flickers your lips easily but you don’t bother looking over your shoulder. 

John huffs as he takes his place beside you on the lookout, crossing his arms over his chest. In the corner of your eye you spy on his loose yet measured face, that authoritative edge that seeps into his skin at times. 

For a long moment, the two of you look out over the earth, studying the dips and drags of the Northwest Territories of Canada in early winter. While cold, the jackets the both of you wear take the chill off well enough. Along the body of your MK14 EBR, your fingers rest casually—no need to be tensed and ready. Your sharp eyes hadn’t spotted anything for eons. 

“Sitrep, then, Sol?” You hum under your breath as John looks over at you with a raised brow.

“Rabbits and Caribou, Sir.” Your voice goes teasing, “I think we’re boxed in from all sides—I suggest immediate evac.”

A low chuckle and a firm shake of a beanied head, a puff of condensation as the darkness seeps over all to be seen. John glances at you with a smirk.

“Unfortunate, seeing as we just got here.” You smile and laugh deep in your throat. It was at moments like this that you thanked whatever deity was out there that Captain Price had seen your potential all those years ago. 

He’d handpicked you when you were nothing but a Private—brought you up with knowledge and stern, yet gruffly companionate, assistance all the way to Lieutenant. You don’t know the exact moment when you started to get flustered around him. 

Your chest is tight right now, fingers that were once cold going clammy as you twitch them. Inside your chest, your heart pounds blood into the thin drums of your ears like boot-thumps. Clearing your throat, you shift your feet and push out, “Did Laswell get in touch?”

“Ah,” John shakes his head, taking a breath as he says, “Negative. We’re on our own for this.” He turns his head fully to you and for a moment you’re enraptured by the shine in the depths of his blue irises. Teasing, “Think you can handle it, then?”

You turn away quickly, face burning. 

“Doubt me?” Matching his jab you smile widely. John chuckles and jerks his shoulders, grunting as his chin tilts. 

“Never.” Hiding the violent burn of your cheeks, you look at the landscape quickly, nails tapping the metal of your gun. 

“Sol?” John speaks after a moment of tight silence. You blink over with an interested look, cocking your head. The Captain had shifted to fully face you, and one of his hands itches at the side of his finely-trimmed beard. Fast eyes glance over your form like a studious teacher—your lungs still inside of your ribs. John mutters, “Stick near me tomorrow, yeah? Want you on my six.” 

Touched, your brows still furrow with confusion. 

“Don’t…you need me to lead Unit Two?” John’s already shaking his head, gritting his teeth. It’s like something’s bothering him. 

Feet taking you forward, you grab onto his bicep and stare into his tense face with slight concern. “John?” You ask, lids narrowing. 

The man stills at the sensation of your touch, even separated by the layers of his gear and jacket. Eyes slip to yours and lightly soften, the edges easing in their relentless wrinkle of dark thoughts. Like the star that your codename emulated, you seemed to be a ray of illumination for the Captain, and John’s nose twitched before his eyes quickly looked away from your open face. 

It wasn’t right to think the way he did about you. 

“Just have a feeling, Love,” he shakes his head slightly, clearing his throat. Your hand drops from him and he stops himself from snatching it back. 

You smile at him, huffing a laugh. 

“Well, who else’ll be able to take my place, then, seeing as you’re so eager to have me by you?” Gazing behind you into the small camp, John grunts, keeping his eyes on you. A small smirk slips over his lips and pulls his beard back.

“Daniels has got it…copy?” Your throat hums in consideration before you nod in a firm flinch of your head. 

“...Alright.”

“Good.” The Brit shifts his feet and the snow squeals. Snowflakes collect on the top of your head, sitting atop your scalp like tiny insects as the swell of your mouth goes back in a grin. John blinks at you, and before he knows it, he’s extending his hand up to his beanie with little thought beyond how lovely you look like this. 

He plops the fabric down on your head and you snap a hand up to press into it in shock. The man’s large frame slinks back as he takes his leave with you looking back at him; his feet make tracks, leading away to mirror the ones that came before. 

“Don’t get a cold, eh? I’ll expect you to be back in your tent within the hour, Lieutenant.” Face burning, you can’t answer. 

Blue eyes peek over a wide shoulder. Something sparks in those met gazes, a pinprick of wonder and deep affection. Perhaps it was even love.

The snow falls faster, and as John disappears into the darkness the chill of the open ridge suddenly seems less violent than your pulse as it thumps to the humming of the earth. Hiding a giddy smile, you look back out and rub at your neck; hat upon your head perfectly ingrained with a scent of charcoal and pine. 

—

“Leave me! I won’t make it!” The words made your stomach drop through your intestines. Shouted over the open line John’s voice barks the order like a knife with break-neck efficiency. No hesitation. 

It had all gone to shit in a matter of hours. The sun was just on the horizon, spreading its hands of dawn over the camp that was awash with blood and bodies. Enemy soldiers, the ones that your squad was tasked with taking out within the next day, had killed the next sentry on duty after you and stormed your position. 

To think you were minutes away from being that very sentry was mind-numbing. But now the real problem was the state of the camp. 

John had been hit through the right thigh.

Taking cover behind a large pine tree, you dart out at every other interval to fire rounds into anything that dashes like a wild animal into the open. Most of the squad was dead—the rest scattered in the sparse cover that was offered or in the process of dying. Snow melted in the heat of crimson fluid.

Spying the downed figure of your Captain, you growl and sprint out before you can talk yourself out of it, taking the recoil of your MK14 EBR into your shoulder and teeth gritted. John writhes on the ground, trying to maintain control over the remaining forces as his leg is limp and useless. He growls out in pain as his head hits the ground behind him. 

“Fuck!” He shouts. You feel a bullet whizz past your head as you skid down to your knees beside him. 

“Sol!” He glares at you as you survey the damage quickly, ducking when the metal projectiles get gradually closer and closer. There’s shouting in the far treeline; death cries. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here!”

“You’re stupid if you think I’m about to do that to you!” You yell, jerking your gun up to release three bullets into someone who had burst out with a raised assault rifle. Pain flares in your left bicep, but you barely notice it beyond a strained, instinctual, whimper. “I’m getting you out of here.” 

Panic had gone as deep as your DNA, seeing the large pool of blood around John, his venom-laced words that stem from agony.

“Leave! Fucking hell, Lieutenant, that’s an order!” 

“John,” you shout, “shut the fuck up!” The man’s eyes go wide with shock. It wasn’t often that you swore at him. 

Making your hands dive under your Captain, you loop your hands behind his shoulders and latch at his armpits. With all of your might, you shift and begin dragging him backward into the trees; gritting your teeth at his pained yell and the bare of his own pearly whites.

Moving like this was stupid, you wouldn’t be able to take out your gun without dropping John—and you certainly weren’t going to do that. Not on your life.

“Christ,” the Brit groans, and you frantically watch the blood trail he leaves behind along the ground. Like a rabbit who’d gotten his leg bit off by a wolf but was still trying to run.

There was too much blood.

Agony explodes in your side, but you keep dragging backward with a new hitch in your lungs; eyes awash with tears before the air leaves you with a ragged and violent gasp. The sounds you hear from all around are horrible—the screams and the popping of rapid-fire shots. Sucking down oxygen with a vile cough, you get John behind a cropping of rocks and have to settle him down as you hack into one of your arms; chest shuddering.  

There is a pressure inside of you that digs into your flesh, but the adrenaline floods your brain over the alarm bells, drowning them.

You pull back your arm to see blood. But it doesn’t matter—not now. Not with John like this.

Looking down, you stare into his eyes while you get to your knees by his side. His gaze is wide and stuck at your abdomen with panic, where you already know the damage a bullet can do. 

“Love…” he begins, but his fingers curl into fists of pain instead. John breathes heavily, and when you look down to his thigh you find far more than one bullet. 

There were three, all spaced out in an arch. One at his thigh, one up on his pelvis, and the other directly in his stomach. Your eyes widen with mute horror, mouth stuttering as your throat closes. 

“Yeah,” blood bubbles from John’s mouth as he chuckles in quick gasps. “No good, eh?”

Tears build in great waves, but you force out, “No,” growling, you feel your own blood stain your gear and clothes. No exit wounds for either of you, you can already tell. “No, John—not like this.”

“Sweetheart,” he tries, but you grip the beanie on your head and shove it into his stomach, pressing on the wound there as he wheezes and you sob. 

“No, John!” A large hand finds the back of your hair, and you shake your head wildly. 

Blue eyes stare with regret and torment before darting back down to your wound. You can feel it—you already know; knew the moment the stray bullet hit you. 

The both of you…

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly so that you have to strain to hear it above the noise. “I’m sorry, Love.” With a shiver of intense throbbing, the strain growing, you dart forward with waning strength and place your lips to his. 

Bloody hands grip his cheeks, slipping over his beard in fruitless desperation. Blood coats your mouths, but the moment of pure love and tenderness takes over. For a minute you can both forget the chill of metal and the blood pooling to the ground. The shaking in your muscles.

You can forget that the both of you are dying.

John keeps the back of your head to him as strength begins to slip. When you pull away with quivering limbs, his thumb weakly brushes your undereye to dispel the bitter tears. He hums with wet eyes. 

“I never got to take you out, did I?” You slip down beside him, shivering and losing heat not only because of the snow. Limbs grow heavy and in the back of your mind, you know you should be afraid—terrified. Maybe you were.

The comment makes you want to scream and rage and wail. 

“No,” you instead say, laughing through a sob at the cruelty of it all as you latch onto him. “No, you didn't, John. But I’m here now. I’m right here.”

Eyes slide over your face as you stay near him; waiting. A tiny smile as his bloody fingers brush your cheek. 

“When we get back I’ll show you ‘round Hertfordshire,” you both know that will never happen. His forehead knocks against yours. “You’ll love it, Sweetheart. Know you will.” 

“I will,” you promise, knowing you can’t. The world besides both of your eyes swirls. “Anywhere with you, John, is worth going.”

It’s obvious what you mean.

John presses his lips back to yours with one last whispered breath of his vow. “I’ve loved you since I first saw that beauty of a smile.” 

The two of you whisper promises and secrets as the gunfire dies down, lips making up for all of the times you should have kissed before and now don’t have the time to. Eyes don’t leave each other as the blood keeps flowing into two large pools of crimson sin. You’re drowned in it—flooded in it. 

You should have told him sooner.

“I’ll find you,” you whisper, eyes fluttering. But the body is long cold. 

You let your muscles loosen as the last of the fight leaves. Content, even in this, but for the simple fact that John’s arms are around you forever in this moment of endless infinity. The sky rolls back, and your last view is of him.

—

In the snow, preserved by the elements even weeks later, they would find your bodies, curled amongst themselves as if to protect one another. They would say that it had been because you were cold, freezing, and bleeding out from your wounds that you’d huddled for comfort. But that wasn’t the truth. 

The two of you had never been warmer than when you were with the other. 

What they couldn’t account for were the twin smiles on frosty lips.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[morbidology]

On June 4, 1991, a security guard at the Super 8 Motel on Central Avenue, Albuquerque, New Mexico, made a grim discovery. When a female guest failed to check out at the designated time, the guard entered the room using a screwdriver after finding the door locked from the inside. Inside, he found the lifeless body of a young woman hanging from a metal showerhead by a suitcase strap.

The room was orderly, with no signs of a struggle, and the windows were securely locked from the inside. The woman had been dead for some time, as indicated by the advanced state of decomposition accelerated by the June heat and lack of air conditioning.

