#A Broken Clock Never Boils

[lostalioth]

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

→ premise: there existed no such cricumstances in which dean doesnt want your lips against his. bloodied, bruised, even with broken bones, a kiss from his girl makes it all better.

→ pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader

→ warnings: tw: blood, fluff, but some sort of instense making out, established relationship, descriptions of blood and injuries, blood in mouth, nicknames [baby, sweetheart, my girl], reader is described a bit to have anxiety

→ a/n: as always i hope dean isn’t too out of character as i have never written for him! enjoy my loves :) and sorry its short.

A hunt had gone south they got the monster and it was done but Dean was injured, they were headed back to the bunker. That was all Sam spit out over the phone, normally you appreciated his ability to get straight to the point. Currently you were cursing it as he hung up shortly after cause he was the one driving back. You had a million and one questions running through your head and more than half of them weren’t good.

This was the part of the boys going off hunting and you staying back that you hated the most. When one of them got hurt or something went wrong and all you could do was sit there, a chill running down your spine as your blood boiled in your veins, anxiously pacing the living room, trying to not let yourself jump to the worst conclusions which you regularly failed to do.

You used to go on hunts with them and instead of you currently being the one riddled with anxiety, it was Dean. Once the two of you pulled your heads out of your asses (as Sam would say) and realized you’ve had feelings for each other for years, you got together. Being officially together seemed to make Dean's protective nature increase tenfold. He was even more terrified to lose you now than before. He began fussing over you whenever you'd get even the slightest scarpe or bump on a hunt. He would glue himself to your side the whole duration. Forcing you to normally stay back in the motel room when the hunt turned into a more dangerous situation than dean cared to put you in.

You loved Dean but it began to get a bit too tedious to deal with and even Sam made a comment on how overprotective he was being. In an attempt to make hunts go easier and ease your boyfriend's anxiety, once you all situated yourselfs in the bunker you suggested to him that you go out on hunts less, especially when they could now take Cas. Dean jumped at the suggestion but you couldn't blame him.

“I think that's a great idea baby” he said with a kiss to your forehead.

You still helped out, researching things when Sam needed the help, going through old books and files in the library, patching them up when they’d come back with cuts and bruises. You hadn't realized just how jittery you'd be however stuck in the bunker when he was out and especially when they went on far away hunts.

They'd go to the hospital when things were really bad, so you knew if the boys were on their way back then it couldn’t be too bad. The reminder did nothing to sooth your racing thoughts, your heart thumping so hard you could practically hear it pounding in your ears. You didn't know just how long you've been pacing back and forth, too afraid to look up at the clock and realize it's only been a few minutes since Sam called.

You don't hear the sound of baby pulling into the garage, your head is too clouded as you were damn near about to wear a grove down into the old floors. The sound of a door shutting loudly and two sets of heavy footsteps are heard down the hallway. Spinning so quickly on your feet you nearly lose your balance you turn to face the noise. Watching as the brothers emerge from the dark hall, Dean's arm rests on Sam's shoulder almost using him like a human crutch. You let out a small gasp making them stop and both of their eyes snap up to yours, weather you gasped in surprise at the state of your boyfriend or in relief you can’t tell.

“Hi sweetheart, We’re home” Dean tilts his head, his voice laced with his usual sarcasm and deep tone. He pushes off of Sam, clearly able to at least stand on his own, slowly making his way over to you a small limp in his step.

In the blink of an eye you’re rushing into his arms, your soft hands grabbing ahold of his beaten up face and crashing your lips against his. He grunts out a “fuck” in surprise or pain the word dying in his throat turning into a noise as his eyes fall shut and he grabs ahold of your hips. With a sharp tug he pulls your body as close as he can to his, his hands sliding up your sides. His bloodied lips against your plush ones, kissing you like a man starved, a kiss you’ve come accustomed to when he comes home from longer hunts. “Missed you” he hums in a hushed tone into the kiss for only you to hear, making your racing heart only speed up. His blood flows into your opened mouth as the kiss goes on, the metallic taste on your tongue foreign but you were far too relieved he was back in one piece to care about the blood coating your tongue.

Any pain Dean felt after the whole ordeal and from the bumpy ride back to the bunker seemed to fade from his body. He could care less about his brother's presence still in the room or the blood still dripping from his face and that covered his clothes or his split lip. It felt as if all the bruises that were forming on his body were already being kissed away as your soft lips slid against his. The taste of your mouth overcoming the taste of the blood in his, your scent calming his body, reminding him he's finally home again. Your body grounding him.

A rough deep cough stops the moment making the two of you reluctantly pull away, lips swollen and parted as you catch your breath.

“Before this gets any more R-rated maybe we should patch him up and you know clean him up” Sam suggested with a small light hearted chuckle as he walks off to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. You were grateful you remembered just yesterday that it had needed to be restocked. “Sorry Sammy” Dean calls after him, you turn your head away and follow up with a “Sorry not sorry” down the hall after him making a small smirk grow on your boyfriend's face.

Once he's out of eye sight, Dean grabs ahold of your face by lightly squeezing your cheeks and turns your head back to face him. Leaning down to begin softly kissing you again, groaning against your lips when the pain in his body begins to return.

“Who needs a first aid kit, all i need is my girl's kisses” He mumbled softly against your mouth, making you break out into a smile. A small tear slips down your cheek, your breath returning to your lungs and the chill in your spine fading as relief finally settled over your body knowing he's okay.

→ a/n: if you enjoyed please reblog or send me some dean requests id love to write more for him!

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

you shouldn't be (up here alone)

Sequel to you shouldn't be (down here with me)

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Rating: M (for mature, nonsexual content)

Notes: This sequel into my head this morning and wouldn't leave me alone so here you go; not beta read.

Warnings: Jack Abbot's A+ Coping Skills; Jack Abbot's suicidal ideation; yearning; fluff; angst; canon-typical medical chat; bed sharing

Summary: Jack had told you. After he’d eyed the clock, called time of death, roughly ripped the PPE from his body, he’d rushed past you, warned: “I’m going upstairs.” 

Upstairs. 

It was all he’d needed to say to remind you of your deal, the pact forged over a slice of pizza in his kitchen just a few months ago. He hadn’t let you go home alone; you couldn’t leave him to sort himself out now. 

It’s no secret that you’re there. You don’t make an effort to hide your footsteps, to sneak up on him. You hesitate at the railing, eye the back of his head. Where Abbot is constantly making eye contact on the floor, over a table, over a patient, he doesn’t seek it out now. He looks straight ahead, as if he can see everyone that’s walked through The Pitt’s doors and back out again; as if he’s tallying all the ones that were never able to leave. 

You’re certain he’s adding the teen that just passed to the tally—the sixteen year old with a collapsed lung, massive head trauma, and seven broken ribs, hit head-on by a drunk driver as he took his little sister home from soccer practice. 

The girl is sitting in the staff lounge with her parents, or was the last time you checked on her. 

You shift uneasily on your feet. You don’t like how close he is to the edge, how far he is on the other side of the railing. Maybe there's someone better suited to handle this—Shen, or Robby—you have his phone in your number from the scant day shifts you’ve worked, don’t you? 

But Jack had told you. After he’d eyed the clock, called time of death, roughly ripped the PPE from his body, he’d rushed past you, warned: “I’m going upstairs.” 

Upstairs. 

It was all he’d needed to say to remind you of your deal, the pact forged over a slice of pizza in his kitchen just a few months ago. He hadn’t let you go home alone; you couldn’t leave him to sort himself out now. 

You draw in a deep breath, steadying yourself before you duck under the railing, crossing over to the boundless edge. You shift testily at his side, turning your head to try and catch his eye—but even from this here, he’s unwilling to shift his attention to you. 

“I thought it’d be louder up here, you know,” You offer. 

Before you can overthink it, you lean forward, peering over the edge. Your gut swoops at the height, and you suck in a gasp as Jack’s hand grasps the back of your shirt, tugging you closer to him. You swallow thickly, looking forward again as your face boils with panic and nerves. 

“...Long way down.” It’s a stupid thing to say. But it’s odd for him to be so goddamn quiet—you can’t take it. 

“It would suck if you—you know,” You go on, “If it didn’t work. You’d be a pavement pancake. Blinding pain. Probably couldn’t talk.”

“Stop.”

“Sorry. Just���I’m saying it could go wrong.” 

“So could a gunshot.”  

You can’t argue with that; you’ve seen it, had the proof of it on your table, the blood of it on your hands. You clear your throat, trying to dislodge the lump that forms there. You haven’t thought about that night in a long time. At least, you’ve tried not to. Sometimes, in your darker moments, it still seeps through. 

“...You should get back down there,” He urges. 

“You should, too.”

“I don’t know if I can.”  

“You can.” The assertion feels rude; you tack on: “I get it if you don't want to.”

Jack draws in a deep breath, holds it, sighs. You glance over again, take in his closed eyes, the flex of muscle as he clenches his jaw. You inch a step closer, letting your fingers brush against his. 

“We have half an hour left.”

“Fuck knows what’ll happen in that time.”

“Only one way for us to find out.” You hesitate before you gently link your fingers together. “C’mon.” 

For a moment, you don’t think he’ll go. You duck under the railing, lifting and lightly tugging his arm as you go. But you feel Jack’s weight shift, and then he’s following you through and back. You keep your hold steadily on his, like if you don’t, he’ll run off like an errant child. You keep it down the hall, on the elevator. You jab the button for the ED, step back to stand by his side, joined hands clasped and dangling between the two of you. You unthinkingly smooth your thumb along the side of his hand. 

“...Half an hour,” He grumbles. You glance at your watch, correct: “Twenty-eight minutes.” 

- - 

He doesn’t question the way you linger as you wrap up, trailing him to his locker, gathering your things and waiting for him to do the same. The two of you step into the light of a new day, cross into the park, trek through it slowly. When you reach the other side, you stop. You catch his eye, take one step back in the direction of your place. Jack is still quiet, still won't look at you. 

He didn’t give you a choice. Why are you being so precious with him?

You step closer again, reaching out and taking hold of his hand before you turn, beginning to head for home. You wait for the resistance—the tug, the shake off, the detachment. But you only make it a half-pace before he’s falling into step beside you. You know that there’ll be more time to pinpoint the exact strain of relief that courses through you later—as it is, you’re just trying to keep your head in one piece, get the two of you back to yours, showered, ready to decompress. 

–

“I should’ve asked,” You scrub your hand across the back of your neck as Lulu sniffs curiously at Jack’s boots. “You’re not allergic, are you?” 

It takes him a moment. Jack seems entirely perplexed by the small black kitten sniffing at his shoes. He glances up at you, shakes his head as he gingerly sets his bag down, wary of startling Lulu. You nod to yourself, turning away with a mutter of, “Great.” 

You hurry back to your bedroom, rifling through your drawers. You have some old clothing of your ex’s, items that you’ve lagged in getting rid of for far longer than you’ve had any business keeping them. Surely that shirt and that pair of pants should fit Jack. As for the footwear, you don’t think you’ll have any shoes that’ll fit his foot—but you have some non-slip socks that might do the trick for the short-term. 

You get the bundle of clothes and a towel together as quickly as you can before hurrying out of your room. You present them to him without ceremony, and he takes them without any. You point to the bathroom, and he silently goes. 

You can’t help but watch him trail down the hall, listen to him shut the door, hear the shower crank on. You keep waiting for him to change his mind, to tell you that he doesn’t need your help like this, that you’ve overstepped your bounds. Was he on tenterhooks like this when he brought you to his place? Waiting to see if your head would pop after you had your pin pulled? 

You putter around your kitchen, brewing a fresh pot of coffee, feeding Lulu, and absently tidying the living room. You hadn’t been expecting company. The place isn’t an almighty mess, but it isn't neat, either. Jack’s was—the perfect balance of tidy and lived in. You hurriedly straighten the stray books and loose pieces of mail, cramming odd bits and bobs into the storage ottoman that sits beside the couch. 