The woman, later referred to as "Becca" by investigators, was estimated to be between 25 and 35 years old, standing about 5’7″ tall and weighing approximately 140 pounds. She had curly red hair, likely permed, pale skin, and freckles. She was dressed in a pink and white tie-dye swirl shirt, white denim pants, 3-inch silver hoop earrings, and medium bikini underwear. The only photograph found in the room depicted her with an unidentified man, offering the sole visual clue to her identity.

Becca had checked into the motel two days earlier with a Hispanic man who signed the check-in slip as "Eduardo Colin" and provided a false license plate number. While the staff confirmed that the woman in the photo was indeed the deceased, the man who had accompanied her had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a few beer bottles, a blue suede purse, some women’s clothing, a scale with the name "George Martinez" scrawled on it, and $500 in cash.

The scene was perplexing. There was no evidence of foul play; the room was undisturbed, and the cause of death was officially ruled a suicide by hanging. An autopsy revealed a significant amount of heroin in her system, though she had not overdosed—a finding consistent with the high tolerance often seen in heroin addicts. Despite the heroin in her system, there were no signs of a struggle or external trauma, save for some light abrasions on her face and leg, which were healing at the time of her death.

As the investigation unfolded, speculation grew. The strong suspicion was that "Becca" might have been a sex worker, and that "Eduardo Colin" could have been a client. They may have checked into the motel for drugs and sex, after which he left, and she, perhaps overcome with despair, took her own life. Another theory was that he had killed her and then staged the scene.

A tip later emerged suggesting that the woman was named Rebecca or "Becca," and that she was from Reseda or Sylmar, California. It was also suggested that she had flown to Albuquerque from Los Angeles or Burbank shortly before her death. Despite these leads, she has yet to be positively identified.

Efforts to trace "Eduardo Colin" eventually led police to a man by that name, who had lived in Albuquerque and worked as a truck driver. However, by the time they found him, he had already passed away from natural causes. When shown the photo of Becca and the unidentified man, Colin's family denied knowing either individual and insisted the handwriting on the check-in slip did not match his. This raised doubts about whether the man who checked in with Becca was actually Colin or if he had used a stolen identity.

The true identity of Becca still remains a mystery today.

[wishing-on-a-staranise]

Wasting Time.

(s.h. x gn!reader)

summary: given everything happening in Hawkins, Steve ends up pushing you away too far.

word count: 6k+

warnings/tags: no pronouns used (gender neutral reader); no y/n used; sad; i dont plan on writing a part two to this; s4 stuff; insecure reader; death; loss; injuries; mention of steve's parents; ollie is the real mvp in this tbh; unresolved? yay;

a/n: based off of Lizzy McAlpine’s song, “..what are we?” This was meant to be below 2k. I fought it to keep it below 2k. I lost, immensely and pathetically so. but that's okay.

as for my other stuff, I truly don't know when I'll post it. I've got pretty important things I have going on in life and i really need to do well in a life altering test next year so everything else is on the back burner rn. sorry to those who are really looking forward the next parts but don't u worry I will post them ;)

my masterlist

You shouldn't be at the store alone. 

Considering the recent murders in Hawkins. You really, truly shouldn't be alone. 

It isn't like you wanted to be. But the owner of the store you worked at did not necessarily give two shits about you. Refusing to pay you if you didn't show up for a few days. So, it isn't like you had much of a choice.

You sat on the rickety old swivel chair, that your asshole boss wouldn't change. The news was playing non-stop in the background– never in your entire life have you had the news channel on for so long.

The new chief of police was being interviewed by the reporters, telling the viewers to stay calm and assuring that they had it all under control. It didn't help to ease your mind. 

You were not calm. Not one bit.

With each movement you made, the rusty metal of the chair groaned underneath you. 

You were thinking of calling him again.

You rotated a little. The chair screeched again. 

Why hadn't he even bothered to call you back yet?

Your leg bounced. The metal creaked.

Frustrated, you abandon the stupid chair with a pathetic scoff. Opting to just sit on the counter, facing away from the door. You gripped the edge of the surface, teeth gnawing at your lips as you looked at his jacket draped atop the chair you were occupying just seconds ago. His jacket.

What if he didn't want you to call him? Your grip tightened. 

You haven't heard from your boyfriend since thursday. 

You both had planned to go out on friday— the boy hadn't exactly told you where he had planned for you two to go. He had instead told you to, “Wear something cute like you always do. Bring Ollie with you if y’wanna and I'll pick you up from yours at 5?”

You had bought a new outfit, a couple weeks prior. you had put all your last month's salary into it. Your favourite colour.

You did your hair, a little bit of your face as well. Looking in the mirror, you had looked….. nice.

Something about that realisation had conjured up a lump in your throat. It was rare that you considered yourself good looking. Which is probably why you barely ever dressed up. But at that moment, as you looked in the mirror, a smile grew on your face, one that couldn't be contained. 

You couldn't wait for Steve to see you. 

You were ready before the clock even hit 4:35.

You waited. No sign of him. 

When the clock hit 5:15, you went out onto your driveway, your dog, Ollie following behind you. You waited, pacing the concrete.

6:05, you were sitting on the stairs infront of the door, your dog's head on your lap. You waited.

6:45, your shoulders were slumped, your own head rested on your knees. Ollie napping beside you. You waited.

7:27, it was dark, Ollie whined to go back in. your eyes stung a little. But you scratched him behind his ears and decided to wait out just a little more. 

When the clock hit 8:00, you finally got up, dusting the dirt and dust off your brand new clothes. Blinking back the salty tears, you quietly went back to your room after giving your dog his food and water. You changed into your ugly PJs, not bothering with anything else, as you buried yourself in your blankets. 

Soon, you heard scratching on your bedroom door, your dog waiting to be let in. 

You smiled with a sniffle, letting him jump onto the mattress with you despite your mom’s strict rule to not let the dog onto beds, sofas or carpets. the dog whined a little before laying next to you. 

Ollie loved Steve. They had not exactly started on the right foot when Ollie almost bit the boy when you had tried sneaking him in one night. But after some time, they both warmed up to each other– to the point where it became common for Ollie to tag along with you and Steve on dates. 

“I'm sorry bud”, you stroked the fur on his head, "i know how much you like hanging out with him." He whined again, warm tongue licking your fingers. 

You knew he didn't really understand, a dog couldn't understand insecurities and the utter disdain of being stood up by someone you loved. Yet here he was, sharing your sorrows and wordlessly warming up your blues. Not there because he empathised with you or pitied you but there because he loved you.

The next morning when you woke up, you went immediately to your bathroom, to try and clean the mess that you hadn't the previous night. 

Your eyes were red and puffy. You did look like someone who cried themself to sleep. You tried to scrub it all off, not even bothering with being gentle with your poor skin.

You didn't feel pretty when you looked in the mirror now. You felt pathetic. 

“Honey!” your mom shouted from the kitchen, downstairs.

“Yeah, coming”, you shouted back as loudly as you could– which wasn't very loud at all.

As you climbed down, you were met with Ollie, tail wagging, nails clicking against the floor. 

“Would just not take the breakfast from me”, your brother commented, handing you the dog bowl that was filled with Ollie’s food, “What a dramatic son of a bitch.... literally”

The dramatic son of a bitch in question, looked up at the two of you with big round eyes, tongue out, drool spilling out on the floor. You held up a finger, the dog immediately sat down– wagging tail sweeping the floor behind him. You finally put the bowl down and told the dog to dig in.

“Did you make him sleep in the bed again?” your mother spoke from behind her magazine.

“Why would I do that?” you lied as you refilled his water bowl.

“Because when I came to call you for dinner last night, he was sleeping on your bed, with you.”

“Oh”, a sheepish expression over your face, “I'll clean the bedsheets, okay?” 

“and why did you skip dinner–”

Your mother thankfully got interrupted by the loud sound of the front door opening, followed by quick footsteps. “Did you check the news?”, your dad panted, he moved towards the tv in the living room, not bothering to take off his running shoes. 

“No, dad. It's only you who is boring enough to watch the news”, your brother’s joke landed flat.

“What happened?”, your mother asked, brows furrowed. 

“A Hawkins student was found dead.”

The bell above the door rang, you turned to look at the customer and you felt as if your heart had hit a rib.

There was Steve Harrington, bursting in through the doors, wearing clothes you'd never seen him in before.

He wasn't alone. The boy was accompanied by Dustin Henderson, Max Mayfield, Lucas and Erica Sinclair, Robin Buckley, and Nancy Wheeler. Most of them looked to be covered in dust, grime and worse.

They, without looking in your direction, broke into groups of two, one led by the older girls and the other by Steve, moving frantically through the aisles to get what they needed. It must have been an emergency. Considering all the recent happenings, it might be. 

After a few minutes, the group led by Nancy and Robin stood infront of the counter and you started billing everything. A couple minutes later, the group led by Steve joined them as well. It is when they are pouring the stuff onto the counter when Steve finally notices that it's you. 

His movements stuttered a little as if he'd just remembered that you worked here and he opened his mouth to say something but closed it before anything could come out.

The silence was awkward and deafening– the others definitely noticed. The only sound that came was the beeps of the scanner. You wondered if Steve had told them about the both of you. 

When you moved to put everything in a bag, Steve stepped a little closer to help with putting all the stuff into the grocery bags, it is then that you noticed the boy's skin.

The skin which you knew to be soft to the touch was covered in dirt. Slashes and cuts wound around his neck, a piece of dirty cloth peeking from under the hem of his camo shirt. Blood. 

You didn't realise you were frozen stuck until you heard him clearing his throat. 

You realised that that the boy had already paid the total, the crumbled up cash placed on the counter. The rustling of the grocery bags alerted you that were moving to leave.

“S– Steve?” your voice came out an unsure whisper.

They all stopped. He looked over his shoulder, then back to his friends, “You guys go on”, he said to them, handing the two bags he was holding to Lucas and Dustin, “ I'll be out in a minute” They silently nodded before leaving to get into a van.

You spoke up when the bell above the door rang on the door closing, “Wh– what is happening?” 

He stood across from you, on the other side of the counter, not making any efforts to come closer as he normally would– maybe hoping that you wouldn't see the wounds that you had already seen. “Nothing”, he cleared his hoarse throat,  “I'm– I'm sorry for friday–”

Sorry? Is that all you get?

“You're covered in blood and dirt”, you pointed out.

“Trust me it just looks worse than it actually is”, he let out a dry chuckle.

“Whose van is that?” your vision flickered to the winnebago parked infront of the store.

“A friend’s.”

“Which one?”

“Munson.”

“Munson? Like Eddie munson? Have you heard the news?--”

“Yeah I have”, his words came out quick, “and it isn't him.”

“How are you so sure?” your eyebrows drew together.

“I just.. “, he paused, “I just am.”

“And how did you get those? '', you said, nodding to his wounded neck. You wanted to touch him, to hold him, but there was still a counter between the two of you, and closing that distance felt.. wrong like you weren't supposed to do it.

“I got in a fight.”

“With what, a barbed wire?” it came out snappier than you had intended. You really tried to not hold his face in your palm.

“No”, his tone grew more frustrated with every question you asked.

“Then who?”

“No, why do you–”

“Cuz I'm– I'm worried about you Steve.” you interrupted to continue your rambling, “You could get like– tetanus or shit–”

“Hey, hey”, for a second you thought he was going to hold your face like you wanted to do to him, instead he placed his palm on your shoulder, “I’m fine, okay? I don't want you to be worried about me.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” you whispered. “I just want you to tell me what's happening.” his hands fell back to his sides. “Just let me in”

“Nothings–”

“No! Something is happening”, you interjected, angry, worried, “Okay? I know. I know you don't always tell me everything. And that's fine, y'know– I thought you’d tell me when you felt like telling me but don't–” you take a quick breath, slowing down your quick words,  “Don't– do you not trust me enough to tell me?”