Your relief is buoyed when he emerges in your ex’s clothes and one of your non-slip socks, when he settles on your couch and puts his head back against the cushion, his eyes sliding closed. You grab a mug, make coffee with way he likes it (you have made a shamefully close study of him in the last few months), and set it on the end table beside him before heading down the hall. 

You shower and dress quickly, bundling his clothes into your machine and setting them to wash. When you emerge, you have to stop for a moment. 

As wildly inappropriate as it is for your boss to be in your apartment, it’s far more inappropriate to want to take a picture of him there, sitting in the middle of your couch with your kitten on his lap. His fingers are scrubbing gently between the ears that she has yet to grow into; even feet away, you can hear her purring like an engine. 

You take soft, careful steps, moving as slowly as you had on the roof. You lower yourself to sit beside them, thighs brushing as you both look down at Lulu. 

“...I didn’t know you had a cat.” 

“It’s new—Really new. Only got her a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. My therapist's idea.” You reach out, gently scratching under her chin as you feel Jack’s gaze slide toward you. “She thought I needed another heartbeat around the house.”

“Mm…You been holdin’ out on me?” 

“Holding out on her,” You admit. “I told her what happened when—you know.”

“Just now?”

“Yeah.” 

"S'been a while."

"I know. Had to come out some time."

You see Jack nod in your periphery. 

“Finally tip-toed into the grippy sock stuff, huh?”

“Something like that.” 

“Good.” 

You lean back in your seat, smiling as Lulu preens and twists in Jack’s lap. 

“She likes you.” 

A hint of a smile curls Jack’s lips, and it warms you far more than it should. 

“Is Lulu short for anything?”

“Lucifer.”

“She seems a little calm to be named after a fallen angel.”

“You say that now. Wait til you see her zoomies.” 

“Mm…Is there coffee?”

You reach out, taking the mug from the side table and holding it out. Jack looks as surprised by it as he was by Lulu, taking it almost hesitantly. 

“I thought this was yours.”

“Nope.” 

“I could’ve grabbed my own.” 

“No, I know, yeah. Just—Figured you might be sore.” 

Jack nods, takes a sip. 

“You mind if I—” 

“No, ‘course not.” 

Another nod before he’s leaning over, Lulu wiggling out of his lap before he can cover her completely. You feign interest in the kitten as she nuzzles your hand, but you clock the wince that Jack makes as he removes the prosthetic, setting it on the empty couch cushion on his other side. He lets out a soft sigh as he massages the area. 

“So,” He pipes up again, “Whose clothes am I wearing?” 

You smile guiltily when he casts you a sidelong glance. 

“Just some guy’s.”

“‘Some guy’?”

“Mhm.”

“Must’ve been quite the guy if he left clothes at your place—unless he evaporated.” 

“Evaporation would’ve been preferable.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” You chuckle. “He uh—Well, it’s not worth getting into, honestly.” You lean forward, picking the remote up off the table, holding it out. Jack waves you off, shaking his head slightly. 

“I picked last time.” 

You hmph softly, leaning back against the couch as you turn the tv on. 

“If you don’t give me a mood or a vibe, we’re gonna wind up watching a nature documentary.” 

“I’m good with that.” 

“Blue Planet it is.” 

-- 

“What was he like?” 

“...Who?” 

It takes you a moment—you’re thick-tongued, teetering on the edge of sleep, tucked into Jack’s side. You don’t know when the two of you mutually decided to cuddle up, but your bed is a bit smaller than his. You’d each have a couple of inches of room if either of you were willing to give them, but it seems like neither of you are interested in space at the moment. 

“The guy.” 

You tip your chin up, peering at him in the dim light of the room. Daylight is just barely bleeding through the curtains on the other side of the bed, casting a golden glow across his profile as he stares up at the ceiling. 

“...He wasn’t very nice,” You admit. 

“You still have his clothes.” 

“It’s more convenience than fondness. I wear those when I'm bloated.” 

Jack laughs softly, the push of it lifting your arm where it’s draped around his middle.  

“I’ll make sure I give them back.”

“You better.” 

“Would you take him back tomorrow if he asked?” Jack’s head tips as he asks it, waiting patiently for your answer. And there’s something almost unsettling about him asking you about another man while you’re in bed together. Seems like bad etiquette. But you contemplate, and shake your head. 

“He could crawl to me on his hands and knees over broken glass and I’d still say no.” 

Jack smiles, his hand smoothing over the crown of your head, a murmur of, “Good,” dropping from his lips, as if it was something that he really worried about—as if he really cared. You smile, dipping your head down and gently headbutting his jaw. 

“Sleep, Jack.” 

--  

The sun is beginning to set by the time you’re pulled from sleep. The feeling of a body curled behind yours is curious for a few moments, but the sight of a familiar freckled arm draped across your middle answers that question quickly enough. You hesitantly turn your head, wary of rousing him, but Jack seems to be out like a light.

It’s another relief in a day that’s been full of them where he’s concerned. You settle your head back down on the pillow, letting your eyes close, and allowing yourself to just feel for a moment—the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his chest against your back, the weight of his arm around your middle. 

And then you realize that moving at all was a mistake, and your body is itching to stand, or roll over, or stretch. But you can’t risk waking Jack up, not now. You don't know how much the man sleeps, but the impression that you’ve gotten is that it isn’t much. 

You bite your lip, weighing your options…And then shift ever so slightly. You stop, waiting for Jack to move, to sigh, to something. And then you shift a little more, then stop…Another shift, and you’re far enough from him to lay on your back without dislodging his arm. You glance toward him, face primed with a wince, an apology, but he seems to have slept through your wriggling. 

But once you’ve looked at him, you just can’t stop. You’re not sure what’s enticing you more—the greying hair, tousled from sleep; the thickening stubble lining his cheeks; the smoothing of the lines that typically crease his forehead as he takes in a patient’s concerns, doles advice out to his residents, his students—to you. 