“I do. But there isn't anything to tell you”, he tried his best to shrug while trying not to pull on the scabbing of his bloody torso– he held back a wince, “Nothings happening.”

There’s a beat.

You can tell he’s lying.

“Why didn't you show up on friday then?” you barely give him a couple seconds to answer before continuing, “God, when I heard someone had died that night, I– “ you stopped before he could hear the quiver of your voice, you gulped. “I called you fifteen times”

“I was at work”

“I went there the next morning to check– it was only Keith there. Told me you'd left already." He opened his mouth before closing it up again.

“Why are you lying to me?”

“And what is Nancy doing with you–” you hated that you were jealous, you never wanted to be that person. Hell, you and Nancy were almost friends in high school. But you couldn't lie and say that it didn't hurt to see them together right after he had bailed on you.

“Well if you noticed, it isn't just me and her, y’know. No need to be jealous–”

“Yeah, I will be jealous, okay? I will be jealous if you start hanging out with your ex and start ditching our dates–”

“I didn't ditch you–”

“I waited for three hours steve. You didn't even call me after or give me heads up. And you already know about everything that's happening in town, so I'm sorry I was worried shitless and you didn't even pick up my calls. And now you're with all these people– which is fine– they’re your friends but your ex is a part of these people. And you're bleeding and definitely wounded, and you won't tell me anything.”

“I will tell you okay, I just–”

“So, not now?”

“I'm running a little late–”

“To what?”

“I'll tell you later okay?”

“When?”

“Just later! Okay? I need to go and you're wasting my–”he stopped himself, seemingly having dug himself a hole. He quickly tried to correct himself, “I need to–”

Your heart had surely stopped, “What did you just say? I'm wasting your time?” tears pricked your eyes, “Is that what this is? A waste of time? Is that what the last eight months have been for you?”

“You know I didn't mean it like that”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I didn't– I ….”, he trailed off. The horn beeped and you heard a muffled shout for Steve's name in Dustin's voice.

You sniffled, “are you gonna get those taken care of at the hospital?” you referred to his wounds, your voice was suddenly so much quieter. 

“....yeah”, he said after a moment– lying.

You nodded. “You still need to clean it up and”, you picked up rubbing alcohol, a painkiller bottle from the shelf behind you and some bandages, “bandage it.. ‘til you go to the hospital.” you tossed them over to him. 

The horn of the winnebago blared. Steve looked back at the door, he reached for his wallet but you stopped him, “you don't need to. It's fine.” Steve heard you sniffle again. 

“Baby–”

“For the record… it wasn't a waste of time for me", your voice cracked, “But I'm really sorry if I wasted your time.”

He stepped closer, shaking his head a little but you weren't looking up, eyes trained on the grain of the wooden counter, trying your darndest to not let the tears fall.

“You should go now.”

“honey–” the horn blared.

“Just go, Steve.”

You only dared to look up when you heard the bell above the door ring. Your vision was blurry as you watched the vehicle drive away. 

Honestly, you get it. you understand. 

You understand if the guy you loved wasn't willing to let you in. And despite how much it hurt, you couldn't keep him to yourself. You weren''t sure what this entire thing meant. Did you just indirectly say that it was over? Did you want it to be over? Were you willing to let it be over? To let him go? 

“C’mon”, he stood at your door with expectant eyes. 

You scoffed before looking back at the clock— your parents werent coming home until another half an hour, “alright fine”, you gave in.

After you put your shoes on, you reached for the door handle to shut the door behind you but there was Ollie standing right on the threshold, tail wagging. The dog gave a soft ruff, looking up at you with expectant eyes. 

“Please don't bring him along too.”

You smirked, “Ollie you wanna come for a walk?”, the boy beside you groaned playfully.

The dog barked happily before spinning around in circles. His nails clicked against the floor as he sprinted to where his leash and jacket were kept. “Alright, bud”, you moved to put Ollie's jacket on him and hooked the leash onto his collar.

The dog walked infront of the two of you. The sun had set and the three of you were walking under the warm yellow pavement lit up by the streetlights. Ollie would stop every now and then to sniff at a bush, tree trunk or lamp post. 

“When will he stop third wheeling us?” Steve finally spoke up beside you.

“Never.”

“This was supposed to be a romantic walk in the snow and now he’s pooping and pissing all over the winter wonderland– wont be a white christmas anymore”

“Oh, shut up. You love him, I know it”

“Yeah, whatever”, he shook his head with a smile.

“By the way, to what do I owe the pleasure of a romantic walk?”

“Wha– ? babe, You say as if I'm not romantic”

“No, you are. But I thought you were going to that christmas party with your parents.”

“Yeah that was until my dad started being an asshole after too much egg nog. So, I booked it”, he shrugged nonchalantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry Steve”

“Eh, it's okay– Jesus Christ, Ollie, how much territory are you gonna mark, boy?’

“Steve..”, your fingers reached for his palm. You both stopped, he looked down at where your hands were intertwined before giving it a squeeze.

“I'm okay. Okay?”

You look at him for a bit. Despite wanting to, you dont push further. You squeezed his hand back, “okay.” his shoulders relaxed. 

You started walking again, pulling yourself further into the boy's side, resting your cheek on his shoulder. It dawned on you then that you had forgotten to wear any jacket or sweater and now you were freezing.

“I’m cold”, you whined through your smushed cheek, the boy chuckled.

“Of course you are. You don't wear one, but make sure the dog’s wearing a jacket– great priorities babe”

“Well, I have you, don't I?” you said, giving him your biggest puppy eyes and the most over-exaggerated frown.

“Yeah, “ he sighs, handing you the leash he was holding, “you do.” He took off his jacket he was wearing over his his fuzzy sweater and helped you put it on. “Better?” he gestured towards the leash to take it back.

You returned it and nodded with a proud grin, “you've fallen under my trap”

“Yeah? what trap?” he muses while smoothing down the crinkles in his thick sweater.

“This…..”, you smirked, “is mine now”, you declared, pulling the material tighter around you. 

“Oh, no! The jacket stealing trap! What will I ever do?” he brought his to both his cheeks, shaking his head in pretence worry. You laughed.

“Y’know…”, he started– the corners of his mouth curling up, “I would give you all my jackets if you…… Kiss me?”

“Oh, yeah? That depends…”, you crossed your arms,  “How many jackets do you have?”

“Oh, so many– like a million” he shrugged. Both your steps slowed down to a halt. “Billions….. gazillions”

“Wow, babe, that's a lot of kisses”, you moved in a little closer to him.

The leash in Steve's hand tugs accompanied by Ollie whining, the dog came closer to the two of you who were leaning into each other. The dog started pulling on Steve's jeans.

“Hey! Dickhead, I'm having a moment here”

“Hey! don't call him a dickhead”, you admonished.

“Well, he’s acting like a dickhead.”

You glared at him. 

“What? We were about to have a lovely romantic kiss before he so gracefully interrupted”

“Why do you have a rivalry with my dog?”

“He’s my arch nemesis”, he said with narrowed eyes directed towards the puppy.

You playfully rolled your eyes before taking the leash from Steve's hand and walking ahead. You laughed as you said, “Oh, please, you're just jealous because I love him more”

“I’m not jeal– what did you just say?”

“Wh– what?” you stopped in your track before turning around, brows furrowed.

“Oh, you just said something”

“What did I–”

“You said you love him more than you love me. That implies you love me.” he explained, walking closer to you. “You said you love me”, he stated with a shy smile as he stood directly infront of you.

“.. did I?” heat crept up your cheeks.

“Yeap, it was loud and clear. Even Ollie heard it. Right bud?” the dog barked in response as if actually had a clue of what was going on in the conversation.

“Oh, so now youre both working together? You know what? yeah, well, so what? I said it. I love you. You got a problem with that?”

“No… I'm pretty okay with it actually”

“Just okay?”

“More than okay. Perfect. Infact, I love you too.”

A shy smile grew on your features, same on his. The two of you leaned in but stopped mid-way when Ollie ruffed. You groaned, pulling away before saying with a stern voice, “Ollie, sit.”

“Little shit, only listens to you”, the boy infront of you mutters as the dog settled down and sat down. You glared at Steve. “Sorry”, he apologized, his head hanging low.

“Now, where were we?” you pull him in by grabbing a fistful of his fuzzy sweater, your lips slotting against one another. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other helped tilt your head. You too held his face back, the other hand snaking down to his waist where the fingers hooked through the belt loops.

You pulled away when his movements started to become a little faster and his hand started moving lower, “Okay, okay. I…  its getting late– my parents are gonna be here soon”, you heaved.

“We were only getting to the good part”  he whined through laboured breaths.

“Kissing me wasnt the good part?”

His eyes widened, “I– I mean”, he scoffed when he noticed the sly smirk on your face, “Stop messing with me.”

You tugged lightly on the leash to get Ollies attention who had started to dig a hole in the snow, “c'mon Ollie.”  the dog’s tail wagged before he shook the snow off of him. The dog took the lead as the two of you ambled behind him.

Most of the walk back was holding hands silently, looking around at the christmas lights everyone in the neighbourhood had put up. When you were almost two houses away from yours, you spoke up, “you know. You could… stay the night?”

Steve looked at the pavement as the two of you walked, you looked at him with expectant eyes. He sighed before finally answering,“You know what? Sure.”

“But you would have to sneak out through the window later”

“Window? With these joints? I'm old.” he frowned.

“Oh, my poor, poor twenty year old boy”, you frowned back with a mock pitying look as you unlocked the main door and removed Ollie’s leash and jacket. 

You and Steve wasted no time after that, running up the stairs to your room. As soon as the door was closed behind you, Steve was on you, plump and slightly cold lips moving fast against yours. 

“Well, you're eager aren't you?”

“What? No…” he smiled against your skin, a giggle erupted from your throat as the sensation tickled you.

You were about to go back to attaching your lips to his when you heard a woof followed by the wood of the door scratching. The both of you sighed, foreheads touching.

“That little shit”, Steve huffed, “what an attention whore.”

You laughed through uneven breathing before moving off the door and then letting the dog in.

You heard the door downstairs opening and closing followed by your mother’s voice telling you she was home. You quickly went downstairs telling Steve and Ollie to stay quiet.

The boy took a seat at the edge of the mattress, the dog came to stand infront of him for a bit– tail wagging. The dog hopped on his back legs, front paws scratching at Steve's jeans. Steve reached down to scratch him behind the ears, “y’know Oliver. You're real cute and all. But you're one big cock block”

You really shouldn't have been alone. 

It all happened so fast. One moment you were wallowing in your own self pity, the next moment, the lights were flickering and soon the ground started rumbling beneath you. 

Now, as you were hiding underneath the counter of the store you worked at, the walls shook and ground rumbled. All you could think of was your family, dog and Steve Harrington. 

Of course, the world decides to end today of all days.

There was so much smoke. All you could see was black, maybe your eyes were closed, maybe there was a blackout. But something was on fire– there was so much smoke. Your eyes were watering and your throat burned, coughs uncontrollably tearing from your throat. You felt light headed, soot stuck to your sweaty skin. 

You really wanted to go home right about now.

Some rest sounded nice. Maybe some sleep.

You felt yourself succumbing to sleep, eyes drooping on their own accord. Breath slowing down. The corners of your vision went black.

It quieted down for a second. It wasn't too much for a second. 

Sleep sounded like the perfect thing. 

“Help!” a small terrified voice broke through the silence.

“Help!” it came again from somewhere outside the store. You somehow managed to will your muscles to move. You peeked from under the table and through your watery eyes you saw a boy who looked to be younger than you, flailing his arms in the air, limping. 

Your body worked on its own accord. Muscles and bones working on autopilot. You crawled from under the counter, grabbed your water bottle and Steve's jacket. Your movements were jerky as you spilled the water onto the fabric, wetting it before putting it over your nose and mouth– a makeshift mask. 

You ran. You left your safety bubble and ran. You ran despite the ash in your lungs, despite the shake of your fingers, lightheadedness, and the lactic acid settling in your tired muscles. In your disorientation and franticness, the stupid rusty chair hit your back, the heavy metal smacked hard against your skin but you still ran. You stumbled to open the door, shouted for him to run and pulled him in. You put your bootleg mask to the boy’s mouth.

The rumbling of the earth had quieted down a little; enough to allow you to help him walk over to the desk– your safe bubble. 

You were just about to reach it when another wave hit, the ground shook and both of you lost your footing. The boy huddled to you, you moved to cover him to the best of your ability. The aisle next to you groaned and when you managed to look, it was swaying. 

You tried to get away. 

“Move!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the rumble. The boy shook under you. In a last ditch effort, you pushed him away. 

You tried to get away, trying to crawl away yourself, but the heavy metal shelves hit your spine. Your head smacked against the tiles. 

You heard shouting, you weren't sure if it was the boy or you. Your ears were ringing. your limbs felt like jelly buried under the rubble. And you really didn't feel like you could get up. You couldn't really see anymore, the darkness from the corner of your vision had finally spread.

It hurt. It hurt so much that you weren't sure where it hurt or if it was still hurting. You tasted metal, felt a trickle run down the nape of your neck. You felt a little cold. The boys voice came in and out, none of the words truly registering in your brain.

God, you really missed your bed. 

You missed ollie. You wished you could pet him again, give him his favourite treat, help him sneak into a bed again.

You missed your parents and your brother. What wouldn’t you do to have one more dinner together.

You missed steve. How you wished you could go back to that winter evening when you fell asleep in his warm arms. When you’d held his hand. You really wanted to hold his hand, hold him close, kiss him.

You felt fingers wrap around your wrist. “I'm gonna try to pull you out”, you barely heard the young boy say through a lumpy throat, you felt a tug on your arm. Pain shot through you. He pulled again, You didn't move. A scream of pain ripped from your chest.

“No!” you screamed, words coming out all slurred up. “No, stop! Just hide under the table and call the ambulance when it's over!” you still couldn't see.

“But–”

“It's okay! You’ll be okay, Ju-- just go!”

“I'm not– your– you're bleeding”, he gripped your shaking palm, “J– Just stay awake!”

“No, Go!” you tried your best to shout but it came out as only a whimper.

The warmth left your palm, you sighed in relief. You really didn't want a kid to see you dying. 

A few seconds later, you felt a pressure on the side of your head, a hit of a familiar scent hit you– Steve's cologne. Steve?

“Steve..?”

The box in your hand was as heavy as lead as the lady led you through the Hawkins high gym which had now been turned into a makeshift infirmary for the people who had been affected by the earthquake. 

You didn't remember much from the night of the earthquake, you remember falling and hitting your head, the pain and someone holding your hand. Your delirious brain in its haze had convinced you that it was Steve's warm hand. That he had come back and held you while the ground shook. The carbon monoxide poisoning had truly got to you.

Much to your delusional brain’s dismay, It was when you woke up a day later; your parents told you it had been infact a boy a few years younger than you. You later found out that the young boy– Andy, although overall fine, had broken his leg. He and his family packed everything up and moved out of town a week later.

Your muscles were still sore. The stitches and the bandaging over the big gash on your back was tight around your ribs. You had also acquired a wound on the side of your head and though you had bled, you were lucky enough to not bleed to your death or die of a haemorrhage. The paramedics had to shave off a part of the back of your hair to be able to apply the gauze properly. And you were a little embarrassed about it– you guessed you'd have to shave it all off now. You weren't sure how long you'd be willing to wear your brother old, musky baseball hat– you also weren't sure if it was a good idea to put that abomination anywhere near a wound.

"seems like you have clothes and blankets; that one", she pointed to a table with heaps of clothes piled on top of it. They looked to be freshly donated as they were in the middle of being neatly folded by--

"Steve, take these as well, will ya'?" the women beside you said.

He looked up, stilling for a second, “Hey.”

"oh, you seem to know each other. swell!" she clapped her palms before leaving the two of you alone.

“Hey… I uh– I came to donate these”, you put the cardboard box on the table infront of him, “Its uh– its mostly blankets”

“Oh, okay.”

“I– I have a couple more boxes in the car.”

“Okay.”

The walk to your car was a silent one, a little awkward. Surely, your last interaction playing in his head as well. As you weaved through the people, you noticed Dustin Henderson, limping as he gave water to some of the patients. And you had already noticed the scars on steves neck. You really wanted to ask what happened.

“Is everyone in your family okay?” he spoke up shyly, clearly trying to ease the tension even a bit.

“...yeah,”

My brother can't hear out of his left ear anymore.

“Yeah, everyone…”

My dog died. 

“Everyones fine.”

“Are you fine?”

You nodded quickly.

You really didn't want to tell him about the giant bruise spread across your back and torso. You didn't want to tell him about the gash on your back or the bandages hiding under your baseball cap. You certainly did not want to tell him about how you were stuck in that rubble for hours with a kid holding your hand, while you had thought that it had been him in your half-conscious state.

“What about you?” you echoed, “Your– your neck?”

“Yeah, yeah– uh.. I’ll be fine.”

Your chest tightened, you swallowed. How did small talk become so hard? 

The two of you approached your car, you popped open the trunk, and there were three more well-taped boxes waiting. 

You picked one up. “Here, let me–” he picked up the other two. Both of your tried your best not to wince at the strain. “Wow this is a lot”, a half-minded comment as he slammed the trunk.

“Yeah, um– I mean, these people need it more. Plus, it would just be easier to give it away, anyway since we--”, you cut yourself off, trying to pretend you hadn't said anything.

“What?”

You look away silently, blinking, “um– how are you holding up?”

“Yeah, you have already asked me– I'm– I'm sorry… are you– what do you—” he stopped. You looked anywhere but him. It clicked. 

“You…. you're… moving, aren't you?” he murmured slowly and as if saying it too loudly would make it real. You nodded. 

“Why?”

“Why? Steve– look around. Everyone is moving. People are dying left and right. People going missing, never being found again?And now what, Murders?! My parents are convinced that it is the end of the world.”

“But it isn't– It was just an earthquake”

“An earthquake does not give you wounds around your neck Steve. Ever since the Byers kid disappeared, my dad has been planning to move… and then that night I– I almost ....”, you trailed off, not wanting to tell him more especially after you had just lied to him that you were fine. “I barely made it.”

“What?”

You took a shaky breath in, Steve's chest tightened. “I should–”

“When are you leaving?”

“.. today. Right now. This was the last thing I had to do.”

After that he quietly walked the rest of the way, helping you put the boxes where they needed to be put. As he did it all, his eyebrows were pulled together, the crease between them deep-- what was he thinking? you wondered.

Once everything was done, he finally spoke up, “Can I walk you back? To your car? For one last time, please?” the desperation in his tone was so clear and it made you want to cry.

You opened the door, Steve's jacket draped over the passenger seat. The piece of clothing that probably saved you. The thick material had stopped you from bleeding to your demise. You really had to thoroughly wash it to get rid of the stain. But you couldn't justify throwing it away.

It no longer had the bloody stain, or the smell of smoke in it. However it also didn't smell like Steve anymore. 

“Here–”, you leaned into the car to pull it out, fighting back the tears and the waver in your voice,  “your jacket… don't worry I cleaned it up”, you held it up between the two of you.

Steve, pushed the material back in your direction, “Keep it. It's yours, remember? It's yours.”

"Considering everything….” you gulped, “I hope I'm not asking for too much", you took a deep breath before finally whispering, "can I hug you… please?"

It was a tight one. It was a desperate one. You hated that you smelled like antibacterial ointment and sweat. You buried your face deeper into his shirt– he smelled like medical gauze, and medicinal cream accompanied with a faint yet familiar scent of his hair products, his cologne and that distinct scent of Steve.

You pulled away, words sticky in your throat, “Take care. Don't die. I'm…..”, you swallowed, “I'm gonna miss you."

You didn't wait for a response, you quickly sat in your car and drove away, not even stealing a look from the rear-view mirror. You only let the tears fall when you had turned the corner to your home.

It isn't like you had a choice of whether or not you were staying. But You hate that he didn't stop you. You hate that he didn’t call your name, to see your face one last time. You hate you still had his jacket in your hands, you hate how tightly you were gripping it.. You hate that there were tears in your eyes. You hate that there was a sob in your ribs. You hate that you said that you were going to miss him. You hate you imagined a life with him, holding hands on romantic walks. 

You hate all that. But you don't hate him. God, it'd be so much easier if you hated him.

[nullarysources]

Evidence of surgical tumor removal in ancient Egyptian skull is 'milestone in the history of medicine'

Mindy Weisberger for CNN:

Cancer is often regarded as a disease of the modern age. However, medical texts from ancient Egypt indicate that healers of the time were aware of the condition. Now, new evidence from a skull more than 4,000 years old has revealed that ancient Egyptian physicians may have tried to treat certain cancers with surgery.

The skull belonged to a man who was about 30 to 35 years old when he died, and it resides in the Duckworth Laboratory collection at the University of Cambridge in the United Kingdom. Since the mid-19th century, scientists have studied the skull's scarred surface, including multiple lesions thought to represent bone damage from malignant tumors. Archaeologists regard the skull, labeled 236 in the collection, as one of the oldest examples of malignancy in the ancient world, dating back to between 2686 BC and 2345 BC.

But when researchers recently peered more closely at the tumor scars with a digital microscope and micro-computed tomography (CT) scans, they detected signs of cut marks around the tumors, suggesting that sharp metal instruments had been used to remove the growths. The scientists reported the findings Wednesday in the journal Frontiers in Medicine.

…

However, it's unknown whether the healers tried to remove the tumors while the patient was still alive, or if the tumors were removed after death, for analysis, Camarós told CNN.

Even ancient Egyptians agree: fuck a cancer

[mariacallous]

CUT DEEP into the innards of the southern front, Ukraine’s first underground hospital feels like something out of a James Bond movie. State-of-the-art gadgetry begins with admissions. Wounded soldiers arrive directly from the battlefield: in cars, ambulances, quad bikes, or whatever else can carry them. They are assessed and colour-coded into modules by urgency: “red zone” cases for immediate operations, “yellow zone” for other treatment. Alongside an operating theatre, enclosed in steel barrels several metres below ground level, is an intensive care unit. There is a ventilator, and even a laboratory for blood tests. The centre is set up for sophisticated operations: bone repair, soft tissue reconstruction, and even arterial bypass surgery.

In military jargon, this is a “role 2” facility, the second of four treatment tiers from frontline triage to tertiary hospital care. Doctors move people on if they can. Those stable enough are whisked off to “role 3” facilities, approximately 30km away. The rest are treated and stabilised here, a little over 10km from the contact line. The hospital’s immaculately joined wooden beams—chosen over concrete to soften shrapnel in the event of a Russian strike—project a deceptive warmth, like being in a Scandinavian sauna. The drones and glide-bombs that terrorise the skies outside make clear that this is not a place to relax. Ukraine’s medics are here, underground, not by choice. Like the soldiers they treat, they are among the hunted.