You raise a hand, heart ticking up in your chest as you gently smooth a knuckle along his rough cheek. You freeze when you hear him draw in a deep breath, push it out through his nose. But he makes no other move, or sound. You stroke his cheek again, heart leaping when his hand suddenly closes around your wrist, stilling you. 

“...Tickles,” He mumbles. 

“Sorry.” 

“Mm.” He lets go, but doesn’t make a move to push your hand away; rather, he tips his cheek up, brushing against your hand like Lulu does when she’s begging to be pet. 

“Are you hungry?” You ask.

“I could eat.” 

“Okay.” 

“It can wait.” 

“You should have something. We both should…Are you on shift tonight?” 

“Nn-nn. Day off.” 

“Hm.”

“Are you—?”

“No.” 

“Oh.” Jack’s eyes blink open sleepily, and you watch him adjust to the dim light of the room, feel the slight grasp and hurried drop of his fingers against your shirt. You swallow thickly. 

“What are you hungry for?” You ask. And the room is so dark, you’re certain you’ve seen it wrong, but Jack’s eyes seem to flit to your lips before he sits up. You try not to feel too disappointed, to remind yourself that he’d have to get up anyway—you both would. 

“Whatever you wanna do’s fine with me,” Jack finally says, the sound partially muffled as he scrubs his hand across his face. You nod, pushing yourself up beside him. 

“I’ve got a spare toothbrush you can use.” 

“Subtle.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” You laugh. 

“That belong to the guy, too?”

“Eugh, no.” You shove the covers off, rounding the bed and peering around the curtain before opening it fully. The sun has nearly dipped entirely into the horizon, scattering the sky with hues of pink, purple. 

“It’s no police scanner,” You turn to face him, leaning back against the window, “But how do you feel about Chinese food and some more Blue Planet?” 

Jack smiles as he swings his legs out of bed, leaning down to refit the prosthetic. 

“Sounds good.” 

“Cool.” You make your way for the door, but stop when Jack catches hold of your hand. You go still, brows raising as he meets and holds your gaze. 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” You shake your head. 

“Coming to get me.” 

You smile softly, taking your hand from his and cupping his cheek. 

“Thank you."

"For?"

"For trusting me to find you.” 

Tag list:

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@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

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[bbyg4rl]

gentle love

cw: flangst, argument, happy ending !

summary: a heated argument leaves you and JJ reeling.

a/n: you can assume this is after the topper thing in s1 but its not really specific so it can be at any point in time!

JJ had never known love like yours. He had never known love that was gentle, a love so soft it wrapped around him like warmth. A love so nurturing, it could sustain him more than food ever could.

You were his own slice of heaven—his safe space. The one thing that could restore him when the world knocked him down.

He reveled in the way you looked at him—like he was the only boy in the world, the only one that mattered. The way your eyes softened and your lips curved into a smile in his presence sent a spark through him he couldn’t explain. Being with you was the best feeling in the world. He loved knowing you were his, and even more, that he was yours.

But like all beautiful things, your relationship had its struggles too. JJ wasn’t one for communication. When something overwhelmed him, he’d turn tail and run—usually straight into your arms. But when it was you who stirred those feelings in him, he was lost, unsure where to go or what to do.

All couples fight—it’s normal. Not everyone can get along all the time, right?

The argument started like any other. You were angry at him for getting into a fight with some random Kook, and he brushed it off, insisting he was fine and that you didn’t need to worry. But this time was different. This time, it wasn’t just a fight—he had pulled a gun on someone.

Normally, you would have talked him through his anger, calmed him down like you always did. But the weight of exam stress had made you sharper, less patient, and he didn’t take it well.

Blunt words were exchanged, tempers flared. His frustration boiled over as he snapped, “You never understand me.” His voice was raw, edged with something almost desperate. Then, quieter, almost to himself, he muttered, “Maybe this just isn’t working anymore.”

Before you could respond, before the weight of his words could fully sink in, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Tears welled in your eyes as you collapsed onto the floor, clutching your knees as waves of pain rippled through your chest. You had never fought with JJ like this before.

Your fingers found the necklace around your throat, trembling as you rubbed your thumb frantically over the J-initial locket. What did he mean by that? His words echoed in your mind like a broken record, each repetition cutting deeper.

Did this mean you had to take the necklace off? That you had lost him? The questions swirled in your head, suffocating you as you sobbed against the cold bedroom floor.

Eventually, the exhaustion, the heartbreak, and the sheer weight of it all pulled you under, dragging you into unconsciousness.

You're only woken up by JJ's calloused hands gently cupping your jaw, pulling you into him. Blinking up at him, you find tears streaming down his face, his expression shattered with guilt. His breath trembles, and then—a wrecked sob escapes him, your name breaking apart on his lips.

You assume he let himself in through the window, just like he had countless times before. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s been an hour since he left—an hour that felt like an eternity.

Looking back at him, you pull him close, a mix of relief and heartbreak crashing over you. He wraps you in a tight embrace, arms locking around you as if afraid you might slip away. His grip is desperate, unyielding—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You sit in silence, finding comfort in each other’s arms as your breathing slows, your hearts steadying together. The quiet wraps around you like a fragile truce until, finally, his voice cuts through it.

"I’m sorry."

"I'm sorry too" you whisper back, your voice barely above a breath. You know he was only doing what he could in the circumstances he was trapped in.

"I should've let you explain before I snapped at you." You look up at him, a pang of guilt striking your heart as the words leave your lips.

"It's alright," he murmurs, his southern drawl soft, almost sheepish. "I shouldn't have yelled at ya either. I was bein’ a dick."

You both settle back into silence, the weight of unspoken emotions lingering between you. Then, his voice breaks through again.

"I hope you know I’ll never leave your side. Whatever I said before... I was just angry. I didn’t mean it."

His words tumble out in a rush, his tone almost frantic—like he’s trying to take his previous words back, like he’s just stepped on a puppy’s tail and is desperate to make it right.