Evhen, the underground hospital’s chief medical officer, grunts at any suggestion that Russia might follow the Geneva conventions, which forbid targeting medical units. “They don’t even know what it means,” he says. To the Russian military, doctors are “force multipliers”—they patch up soldiers and send them back to fight, take a long time to train and are hard to replace. Ukraine now tells its medics to remove any markings that might set them apart. “If you put a red cross on a car, you’ll be fired on within 15 minutes.” The goal is still to get wounded soldiers from the frontline to a role 2 treatment unit within an hour, but drones drag out the process, often for hours. The delays often mean life or death; limb or no limb. Leave a tourniquet on for more than a few hours, and tissue damage is irreversible.

Ukraine believes survival on the battlefield is the key to regaining the edge in a war that has become largely attritional. The underground hospitals are a key part of the puzzle, says Roman Kuziv, the 35-year-old doctor who helped design them. A technocratic planner with experience of working as a surgeon in Europe, Dr Kuziv has quickly risen through the Ukrainian ranks: from local hospital chief to medical commander of the entire eastern and southern front. He lets data guide him to new standards and protocols. War pulses through the monitors in front of him. He claims the medical data give him “80% of the picture” about what is happening on the battlefront. Where units are well organised and where they are not. Where morale is good and where it is not. He makes a call to commanders whenever he spots a problem.

Swiping through images on his smartphone—a surreal blend of family photos and flesh wounds—Dr Kuziv reveals the brutal injuries and hard choices his teams face daily. He pulls up a photo of a man with a gaping hole in his upper body, alongside a kidney sliced in two, and a 30cm slab of missile metal that had been lodged deep in his midriff. “Did the man make it?” Remarkably, yes, he did. Another soldier, this time with a deep gash across his back, part of his spine missing, internal organs spilling out. That soldier survived initial surgery in the underground hospital, but died two days later. A third clip shows a soldier in his 30s, convulsing violently as he tries to drink a cup of water. What was up here? “Hydrophobia,” the commander says. “An extreme aversion to water.” In short, the soldier had rabies, caused by a single bite from a cat, and it was too late to save him. The army saw a handful of such cases before culling wild animals in the area.

Almost three years of war have brought Ukraine’s army doctors a mountain of unexpected challenges. Drones have largely rewritten the rulebook on battlefield wounds: the numbers are rocketing, and the attacks are more persistent, more targeted. The “golden hour”—NATO doctrine for evacuating a soldier to proper care within 60 minutes—has become something closer to fiction. Chemical weapons have returned to the field, too, with the re-appearance of agents like chloropicrin, a poison gas first seen in the trenches of the first world war. The gas, used to flush out Ukrainians from their trenches and foxholes, attacks the soft tissues of the respiratory system. At higher doses, it kills.

The demands have seen Ukrainian military medicine develop in quick time. Today’s setup is unrecognisable from seven years ago, when Dr Kuziv first began working with the army. The commander regularly tracks Russian social media to gauge how well he is doing. He’s usually happy with the comparison with Russian front-line medicine. “It’s the second world war over there.” But the demands and need to stay ahead are relentless. The ministry of defence has just approved another 20 of his “role 2” underground hospitals, which are being co-financed by an industrial sponsor. The commander is also working on an overhaul of “role 1” facilities, front-line triage units. According to his futuristic vision, these will be accessible underground by a system of mechanical elevators.

There have been mistakes, thousands who could have been saved. But Russia’s war without limits would test the resources of any military medical service, Dr Kuziv insists. “All-out war gives you one or two months to study and adapt.” NATO countries should be thinking about how they would cope, he says. “Honestly, they are not prepared. They wouldn’t know what’s hit them.”

[lecaudal]

My ideas for new waves of STH Lego sets that would focus on new characters

Sol Castle: A castle and tower build with fire elements (50 dollars)

Minifigures: Blaze the Cat, Silver the Hedgehog, Zavok the Yeti

Team Chaotix Battlepack: A jungle tree with a flat canopy (20 dollars)

Minifigures: Vector the Crocodile, Espio the Chameleon, Charmy the Bee, Crabmeat

Team Eggman Battlepack: A platform build with an arm to move Badniks around (20 dollars)

Minifigures: Metal Sonic, Caterkiller, Balkiry, Snail Blaster

Team Dark Battlepack: A bit of smashed road (20 dollars)

Minifigures: Shadow the Hedgehog, Rouge the Bat, 2x G.U.N. Agents

Echidna Temple: A simple temple build with a giant Perfect Chaos figure that the minifigure can sit inside (45 dollars)

Minifigures: Tikal the Echidna and Chaos

Tails' Performance: A stage build with a tower and stairs (30 dollars)

Minifigures: Tails in pink dress, Marine the Raccoon, Cream the Rabbit, Cheese the Chao

Big's Pond: A small pond build with a deck and a buoy (15 dollars)

Minifigures: Big the Cat, Froggy

E-123 Omega Polybag: A buildable Omega figure (5 dollars)

35 years of Sonic the Hedgehog (2026) Midi Scale Death Egg or ARK Colony: A small model of the Death Egg that has an alternate build as the ARK Colony (80 dollars)

Minifigures: Doctor Eggman and Doctor Gerald Robotnik

Exclusive Minifigure: Maria Robotnik

25th anniversary of Sonic Adventure 2 (2026) Finalhazard Showdown: A large model of the final battle scene in SA2 (60 dollars)

Minifigures: Super Sonic and Super Shadow

Exclusive Minifigure: Barry the Quokka

Minifigures Series: Tom Wachowski with Donut Box, Maddie Wachowski with Tails' Tech, Dr Robotnik (Jim Carrey version) with new mustache piece, Agent Stone with goat figure and coffee cup, Mighty the Armadillo, Ray the Flying Squirrel, Fang the Hunter, Merlina with cape and custom staff, Mephiles the Dark with power blasts, Sage the Al with "Let's Go Dad" folded shirt tile, Infinite the Jackal with Phantom Ruby, and Black Doom with alien

[chaosheadspace]

Hob's relationship with food is a complicated one. He stands in the kitchen of the New Inn, because the big pots fit better on the stove down here than on the one upstairs. He has been hungry many times in his life, not just in the century following Eleanor's and Robyn's death. There were many occasions when food was sparse or straight up not available. Sometimes he thinks it has messed with his brain a bit.

Hob checks the temperature and hopes none of the jars have opened or spilled over. Twist-off is a marvelous invention, but for this he'd rather put his trust in metal clips and rubber. It feels safer. That's why he's doing this in the first place, even if it takes up much of his time in the summer and fall. It feels safe. It calms him.

The small backyard of the inn is crammed with raised garden beds, trellises put up along the wall and fences. In the beds against the brick wall are the tomatoes, because it absorbs and reflects the warmth of the sun. There's one bed full of straw and potatoes, one with beans, one with carrots, there's cabbage and salad and turnips and strawberries. In the corner grows a small, gnarly apple tree and next to it a single cucumber plant, taking over almost the entire floor space between the beds. Hob has tried and failed to tie it up along the trellis countless times, so he lets it be where it is happy and just carefully steps over it each time he comes to the garden, big leaves brushing his bare legs.

The raspberries along the fence are a right hassle to maintain, growing through to the other side to grab at the pedestrians for nutrients, Hob is sure. They're vicious. He keeps them anyway, because he is a sucker for preserved raspberries over porridge, especially in winter. It's easy to make a lot of it, too. He just picks the ripe ones, pops them into the freezer and preserves a large batch at the end of the season. Hob still remembers the early centuries of his immortality, when he could only eat berries whenever he came across them in the woods and that would be it.

He checks on the pressure canner next to the large pot with the tomatoes and takes the heat down a bit. Beans are tricky. He'd done them his usual way up until he'd got a nasty bout of botulism in the 60s. And while he's immortal, he's as partial to pain as the next bloke, which is not very. Well. Except in certain circumstances, none of which ideally involve beans. Or jars. He only ate store bought beans for two decades after that, until he saw an ad and purchased his first pressure canner and welcomed the tall, delicate plants back into his garden. Because despite the rising quality of preserves and cans in stores it never tastes quite the same, does it?

He's done his fair share of curing meat, too, ham and sausages and fish, way, way, back. Still remembers his mother teaching him, remembers her big, strong hands, smoke burning in his eyes. This winter he plans on getting back into it, reading a few books, maybe taking a course. A bit less nitrite in his diet would do him good. Hob shakes his head. He sounds like his own grandmother would if he'd been born 35 years ago.

He's still working on refilling his stash. After the pandemic hit he'd slowly given most of it away, to students, to neighbors, to friends. Some of it he personally put on doorsteps, for the rest he'd organised a pick-up system with boxes. The walk-in pantry behind his kitchen had been almost empty. Sometimes he wonders if he would have liked more space in his kitchen, but then again the kitchen down here is also technically his. He wouldn't trade the calming reassurance of having food readily available to him, no matter the circumstances, for a bit of sitting space.

The next day, when the jars have cooled down, he carries them upstairs into his pantry, past the food-safe buckets full of grain and flour and sugar, past the empty crates where he will store his cabbages, his carrots and turnips in cool sand, his apples wrapped in newspaper come fall, and sorts the new jars behind the few remaining ones from last year. He figures after more than 600 years of living he's allowed to be a little crazy.

[pollherepollthere]

hyperspecific poll!

-birthday is tomorrow

-discovered music taste (death metal or not) through Russian death metal

-lost stuffed toy you had since birth a year ago and cried your eyes out

-went to a small international school where each grade had less than 35 students

-has exactly 10 posters up in your room, some of which are hand drawn

-is in 3 friend groups, and is the mediator/mom friend in all of them

-owns purple rain and hybrid theory on vinyl

-has only ever had one panic attack, which was to do with heights

-none of the above

-multiple of the above (which??)

happy birthday!

unfortunately none of these,but the vinyls are class I'm jealous lol

[galway-girlatwork]

Concert Charms.

Fandom: The Last of Us-AU-No outbreak-Young Joel. Meet Cute. Rock Concert.

Rating: Mature-There is angst. So much angst. And fluff.  

Central Characters: Joel, Sarah, Tommy, Ellie, Andrea AKA Andy (Original Female Character)

Central Relationship: Joel and Andy

Word Count: 3,037

AO3

Please do not copy my work. If you liked it, please re-blog and tag me. Please do not steal my mood board. I do not give permission to copy, translate, or post my work to any other platform.

Music inspiration: The One That Got Away by The Civil Wars. Don’t Stop Believing by Journey.

Written for @ justagalwhowrites Joel Miller Birthday Celebration.

SUMMARY:

What happens when you go to a rock concert? Confusion, angst at miscommunication, you begin to wonder if it’s worth getting involved with a stranger. But backyard BBQ’s leads to something more and who knows what can happen in twenty years.

Concert Charms.

Andy had always loved Journey, their music was the soundtrack of her youth, filled with dreams and possibilities. She’d been an 80’s kid, raised by parents who grew up in the 60’s so music had always been apart of her life in some way. Everything from The Doors to the heavy metal hair bands that dominated her childhood. So, when she heard, they were coming to town, it was a no brainer that she’d have to go, not caring that she was going alone.

The night of the concert found her jamming out in the parking lot, before she got out of her car, getting her even more hyped for the show. Once inside the venue, she browsed the merch table before buying three t-shirts, one for her, the other two for her parents. Making her way to her seat, beer in hand, she stood in the crowd, feeling the music pulse through her veins as the band started. She was lost in the moment, singing along to "Don't Stop Believin'," when she felt someone bump into her, cold beer spilling down her back. Turning around, to see a rugged man with dark hair, accompanied by a younger guy.

"Sorry about that!"

"No problem," Andy replied with a grin. "Great concert, huh?"

"The best," the older man agreed. "Name's Joel, and this here is my brother, Tommy."

"I'm Andrea, Andy for short," she said, shaking their hands. The three of them struck up a conversation, bonding over their shared love for the band and the thrill of the live performance. As the night went on, they found themselves laughing, singing, and dancing together.

By the time the concert ended, Andy felt like she'd known Joel and Tommy for years. They exchanged numbers, promised to keep in touch but on a whim, she asked if they wanted to find someplace to eat.

Tommy chimed in as he looked back and forth between the two of them, noticing that Joel hadn’t taken his eyes off of her. “Hell yea, know this diner bout twenty minutes from here. Know where Stars is off 35?”

“Yea I know that place. Great food and I’m bout starved to death. Meet you there?”

“Sure will.” Waving at her as she blended into the massive crowd exiting the arena. Smirking he glanced over at his older brother, trying to find her. “Pretty, ain’t she?”

“Don’t start Tommy. I don’t need the hang up from getting involved, sides’ I got Sarah.”

“Excuses bro, excuses.”

“Bet ya ten bucks she ain’t even there.” It was longer than twenty minutes before they pulled into the parking lot, traffic being backed up for miles outside the arena, not even knowing what kind of car she drove, he knew he was about to make easy money. However, when they walked in, he could see a riot mess of black curls, as she looked over the menu. Tommy chuckled as he held out his hand, looking for the ten. “Shut up.”

When she looked up, her smile set off a fire in his blood and a litany of images in his head. It took him a second to realize that Tommy had walked in front of him and was now sliding into the booth next to her. Asshole.

She didn’t mind that Tommy sat next to her, gave her a chance to stare at Joel. He was handsome, not cute like you would normally label someone. Maybe it was because he was older than some of the other guys she’d dated. Not by much, just two years but there was just something about him. It wasn’t until they were in the middle of eating that she found out he had a daughter, making it a point to be looking at her when he told her, her name, Sarah. It kind of felt like he was testing her, seeing how she’d react and that is when she shut down, turning her attention now to Tommy. Not because she thought of him in that way but because she didn’t like being put on the spot like that. People assuming, not giving her a chance. Once they had finished consuming about ten thousand calories, mostly made up french fries and milkshakes, she looked at her watch and groaned. “I gotta go. Work tomorrow.” Dropping twenty bucks on the table, Tommy let her slide out of the booth, giving him a wink and a smile. “Had a great time. Gimmie a call.” A quick look at Joel, smile faltering for a second. “Night Joel.”

Getting in the car, she locked the door, before pressing her head to the steering wheel for a minute or two before starting it and driving off. Why did men have to be such jerks?

It took Tommy less than twenty-four hours to call her, noticing she was out of breath when she answered. “Hey Andy, what’s goin on?”

“Oh, hey Tommy, just got home from work. What’s up with you?”

“Nothin much. Was wondering what you’re doing tomorrow? We’re havin a cook out at Joel’s, thought you might wanna join.”

“Uh yea sure. What time? Need me to bring anything?”

“Bout one. Can you bring potato salad and beer?”

“Sure. Um gimme the address.” Scribbling the address on a pad of paper near the phone, they talked for a few more minutes before hanging up.

“Tommy what the fuck are ya doin? Ya saw what happened at the diner. The minute I mentioned Sarah, it was like you could freeze ice in her lap.”  He noticed the way she changed when he had mentioned Sarah, like he was beneath her or not worthy of her attention. It burned a little but he had moved on, maybe.

“Well Jesus Joel, you shoulda seen the look on your face when ya said it, almost daring her to say something negative. And the way you said it? I woulda told you to fuck off. Look I like her, and not that way so stop lookin at me like ya wanna deck me. She’s cool, funny and pretty as hell. ‘Sides, I think she can put up with your stubborn ass. I’m gonna head to the store.”

She paused before she rang the doorbell, beer sitting at her feet, homemade potato salad in hand. Taking a deep breath, she didn’t think about how many times she’d changed before settling on the concert t-shirt she bought, jean cut off shorts with Converse high-tops. She wouldn’t think of how many times she’d touched her self, thinking of Joel. She would ignore that thought when she felt nipples harden against the fabric of the shirt. Fuck. But even before she could grow a spine and ring the bell, Tommy whipped open the door, the biggest grin on his face.

“Hey Andy. Come on in, here let me take the beer.” Oh, she was trouble and he knew Joel wouldn’t know what hit him. She was more than pretty and if he thought for one second, he had a chance, he’d take it but he’d seen the way they looked at each other. Like two idiots who had absolutely no clue what was about to happen to them.

“Hey Tommy,” she sighed, visibly more relaxed than if Joel had answered the door. Something told her Tommy would be her best friend. You know that guy friend you can call at two in the morning because you were too drunk to drive home. Stepping inside the small two story, she followed him into the kitchen, setting the potato salad on the counter. Just as Tommy handed her a beer, a little girl, no more than three or four came tearing through, screaming and laughing as Joel chased after her, stopping suddenly when he noticed her. “Hey Joel.” What the fuck was she doing here, noticing the look on his face, like he’d just stepped in something, and couldn’t wait to scrape off the bottom of his shoe. A small little hand tugged at the bottom of her shirt, giving her a small lil smile, squatting so she was eye level with her. “Hi. You’re Sarah right? Your dad told me all about you. I’m Andy.” She was handed the Barbie that was clutched in the other hand before she ran to Joel, watching as he scooped her up. Standing, she clutched the doll to her chest, giving a wink. “I’ll keep her safe til you’re ready to have her back.”

Tommy shook his head at the tension that was building in the kitchen, wondering if the windows would blow out when it was finally released. “Well, I’m gonna go start the grill, Joel grab the burgers and hot dogs from the fridge, will ya?”

“Yea I got it.”

A Conversed covered foot came up, scratching at the back of a knee as nervous fingers played with the fringe of a jean clad thigh, before she gave a small shake of her head, pushing away from the counter. “Guess I’ll go out back if that’s ok?”

“Yea I’ll be out in a sec.” As he watched her walk out to the backyard, fingers tightened on the handle of the fridge door, seeing the small sway of her hips, the way her shorts rode up just a little, baring her thighs. Clearing his throat, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, hearing Sarah yellin for him from the swing set, wanting to be pushed. This was going to be a really long afternoon.

Between the beer, food and Sarah wanting to play Barbies all afternoon, she was exhausted by the time Tommy called it a night. “Yea I think I’ll head out too.” But then she walked into the kitchen and saw the disaster the four of them had made and felt bad, not wanting to leave it all for Joel, who was upstairs getting Sarah ready for bed. “Tommy second thought, I think I’ll clean up the kitchen before I go. Call me tomorrow?”

“Sure, will beautiful.” A sly smile on his lips and a lazy wink given before he walked out the front door.

Rolling her eyes at him, she began throwing out all the trash, leaving it by the backdoor before she started on the dishes.

Finally asleep, he left Sarah’s room, the door open a crack, night light casting shadows on the pinkish purple walls, he smiled before going downstairs, hearing clink of dishes being set in the drying rack. Leaning against the wall, he again just watched her for a minute stepping up beside her. “You ain’t gotta do those. I can take care of them in the morning.”

“It’s no problem, almost done and then I’ll get out of your way.”

He could hear the tension in her voice, see the way she held her self, stiff, unyielding, like barbed wire wrapped around a brick wall. “You’re not in my way. So, Tommy…he’s taken a liken to ya.”

She almost dropped the glass she as holding between soapy hands when he mentioned Tommy, giggling a little before gaining composure. “Tommy’s a nice guy. I gotta feelin he’s gonna be a real good friend.” Silence fell between them as she finished, drying her hands on the dishtowel. “Well now all ya gotta do is take out the trash and you’re set.”

“Thanks Andy. Feels weird callin ya that. I like Andrea better.”

Eyes went wide as he used her full name, not the nick name she’d been settled with when she was five. “Um okay. Well guess I should head out. Tell Sarah I had fun today.”

Just as she reached to grab her purse from the counter, a hand came up, fingers wrapping around a bicep, spinning her round, pulling him against his chest. He heard the audible gasp come from between her lips before he kissed her. This was so outta character for him but it was something he’d wanted to do since the night of the concert. He just wanted to kiss her, for hours as he held her close. She looked so small and fragile, a contrast to the hard angles of himself. When she didn’t resist him, arms looping loosely around his neck, he picked her up and set her on the counter, feeling her wrap her legs around his waist, just as a hand cupped his cheek, thumb caressing the bone beneath. He ended it first, layin his forehead against her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Never should have done that.”

It was like someone had taken a pin to a balloon and instead of outright popping it, they made a small little nick, letting the air out slowly. She felt deflated and defeated. She didn’t believe in that whole bullshit of love at first sight but she did know she wanted him and he obviously wanted her so why, why would he say something like that. “I’m not sorry. Life’s too short to live with regrets Joel.” Pushing him away, she slid from the counter, grabbing purse and keys before walking out the door.

“Fuck.” He ran out the door after her, calling her name a couple of times before she stopped. “Andrea wait a god damn minute.”

“What? What? What do you want Joel? I thought we hit off and then you turn cold and now you kiss me fucking senseless and then say you’re sorry so what? I am not a game or a shiny toy you take for a spin around the block before you start regretting it.” Yea there was the temper that got her in trouble more times than she cared to count, including some suspensions from school and a slew of ex’s but truth be told, those bastards had it comin.

She was fire and brimstone, which shocked him but also excited him. She was one of those women and he wanted her. One that would fight, protect, heal, love until the end of days. “Can you just be quiet for one second. We did hit it off but when I told you about Sarah, you began acting like it was an issue…”

“Because of the way you said it and the way you were looking at me, like daring me to say something. It doesn’t matter if you have a daughter because she is apart of you and I would never ask any parent to choose anyone over their child. It’s wrong, on so many levels…” She couldn’t get another word out before his lips were on hers again. All thought of how confusing he was, went out of her head as fingers curled into the t-shirt he was wearing, legs widening just enough for him to settle between them.

He held onto her, arms around her waist, holding her to him, like he was drowning and she was the only thing holding him to shore. He didn’t know how long they stood in the driveway, kissing each other like it would be the last time. Finally letting her go, he could feel her clinging to him and while most would have pushed away, he only held her tighter. “Stay, just a lil while longer? We can talk, watch a movie.”

“I’d like that.” Little did they know, that night would change life forever.

Twenty years later, they sat in the backyard of their home. The warm summer evening, had a breeze which was shocking considering the humidity Texas could produce, the cicadas singing their own little concert, couldn’t drown out the girls, laughing and running through the house.   

Stepping out onto the porch, handing Andrea a beer, he sat down next to her, taking her hand, fingers absently playing with her wedding ring. "Happy anniversary, darlin," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"Happy anniversary," Andrea replied, smiling up at him. "Can you believe it's been twenty years since we met at that concert?"

Chuckling, giving a small shake of his head. "No. Feels like yesterday. Man, you had a temper but look at us now, two beautiful daughters and a life I wouldn't trade for anything." Ellie was a surprise they weren’t expecting. They’d tried to get pregnant for years after they got married but all the doctors told em it wouldn’t be possible. So they decided to adopt and got Ellie, who could be a hellion in her own right but with Sarah, it was a wonder the house was still standing.