You press your palm against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart as he apologizes. It’s a silent gesture—one that tells him you believe him, that you accept his apology without needing to say a word.

"I could get rid of the gun if you want me to" he murmurs softly against your temple. "You mean more to me than a piece of metal."

"No, it’s okay. Keep it. Just… don’t get into trouble." Your voice is quiet but firm, a stern edge creeping in.

He nods without argument, pulling you closer, his arms tightening around you. Then, with a sigh, he buries himself in the crook of your neck, as if that’s the only place he truly feels safe.

You turn your head, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "Please don’t ever tell me you’d leave me again," you whisper, your voice trembling, fragile with fear.

He lifts his gaze to yours, guilt pooling in his eyes. "Never" he vows before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the ring on his pinky finger, sliding it off effortlessly. He gestures for your hand, taking it in his own as he carefully slips the small ring onto your finger.

"Never again." he murmurs, a silent promise, a quiet commitment to never hurt you.

You cradle his face in your hands, pulling him into a slow, lingering kiss—deep and unhurried, saying everything words couldn’t. He was yours, and you were his. That was all that mattered.

Entwined in each other’s arms, you stay on the floor, neither willing to let go. The bed is forgotten, lost in the warmth of his touch and the quiet intensity that lingers between you.

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[synthetickitsune]

Petty ✧ h.js

Pairing: Joshua Hong x gn!reader Genre: angst/fluff Summary: Joshua can be a bit petty when he's tired and feels wronged. Even if he's at fault all along. Word count: 2.3k A/N: please get me out of here, i've been in shua brainrot since january and this is once again @hanniedream's fault >:(

Joshua has never hated your bedroom more than he hates it at this moment.

The room is too big. The walls are the wrong color. The windows are too big and it feels like the whole world can see him and laugh at him. The bedroom should be the only room in your house. It wouldn’t be so empty then.

The bed is too big to be sleeping in it alone. It’s cold. The sheets feel like ice around him, no matter how tightly he wraps himself in them, and his arms are empty even though your scent lingers on your pillow. He won’t be as pitiful as hugging it to sleep, he refuses. 

Where are you anyway? 

Pout pulls on his lips without his permission as he strains his ears but he can’t hear a single sound. He checks the clock again, then checks one more time that he’s not seeing wrong. You should be here by now. He accounted for everything - how long your night routine takes, a little snack if you felt like it, the time you’d need to be away from him after the fight, the time you’d waste on thinking whether you should hang onto the resentment or not. You should be here already. You should’ve been here ages ago. So where are you?

It goes against his pride that he gets up and makes his way to the living room where he expects you’d be sulking. And you are there - sleeping soundly.

He huffs in disbelief, hands on his hips as he watches you sleep while he can’t even keep his eyes closed. Does he mean nothing to you? How can you sleep without him?

He has half a mind to wake you up - he walks up to you and leans down, still undecided whether he should do it. What would he say? He can’t admit he can’t sleep without you, so he’d just look like a dick. Besides, you sleeping here means you’re still upset, so you wouldn’t come to bed anyway. Then he notices the dried tears in the corner of your eyes. 

He frowns, any thoughts of waking you up gone from his head. Were you actually mad? The argument wasn’t long or, in his eyes, that big of a deal. True, he was also quite exhausted, so it’s kind of foggy and he knows he was a bit too harsh. He also admits he was in the wrong, a fact he realized during the first two hours of his tossing and turning when he remembered that the events happened differently from what he initially thought. But it wasn’t a big deal anyway… You don’t usually cry over petty arguments. And he knows better than to hope for any sleep now.

Joshua leaves for the bedroom quietly, sighing once he lies down in bed. The pout tugs on his lips again. He feels wronged too. You could’ve just told him instead of immediately getting defensive and calling him wrong when he just didn’t remember at the moment. Why would you cry? Was he really that mean? He doesn’t think he was. He tries to sleep, but over what remains of the night, he can’t get more than a couple minutes of sleep at the time.

Safe to say it didn’t exactly help his sour mood that he didn’t rest at all. As soon as he decides to get up for the day, he struts into the kitchen and starts on boiling the water for his coffee and taking out things to prepare himself breakfast.

“What the fuck, Joshua?” you groan from the adjacent room, voice dripping with annoyance and hostility. Of course the noise would wake you up. And now he can’t exactly explain why he thought he’d get his usual morning greeting - well he didn’t think at all, but now that the routine is broken and not one nice word is spoken to him, he pauses. He swallows uneasily thinking of how it usually goes - waking up with you in his arms or you hovering above him, wishing him a good morning with the sweetest kisses. Not this.

He snaps out of his, his pettiness wavering a little, but not enough. He was in the wrong, but you could’ve explained that to him more yesterday. Not like he was in a state of mind to listen to you, but you could’ve tried… He’s too tired for this.

So he keeps doing his thing, taking out the vegetables to cut. He notices you disappearing into the bedroom, to change and freshen up he supposes. It doesn’t feel great to have you walk away from him without another word.

He’s cutting vegetables when you return. At this point he doesn’t expect much, but he also doesn’t expect you to walk straight past him, barely stop the cupboard door from hitting his head when you take out your mug. He also feels something die inside him when you pour the boiling water into only one mug, making a drink for yourself despite there being enough water for both of you.

His focus is more on you than the knife in his hand, which is not the safest thing when he’s trying to cut the carrot, but he needs to be ready and catch every word you’ll say. Because you need to say something, right? Wrong, apparently. You’re just sitting there sipping your coffee and scrolling on your phone without paying any attention to him. Does he not matter to you?

He wants to get angry, wants to heave a long and angry sigh, slam the knife down and confront you - but that’s not him. It does cross his mind, he just can’t do it. It’d scare you and it’d make him feel like one of those stereotypical angry husbands and that’s the exact opposite of what he wants. Opposite of what he should do if he wants to ever have the chance to call himself your husband.