Leaning her head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body seeping into her skin, she sighed. "We've come a long way, haven't we? And I had a temper because you were actin like an ass. Admitted it as much the night of that cook out, so you can’t completely blame me.

“Sure can, but I wouldn’t trade this and I'm grateful for every moment of it."

Sarah and Ellie ran out onto the porch, each holding a small box. "Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad!" Sarah exclaimed, handing her box to Andrea.

Ellie did the same, grinning widely, handing her box to Joel. "We made these for you."

Glancing at each other before they opened the boxes finding homemade bracelets, each adorned with small charms that represented different moments from their life together. “Now I know why we had to go to Micheal’s twenty times this week. I love it. Thank you girls. They’re beautiful.”

Ellie sat in Andy’s lap, lookin over at Joel as shoved her bangs out of her face. “Dad, we know you can’t wear yours at work but figured you could leave it in the cup holder.”

Joel nodded, clearly touched clearing his throat before he spoke. "You two are the best."

In that moment, Andrea knew that their journey was far from over. With Joel, Sarah, Ellie, by her side, she was ready to face whatever the future held. She knew that no matter what, they would always have each other and the music that had brought them together all those years ago. What could she say, she was a music whore and her husband loved it.

After the girls were in bed and the house was locked up for the night, she hopped up on the kitchen counter, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt, lips brushing against his. "Love you."

[arogustus]

Splatband Analysis - SashiMori

(Disclaimer: This analysis is based on what I get out of looking into the character descriptions we have of the splatband characters. If you disagree with what I say, that is fine, we are all beheld to our opinions. Just don't be a jerk about it.)

SashiMori. The band best known for several things. Giving us the dopest trailer of Splatoon 2, having Da Boy, Paul, as a member, and of course the ever present mystery of the mysterious former lead singer. Let’s talk about them.

The band

SashiMori started life as a loud rock band, Ryu-Chang, Karla and Taichi alongside the mysterious vocalist. According to Taichi’s descriptions, it seems he’s the one who founded the band in the first place, but lost control of it to their self-centered, authoritarian vocalist. We have yet to learn the identity of this strange, mysterious person… but we’re pretty sure it’s Pearl. Like, it’s mentioned in Karla’s section in Haikara Walker that the vocalist of the band before SashiMori (the context here either means a different band they were in or SashiMori itself before they took on the name, it’s vague) had vocals so strong only they were capable of handling it. We know Pearl was a death metal artist who wrecked her venues a lot, and it’s not a guess to say she was probably a lot more domineering before meeting Marina. They actually asked Nogami himself about this fact, and said it was up to our imagination. That’s just a roundabout way of saying “yes, but we’re not gonna tell you that.”

Eitherway, the other three kicked their vocalist and stuck together as an instrumental band before deciding to search for a new one. Clearly the three were close enough that they willingly stuck together and united against a common foe in order to keep playing without problems. So, they put out an application of fish Twitter, and that’s where Paul comes in. They laughed at first, seeing such a smol bean trying to join the big leagues. But once he wowed them, they made him the centerpiece of the band's sound, and SashiMori was born.

They also got to make an appearance in the White Day artwork, chilling with the homies of Bottom Feeders and Hightide Era. Well, all but one of them. You’ll see why in a bit.

Ryu Chang

Our big man Ryu is first. He’s a carp who grew up in a prestigious home at the base of Mount Nantai (another Pearl reference, seriously), who became a punk during his teen years and an established drummer after that. He was 35 in Splatoon 2, and that back in 2018, meaning he should be at least 41 by now (we are growing ever older every day). There isn’t much of a description of what he’s like now, but he did have a rebellious teenager phase at least, so it’s likely all that punk ideology stuff has carried on into adult life. He illustrates as a hobby, and created the little mascot you see in SashiMori’s album art, Mr. Wasabi. Wonder what the little guy is about.

He’s got a Rainmaker team going on with Kuze and Blow, Underpass Bass Drum, so he’s active in the Turfing scene. And as we established, the two also showed up in the Deep Sea Metro concert to perform for a bit. One thing I wanna note is that it’s considered an impromptu performance. They didn’t plan to perform together at the place, which begs the question: what were they doing in the Deep Sea Metro? Were they simply attending and got dragged on stage… wait, actually that makes sense. 

He’s kinda hard to read in the White Day Art. He’s sitting with Blow and Taka, and we know he’s friends with Blow. The only other thing to tell is that he’s very much watching Finn and Tangle fight, but his eternal fish face makes it hard to tell what he feels about it. Concern? Annoyance? Attraction? Who knows.

Karla

Karla is a mystery. They’re very quiet, their age is a mystery, and no one even knows how they eat! Well, actually, according to science, the Scaly-Foot Gastropod doesn’t eat at all, but rather relies on symbiosis with bacteria living inside them to get nutrition. Sooo, yeah, lady just doesn’t eat anything. Neat. 

That’s what their description focuses on, being very quiet and mysterious. Doesn’t even respond to questions during interviews, just goes “...” and that’s it. Obviously no indication that they outright can’t talk, just that they rarely do. They’re the silent type, maybe out of shyness, maybe because they just don’t have much to say, or maybe a third thing. At least it’s stated they don’t have bad intentions, so you know, they’re not evil. 

Fun fact, Karla’s design is actually reused from an old concept for one of the Denizens of the Deep that would show up in the train. While that is concept stuff that didn’t make it in, and doesn’t mean that them being from the Metro is true, the evidence does point to it being a possibility. Would certainly explain their quirks.

Out of the four, Karla doesn’t show up in the White Day artwork. Finn is there, and she’s (evidently) female, so that wasn’t really a reason to stop them from showing up. Maybe they were hiding out of frame? Maybe they took the picture? Or maybe they’re just asocial and didn’t want to come hang. 

Taichi Sawaberu

Taichi is, as can be inferred from the text, the founder of the band. He created SashiMori cause he wanted to add singing to his music after mostly being an instrumentalist, which as we can tell didn’t end well. Is the most experienced member of the band, being an experienced studio musician and all, so he’s been in the business for a while. He also has a lot of activities outside of the band. Hobbies most likely. You know, stuff like surfing, competitive knitting, high stakes bingo, whatever other kinds of hobbies exist. He must get out a lot. 

Compared to the other two, he wasn’t fond of Paul at first. He thought he was, to quote, “tiny and awful.” Now, it’s hard to say if this actually applies to Paul for real, as from what we see, nothing really indicates him being an awful kid in any way. He did change his mind after a while, at least, so maybe he was just projecting onto him? If the Pearl theory is correct, it would actually make sense that he was projecting onto Paul his last experience with a small person. His opinion must be a lot more positive now.

We see in the White Day artwork that he’s having a spirited conversation with Nishida. Far as we know, Nishida is pretty introverted, so Taichi must have somehow gotten through to him. What they’re talking about is unknown, but let’s just place this as Taichi x Nishida friendship (wow!)

Paul

Autism be damned, that octo boy can work a turntable. Paul is the highlight of SashiMori, a ten year old octoling who’s the replacement of the previous singer. Instead of singing, though, he provides vocals by remixing them from whatever sources he’s got, including ancient human vinyls. He’s a DJ like most octolings, but he’s actually labeled a particular type of DJ. A turntablist, to be precise. 

I’m gonna give thanks to @porubiteki, a moot of mine who knows a ton about DJ stuff and did all this research well before I decided to do this series. A Turntablist is a type of DJ specializing in manipulating music in real time. It’s basically the record scratching you see TV DJ’s do, but far more focused on compared to other forms of DJing. You actually hear that a lot in SashiMori’s music, which features it far more than any other of the Splatoon DJ’s. It’s also a well respected title in the DJ world due to how difficult it is to master the technique, and considering how Paul is highlighted as highly talented to the point of wowing three experienced musicians, it's safe to say he’s worthy of the title. 

Personality wise, we don’t get too much. What we know is he remixes from a lot of other DJs, meaning he’s a fan of any DJ’s work. As highlighted above, he is very talented, which can only come from extensive work on his craft, especially for someone his age. Taichi thought of him as “tiny and awful”, but if the Pearl theory applies, it’s likely he was projecting onto Paul for being small. We see him playing chess, and humiliating his opponent Jawn in the process, so his smarts extend outside of DJ work too. Also, it’s well known that child prodigies tend to be a lot more mature for their ages, so it’s likely he might have some of those traits.

And now for the big question. Are he and Acht related or not? It’s a common question asked due to the fact he wears a beanie with a tag that has the same logo as DJ Def1sh, a crude doodle of an octopus face. Haikara Walker itself brings up the question, in the same paragraph as Acht’s potential relation to Marina. Specifically, they might be blood relatives, or just follow the same brand. Side Order revealed the Marina thing to be true… and it didn’t reveal anything about Paul. You had one job, Nintendo. 

While Karla is the one with the “mysterious past”, Paul here is probably the one where the trope fits the most. It’s because his existence raises a lot more questions than it answers. Regardless of what his relation to Acht is, it’s clear from that that he’s from the domes. So, what’s a kid his age doing on the surface? When did he get there? The fact he had a Squid Twitter account implies he’s been around long enough to get familiar with all that stuff. Why is he even on fish Twitter anyway? Doesn’t he know that shit can traumatize even adults? Does he have parents? If not, has he been homeless the entire time before meeting SashiMori? Cause a kid doesn’t just show up to a band audition without at least some implication of family having taken him there. Questions and questions. Where is he now? Nintendo, please, tell us where our boy is, WE BEG Y-

—

And that does it for SashiMori. We are now left with three bands. Hightide Era, Chirpy Chips and ω-3. 

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Girls, Girls, Girls: Part One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: You run into the witch Rowena who is taking recruits for her coven, and it doesn't go exactly to plan.

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

Ever since losing your soul, you have no need to eat or sleep. The brothers still force you to eat since they don't want you to be malnourished when you get reunited with your soul. If you do. There is no guarantee that you will ever have your soul again. Not that you'd want it if they can find it. Where would it be, though? What could have happened to it? Did it die and go to Heaven? Lord only knows that your soul would end up there after death. You're not too concerned about it. As long as you keep the brothers busy with cases, they won't have any time to look for your soul.

Sam and Dean were heading back from that terrible case with the shapeshifter and decided to stop somewhere to eat. You're not hungry but they ordered for you. They immediately dig into their food while you look at yourself through the reflection of the napkin holder. Your focus is on the thing on your neck. You pick at it to get it to come off but it's really locked in. You slip your nail underneath the metal part and try to raise it but all it does is bring your skin with it.

"Fuck," you mutter to yourself.

"Keep trying," Dean laughs and takes another bite of his burger. "That thing isn't coming off without the remote."

"Maybe I'll just cut it out," you say and set the napkin holder down.

"Good luck with that. You'll hit your carotid and bleed out. It's why I chose the neck."

You grab your steak knife and hold it with the handle right below your thumb so that the pointy side is sticking out the other end.

"It'll be so easy to stab you right now."

"Do it."

His eyes and words challenge you but he knows you won't. As much as you don't care what other people will do, they have a hold over you. They have the thing on your neck to punish you if you so much as breathe wrong. You slam the knife down on the table, ignoring the looks you're given by other people in the restaurant.

Dean picks up his phone with a smirk and scrolls through whatever the fuck he has on there while you toss your food around on your plate. Sam is trying his best not to get in between you and Dean so he's reading a newspaper, scouring it for cases.