He closes his eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths. This situation was ridiculous. He can’t go another day without a proper sleep and he doesn’t think he can get through breakfast with you ignoring him. Was Joshua’s pride really more important than you? No. Of course not. Especially not when it was all so stupid and ultimately his fault. 

“I was wrong,” he sighs, he finally puts the knife down before he can cut his finger off, “I’m sorry.”

He turns around, and after what feels like eternity you’re looking at him. You sigh too, rubbing your eyes. Properly seeing you now, he notices you must’ve had a restless night just like him. It makes the last remains of his pettiness dissipate. He opens his arms cautiously, hoping, wishing… You get up and hug him back, let him hold you as he wraps his arm around your middle and cradles your head with the other one. Finally he feels like he can breathe.

“I’m glad you apologized,” you rub his back, and fortunately you don’t flinch away when he kisses the side of your head. He hums sheepishly, squeezing you a little tighter. “I was really frustrated with you. It wasn’t even that big of a deal, you could’ve already apologized yesterday.”

“I know,” he acknowledges. Looking back, he shouldn’t have brought out the issue out of nowhere in the first place. “Are you still mad at me?”

“I wasn’t mad, just frustrated,” you repeat, “It’s fine now.”

He nods, letting you go just enough that he can kiss you properly. His morning feels much better immediately. You smile at him and he’s wondering why would he ever do anything to threaten that smile. He doesn’t want to let you go now that he has you back in his arms, but he’s hungry and he thinks you must be too. “I’ll make breakfast for us, hm?”

You free yourself from his embrace rather than him allowing you to pull away. His reluctance shows in his hands taking hold of yours and bringing them to his lips, lingering. You give him a reassuring smile and only then does he let go. 

What you notice before going back to your chair, before moving from the spot, is Joshua looking at your cup on the table in a way that you can only describe as a puppy watching his favorite toy spinning in the washer. You don’t think he noticed you saw, or that he meant for you to see at all, and it takes a lot not to start laughing. It does give you some satisfaction, though, to know that the argument and his own mistake didn’t leave him unaffected. His shoulders are still slumping and he looks so down you’d think you didn’t make up already. 

“Joshua?” you call his name and he quickly turns his head towards you as soon as he puts the knife down again. You chuckle and rest your head on his shoulder. “Should I make you a cup of coffee?”

“Yes please, thank you,” he beams at you, eyes turning into crescents when you kiss his cheek.

You pull out a mug, conscious of his eyes following your every movement. Something about your choice of the piece of ceramics must be not up to his standards if his displeased grunt is any indication. However when you look at him, he only gives you a small smile.

“What’s wrong?” you cross your arms over your chest. He grows timid, looking away. You roll your eyes. You’re almost sure you’re being played for attention, but you will give him the benefit of a doubt this time because he seemed genuinely sorry for the fight. It’s cute how he melts into you when you hug him from behind, your hands resting on his stomach. 

“What about the matching ones we got for Christmas instead?” he mumbles almost too quiet for you to hear.

“I already have my own cup though,” you frown.

“You need to make a new one,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world

“Huh?”

“We’re gonna restart this morning,” he explains calmly, “I won’t be an asshole and we’ll have a nice breakfast together with our cute matching cups.”

“You called them cringy before.”

“Don’t ruin the vision,” he warns playfully. You hold his gaze, hoping he’ll cave but he doesn’t. You break first.

“What am I supposed to do with the other cup though?” you laugh at your ridiculous boyfriend, but he’s not done being unreasonable.

“Bring it to me,” his tone is suspicious, so you have no idea why you listen. You get to watch as he downs the rest of your morning drink in a few long gulps and puts the cup in a sink. “There, problem solved.”

“Joshua Hong, you’re insane,” you sigh. You’re smiling though - so it’s his win anyway. He won and now he’ll get to watch you boil more water and prepare coffee for both of you, because you need to match one hundred percent of course. It’s still not the safest to cut vegetables when he’s so distracted but his fragile heart is practically jumping off his chest when you take out the very cheesy matching Christmas cups and set them down. “Stop staring.”

“I need to make sure you’re doing it right,” he teases. He’s happy that everything is fine, happy that his morning returned to normal and happy that-

“Do you think I can’t?” you quirk a brow at him, pausing the preparations. 

He swallows and nearly trips over his over feet closing the distance between you and cupping your face in his hands. 

“No, baby, I’m so sorry,” he frowns, kissing your forehead and lingering there, waiting for your verdict. He hears you sigh and his chest feels thigh.

“You’re so cute, Shua,” there’s a smile in your voice and his heart skips a beat when he hears his nickname, “I’m not upset, I’m just playing with you.”

“Don’t do this to me,” he whines, burying his face into your shoulder. His arms wrap around you and you’re stuck between his body and the counter, trapped in his hug. All you can do is hug him back and press some kisses to his neck.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you smile, “How about I finish the coffee, hm? Then I can hug you and cling to you to make up for it.”

“I made you upset first,” he mumbles. You roll your eyes at his sudden self-awareness. He pulls away to look at you, a slight pout on his lips. “But you took advantage of that. I think I deserve a kiss as well.”

You should’ve known it was all a manipulation tactic.

But knowing or not, it doesn’t change the fact that you kiss him and smile against his lips as you do when you feel him smile too. He doesn’t let go until he’s had his fill, until he leaves you breathless and chasing after his lips. 

“I missed you,” he whispers, coming back for just one more kiss, “Hurry up with the coffee.”

You should scold him. You should remind him that he is the reason why your morning is so messy.

But you don’t. 

Instead you do exactly as he told you and enjoy having him close again once the coffee is done. And you enjoy as Joshua feeds you the first piece of breakfast for a taste test, and you enjoy him pulling out a chair for you, bringing you your plate, and holding your hand the entire time you eat.

Most of all you enjoy his warm embrace when you lay down for a nap that won’t make up for the cold and lonely night, but that feels heavenly nonetheless.