"I got cattle deaths a few towns over. A demon possibility or something?"

"No, it says right there." Dean points to the paper even though he isn't looking at it. "It's probably just because of the drought. "

"Then, what are we doing here?"

Dean looks at Sam's plate before pointing to it with his fork.

"The reason's right on your plate. Lizardo's Porterhouse--U.S.D.A. prime." Dean's phone chimes and he quickly looks at it. "It's the only place between Connecticut and the Bunker where you can get a decent steak under ten bucks."

Dean's phone rings again and this time, your and Sam's interest is piqued.

"Dude, you are blowing up. Who is that?"

"No one. Just... alert things."

"For what?"

"Monster shit." You swiftly grab his phone and scooch your chair closer to Sam's so you both can look. He tries to grab it from you but you quickly move out of the way so he can't. "Hey, hey. Unh-unh. No. Give it back."

"Why?"

"Because of privacy and shit."

"Privacy my ass." You look at his screen to see a dating app opened with Dean's profile on it. You look at Dean to see his reaction to you finding out he has a dating app before reading all about him.

Username: Impala67 Name: Dean Winchester Age: 35 Years old Location: Lebanon, Kansas United States Seeking: Woman Status: Divorced About: Rolling through the USA with my baby bro. No strings attached.

Your eyes stare at the word "divorced". You're not, technically. You made it clear to him that he means nothing to you, but you're still legally married to one another. You keep your face stoic as you move on to the person he most recently talked to. A woman who looks like she got a boob job to get attention.

"She's cute," you smirk and look up at your husband. "Think she can handle your baggage?"

"When did you do this?" Sam asks.

"When I was a demon. I haven't used it since."

"Why? Afraid to cheat? You've done it before. Or should I remind you of the night you fucked me when you were still with Lisa?"

"I'm eating here," Sam groans and pushes you away from him.

You go through their recent messages and see he messaged her last night. You slowly look up at him and this time, your eyes are full of hate. Not hate at the situation. Hate at Dean. You're not sure why, though.

"You're still messaging her?"

"I figure if you're done with me and want a divorce, why the hell not?"

"Fine. Fuck her." You practically slam his phone on the table. "See if I care."

Sam picks up the phone and reads through some of the messages.

"Shaylene, huh? Dean, there are like a million messages here."

"Yeah, check out her picture," Dean says while staring at you.

"Wow." Shaylene is a dark-haired woman with big boobs and a dark blue dress on. "Okay, she's hot but she seems a little too available. 'Oh, baby, whatever you want. I'm burning up just thinking about you.'"

"They get raunchier," Dean smirks while still keeping eye contact with you.

"Yeah, I can see that. This is like a Penthouse Letter."

"Is that bad?" he asks and finally tears his eyes away from you.

"No, it's not bad, Dean. It's too good to be true."

"I'm sorry, is it so hard to believe that an attractive, red-blooded, American female could be interested in someone like me? You know, other than my wife?"

"You realize there's no guarantee 'Shaylene' is even Shaylene. I mean, for all you know, it could be some Canadian trucker named Bruce."

Sam trails off when he notices someone walk into the restaurant. You look past your annoying husband and stare at the woman who is on his phone. Dean looks over his shoulder and waves at her, and she smiles back.

"Does that look like a Bruce to you?"

"Wait, we detoured eight hours so you could get laid?"

Dean looks at you and sees the fire in your eyes. He smirks, stands up, and grabs his jacket.

"Yup. Don't wait up." Dean throws some bills on the table before heading over to Shaylene. She kisses his cheek and they both of them walk out of the restaurant alone. Dean checks to make sure you're watching, you are, and he smirks. You grip your knife tightly before letting it drop to the table. You look over at Sam who is studying your reaction.

"Don't get any ideas," you roll your eyes. "Just because you fucked me when you were soulless, doesn't mean I'm gonna fuck you."

"Ew, no. Gross."

"Like you're something special," you scoff.

"Looks to me like someone is jealous."

"As if." You grab your drink and down it in one sip. "Dean might be hot but he's a dumbass. He can't even last long so I'm pretty sure she's going to be disappointed and leave."

"That's my brother you're talking about, and I'm eating."

"Give me a break. Like you've never had sex with the same woman before at the same time."

Sam can't say anything about that because it's true. It takes Sam another ten minutes to finish eating while you're picking at the metal thing in your neck when Dean calls Sam. He won't give details but he needs you and Sam to meet him in the motel parking lot where he took Shaylene. Turns out, this woman is dealing sex for souls much like what a Crossroads demon does. Instead of kisses, it's sex. Instead of demons making the deals, it's humans.

You walk inside and Shaylene's eyes are wide with fear.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know he was your husband."

You look at Dean briefly before making your voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Sweetheart, all I'm ever going to use him for is his body, and it's not that great. Personality doesn't make up for it either," you chuckle.

Again, Dean is hurt by your words. You know exactly what to say to make him truly hurt. You know him like the back of your own hand.

"What happened"? Why are you getting roped in with demons?" Sam asks, getting back on track.

"Demons? What are you talking about? I was homeless and barely surviving when this guy kidnapped me and forced me into prostitution. He won't let me leave."

"He's a demon from Hell. He's asking you to have sex with people for their souls. It's how they stay in business, I guess," Dean shrugs. "Where is he now?"

"He knows I'm here. He's waiting for me to tell him you've signed your soul over."

"Good. Call him. Get him over here."

"But--"

"Sweetheart, we're demon killers. Just get him over here," Dean says.

Sam and Dean make a devil's trap on the ceiling to trap the demon once he walks into it. Once she makes contact with the demon, you hide in the bathroom with Sam while Dean is with Shaylene on the bed. It doesn't take even ten minutes before the demon comes strolling into the room.

"How are we doing?" Dean's back is to the man because, with one look, the demon will know who Dean Winchester is. "Everybody ready for a good time?" The demon walks further into the room and pulls out a blue piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He's walked close enough to walk underneath the devil's trap. "Okay. I need a signature right here, then we can get this party started." Dean stands up and faces the demon who goes pale at the sight of him. Sam walks out of the bathroom with an angel blade to face the demon but you stay hidden. "Winchesters."

Dean and Sam look up causing the demon to finally notice the devil's trap.

"She told us everything. Abduction and forced prostitution. It's pretty gnarly, even for a demon."

"She's got her version, I've got mine," the demon shrugs.

"Liar," Shaylene glares.

"Let me guess, she came to you begging for you to pimp her out?"

"Yeah, because that Harvard degree was working out so well for her," the demon says sarcastically.

"How many girls are there, hmm? How big is this?"

"Just me and Shay."

"He's lying!" Shaylene gasps. "There's a brothel. I heard him on the phone. They told me what you are! A demon from hell."

"Beats trash from the street."

This is where you come in. You walk out of the bathroom and glare at the demon. If he paled at seeing the Winchesters, he's trembling at seeing the Sapphire Witch. No one knows what happened to you in that warehouse. As far as the demons are concerned, you're the powerful witch who can kill them with one touch. You walk over to him and he backs up until he can't anymore.

"If she's trash then you're dog shit. Do not ever think you're above us because I can promise you this: I can kill you without blinking. You work for us, not the other way around. Got it?"

You back up and the demon loosens his tie a bit to breathe better before looking at Shaylene.

"Face it, Missy, without me, you would've been dead of drugs or worse in a year. Frankly, this little ho should be thanking me."

Shaylene snaps and takes the angel blade from Sam's hand and rams it into the demon's chest. You chuckle and sit on the bed just as the demon falls to the ground.

"Not bad for a ho," you shrug.

"Okay. Well, that just happened," Dean sighs.

"Yeah, and he was our best shot at the location of the brothel. Do you have any idea where it is?" Sam asks.

"No, but," Shaylene reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a business card, "I saw him give these out at the bars."

The card reads "Raul's Girls // 1482 Willis Blvd." That bar is located on the other side of town where the hookers and people with money to piss on hang out at. The bar is empty when you enter but there is a man lying on the ground with black goo coming out of his body. There is another man either passed out or dead, you're not sure which, near the stage.

"I swear to God, if Leviathans are back, I'm killing myself," you state.

"He's a demon. Can't you smell the sulfur?" Sam checks his pockets and sees his ID. "Yep, this is Raul."

"What? Did he puke himself to death?"

"Literally."

"Okay, something went down here. There was a standoff. One demon smokes out and Raul... What can even kill a demon like this?" Dean asks.

Sam inspects Raul's body further and pulls out something from underneath him. It's a hex bag. Fucking of course. Of course, a witch would be behind this.

"Apparently, a witch."

"Man, I wish I had my powers. I'd fucking show this witch whose boss," you sigh.

Sam uses his phone to do a quick internet search of demons being killed by witches and comes up with something quickly.

"Okay, here we go. It looks like in the 18th century, there were accounts of demons killed by witchcraft. They were vanquished by a spell called Defigere et Depurgare which is Latin for 'to bind and purge'."

"Do you think that's the same kind of spell that took out Raul?"

"It sounds like it, but from what I can tell, that spell hasn't been used in over three hundred years. It was only ever known by one person, the witch who created it. Her name is Rowena."

"Rowena," you repeat. "Interesting."

While you're playing detective for a couple of dead demons, another man is dead in a restaurant on the other side of town. This witch works fast. She has you running all over town picking up the pieces of her mess without a care about who gets in her way. What is her end goal? Who is Rowena and what are her plans? More importantly, how can you benefit from them? Maybe if you can get her on your side, you can finally be free of the metal thing in your neck and the Winchesters.

The restaurant still has people in it when you arrive but that doesn't stop Sam and Dean from dressing in their FBI clothes and walking inside. The second Dean steps foot inside, he pauses.

"What is it?" Sam asks.

"Something feels weird."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Witches were here, though. I can feel it."

x

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[chasing-posts]

EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP. I MIGHT JUST SOLVED ONE OF NARUTO'S GREATEST MYSTERIES.

WHO ARE ROCK LEE'S PARENTS!!! SPECIFICALLY, WHO IS HIS FATHER!!!

AND NO IT IS NOT MIATO GAI. BUT HE WAS KEY IN FIGURING OUT HIS TRUE IDENTITY.

FIRST SOME VITAL INFORMATION: MIATO GAI WAS ABOUT 26-27 AT THE START OF NARUTO. ROCK LEE WAS ABOUT 13-14.

WHICH MEANS GAI WAS ABOUT 25 WHEN HE FIRST MET LEE, WHERE LEE WAS 12-13.

25-12=13! PLUS 9 MONTHS COULD MAKE IT 14.

WHAT HAPPENED WHEN GAI WAS 13-14 YEARS OLD?!?!

MIATO DAI'S DEATH!!!

MIATO DAI WHO WAS 35 YEARS OLD, HAD A PENCHANT FOR SNEAKING OUT AT NIGHT. AND FOR MAKING SONS WHO LOOKED EXACTLY. LIKE. HIM

WHICH MEANS HE HAD THE TIME TO CREATE ONE MORE LOVE CHILD BEFORE HIS PASSING, LIKE HE DID WITH GAI.

AND THAT CHILD WAS ROCK. FUCKING. LEE.

MAITO GAI ISN'T ROCK LEE'S FATHER. HE'S HIS BROTHER!!!

LEE IS PROBABLY HIS MOTHER'S SURNAME BECAUSE DAI DIED BEFORE HE WAS BORN!!! IT ALL MAKES SENSE!!!

METAL LEE IS THE NEXT IN LINE OF THE FAMILY TREE