[trashytracktales]

omg omg your work is so good oml. quick request: anything for logan sargeant because i CRAVE that man in my bones frfr

Late for Logan | LS²

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Sorry in advance, but it's your fault for giving me that type of freedom 🤍

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𐙚 summary ──── After being dropped mid-season, Logan returns home overwhelmed with frustration and self-doubt. Luckily, he has her, and they manage to find solace in each other, reminding him that it’s never too late to rebuild.

𐙚 pairing ──── Logan Sargeant x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, emotional distress, mentions of career challenges, vulnerability & emotional support, fluff & smut, descriptive language, mature/sexual content, unprotected sex, swearing, established relationship.

𐙚 word count ──── 3.5k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 5, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── If you miss Logan say I ☝🏻😔

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

THE AIR IS tinged with the faint aroma of Logan’s favorite cheat meal sitting under its foil wrapper. She’s set everything up exactly as he’d like it: snacks in a tidy line on the table, his favorite series queued on the TV, and a stack of games ready in case he wants to lose himself in a familiar world, just to escape the real one.

She tried her best to bring him some comfort, though it also helped her keep her mind occupied. After Logan dropped the bomb on her, her blood has been boiling ever since. She knows there is no point in being angry, because as he said, what's done is done. But that won't stop her from cursing the name of that entire garage of snakes.

The clock creeps toward 2 a.m. She's tired, but she doesn’t let herself drift. Not tonight.

Tonight is for Logan.

She perches on the edge of the couch, fiddling with the edge of a blanket, waiting for the sound of his key in the lock, while aimlessly scrolling through her feed.

When the door finally clicks open and Logan steps inside, his movements are heavy, yet cautious.

His bag slung low on one shoulder, all the lights are low, and he doesn’t seem to notice the setup she’s spent hours on. He doesn’t call out, either. Doesn’t move toward the living room. He simply heads toward the kitchen, thinking she's been asleep for hours now.

Her stomach twists when she hears the noisy thud of his bag hitting the floor. She expects him to walk back, to see the small effort she’s made to make him feel loved, seen, and appreciated, but the silence is louder than ever. Then, there’s the crash of something — a plate or maybe a glass — and a muffled curse.

Quietly, she stands up from the couch, stepping toward the doorway.

She finds Logan on the kitchen floor, his knees pulled to his chest, and his head in his hands. His frame trembles, wracked with uneven breaths that she realizes, with a sinking feeling, are sobs.

His frustration spills into his voice, sharp and broken, as he tries to keep quiet. “A failure… such a fucking failure.”

Tears burn behind her eyes as she watches him fall apart. She hadn’t imagined it would be this bad — she knew his season so far sacked, but it wasn't always his fault, and he seemed okay for the most part. Although, Logan had always been good at pretending he was fine. Tonight, though, there’s no mask. Just raw pain and anger and exhaustion and frustration.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft, yet slightly shaking.

His head snaps up, his red-rimmed eyes locking with hers. “Shit. Did I wake you, baby?” his voice cracks, the words rushed, as though he’s trying to cover the vulnerability she’s already seen.

She steps closer the moment she sees him trying to get up, her bare feet cool against the tiles. “No, I wasn't… I wanted to surprise you,” her voice falters, and she kneels beside him, reaching for his hand. “I'm so sorry, Lo. I didn’t know you were hurting this much.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I’m supposed to—” his words choke off, hitting his head with the bridge of his palm, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

“Oh, pretty,” she grips his hand tightly, pulling it away from his self-inflicted punishment. “It's going to be okay. You're home now.”

“I’ve worked so hard for this,” he whispers, ignoring her pitiful look. “And now it all went to shit, because I couldn't get it together. Everything… gone.”

Her heart breaks for him. At the same time, she's offended by his statement. After all, she's still here; there's still something. But it's not about her, so she pulls him into her arms, without thinking about the technicalities of his affirmation. His body folds into hers like a little child, his head pressing into the crook of her neck.

He tries not to cry, but it's been months since he's been suppressing those tears, thinking he wasn't allowed to lash out, because that's not what strong people do.

It doesn't matter.

She's still here, and she is holding him together when he feels like he’s falling apart.

“It’s not gone,” she whispers, her hand stroking through his hair. “Baby, it was a shitty team, anyway. You’ve still got so much ahead of you.”

“Not in F1, I don't,” he reminds her bitterly.

She pulls back enough to look into his eyes, her thumb brushing away the tears on his cheek. “So what? At least you can say you've been there. You did great things. Things that other people can only dream of. And no matter what happens, you'll always have that. Isn't that amazing?”

His lip quivers, looking at her as if he sees her for the first time. Again. As if he's falling in love. Again.

“You deserve someone who’s not falling apart at the moment.”

The girl frowns. “Shut up. I choose you, Logan. All of you. Every single day,” she says with so much conviction in her voice that he almost believes her.

He exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping. “I might need you more than you need me.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” she asks, raising her eyebrows in confusion. “If anything, we'll have more time. More time to figure things out. More time to put everything in order. More time for us.”

Logan nods, realizing she's not entirely wrong. Though it sucks, maybe all the bad happened now to make more room for the good that is about to come.

They stay like that for a long time, tangled on the cold kitchen floor, until his breathing steadies and the tension in his body ebbs. He feels sorry she had to see him like that, but at least all the shame subsided. For now.

Next, she pulls him to his feet, their hands still entwined, and finally leads Logan into the living room.

His eyes widen when he sees the setup. “Baby, this looks amazing. You shouldn't have…”

“I wanted to,” she admits softly.

He pulls her into a tight hug, burying his face in her shoulder. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Stop with that already,” she whispers. “Or else, I'll eat all your food in front of you.”

THE CLOCK ON the bedside table reads 3:34 a.m. when they finally settle in bed, under the blanket. The TV hums softly in the background, playing Logan's favorite series, though neither of them is paying much attention.

He's still deep in thought, and she's still worried of how is all this going to actually affect him in the long run.

Logan is lying across her, his head resting on her stomach, one arm draped over her thighs. His body feels heavier than usual, burdened by the weight of the day. Her fingers move lazily through his hair, a repetitive, soothing motion that almost puts him to sleep.

No one says anything; they don't need to. She knows Logan. Knows the storm raging inside his mind despite the quiet exterior. And he knows her — patient, calm, and supportive.

Everything he's not, at the moment.

Suddenly, he tightens his grip on her thigh, his knuckles brushing the soft skin. The motion is unconscious, but the pressure betrays the frustration that's still boiling inside him. She inhales sharply under the force of his hand, the pressure taking her by surprise, a little sound slipping from her lips before she can stop it. It’s enough to make his head lift slightly, enough to draw his attention.

Logan freezes for a moment, but then something in him snaps. His heart starts racing, his blood travels faster throughout his body, and his mouth goes dry. He shifts, sliding his head beneath her oversized shirt — his shirt, that she chose to sleep in for the night. His lips find the soft plane of her stomach, planting warm, deliberate kisses against her skin.

“Logan,” she whispers his name, half a question and half a plea.

He doesn’t respond, not with words. Instead, his hands trail upward, gripping her waist firmly, his thumbs brushing just beneath the curve of her breasts. When his mouth moves higher, kissing just beneath her ribs, his hand slides under the shirt, fully cupping her flesh. The touch is possessive, almost reverent.

“My everything,” he murmurs against her skin, his voice raw. It gives her goosebumps, but she doesn't have time to process his words too in depth, because feeling him like that occupies her entire brain capacity. “The perfect design. Smooth, precise, so responsive, baby. I should’ve been able to handle you better.”

Her breath catches in her throat. She understands pretty quick that he’s not just talking about her body, and knows he’s still thinking about everything he feels he’s failed at. “Logan, stop—”

“No,” he interrupts, his voice an octave deeper. “No one gets it, but you. If I’d just had the right tools, the right… Fuck. If I’d been allowed to drive you the way I wanted to, I could’ve done it. I could’ve taken you further than anyone else ever could.”

On one hand, it's hard for her to hear him talking like that — as if he's gone mad. But Logan is right about one thing: she understands. She does, because she's been a first row witness since day one. So, even if it hurts, she lets his words sink in, lets him vent the pent-up frustration in his own way. It's the least she can do.

His hands tug her shirt over her head, leaving her bare before him. His gaze darkens as he looks at her, his lips parting slightly.

“You’re so beautiful,” Logan whispers, acting like it's the first time he sees her naked. His hands run over her sides, mapping her curves as if committing them to memory. “The perfect design,” he repeats, “And I’m the only one who gets to race you. Is that right, baby?”

She feels the weight of his words in her chest, the underlying desperation beneath his need for control. She nods, because there's truth behind them — they belong to each other, a silent pact they made right at the beginning of their relationship. Besides, he needs it — not just her body, but her trust, her willingness to let him take the lead. It’s his way of clawing back the confidence that’s been stripped from him so prematurely.

“I’m here,” she whispers, her voice steady. “I love you. I’m proud of you. I'm with you.”

She would stop talking, but Logan moves with a hunger she’s never seen before, his lips tracing a path down her body; it makes her head spin with things she should've told him sooner. His hands grip her thighs, spreading them wide as if he’s opening the doors to a new track, one only he has the right to drive on.

“You feel like silk,” he mutters, mostly to himself, gently tracing his palms over her skin. “So warm, so smooth… God, the handling is unreal.”

She arches into his touch, her fingers finding his hair again as his mouth moves lower, claiming her inch by inch. He’s precise, knowing exactly where to push, where to pull back, where to accelerate — he's so good at it. Why did they think he wasn't?

“It’s like you’re built for me, my love.”

She’s lost in him, in the way he talks, and the way he makes her feel like the most coveted machine in the world.

Logan’s frame hovers over hers, his weight pressing her into the mattress as he captures her lips in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s raw and unrestrained, his need pouring into every brush of his mouth against hers. She doesn’t fight it, doesn’t hold anything back. She lets him take her in every way he wants, surrendering completely because she knows he needs this.

His hands are firm on her, no longer tentative as they roam over her body. Her breath hitches when his fingers curl into her hips, holding her so tightly she knows she’ll find faint bruises by the time they're done. But she doesn’t mind — she loves the unfiltered and unapologetic Logan, the fire in his touch telling her everything he hasn’t said.

“I'm glad you finally see it,” she whispers against his lips, her voice soft but encouraging. “Who you truly are.”

Logan pulls back just enough to look at her, his chest heaving, his blue eyes darkened with intensity. “Yeah? Who am I, then?”

Her fingers trace along his jaw, tender even as her words cut straight to the heart of him. “My strong, beautiful boy,” she says without hesitation, “You’re everything I’ve always seen in you.”

It's her honesty that gets to him, making him tightening his grip on her thighs and pulling her legs around his waist as if to anchor himself. He peels off her panties, discarding them on the floor, and she wastes no time helping him get rid of his sweatpants. His skin burns as their bare chests touch again, making her moan softly at the contact with his hard muscles.

She feels his hand traveling down between their bodies, so she breaks the kiss to look at him. Logan hesitates, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second as he shifts his weight.

“What's wrong, baby?” he asks, confusion evident in his voice.

In response, she reaches out to grab his cock, pumping it deftly before guiding it to her entrance. She lets out a short whine at the initial contact, feeling him hard and leaking at the tip, as she helps him sink in slowly, savoring every inch.

“No foreplay tonight. Please,” she whimpers the words out, wrapping her legs tighter around him.

“Are you su—fuck,” he breathes against her shoulder, his body suddenly on fire.

“Promise,” she moans, feeling him stretching her pussy wide in ways she didn't experience before.

Logan grunts, pushing deep inside her, full and heavy, exhaling in gasps the moment he's all in. He feels her so tight around him that he can't help but thrust a couple of times, pulling only halfway out, just to spread her wetness all over his length. The thickness of his cock takes her breath away while it keeps her open for him, and she makes a mental note to let him take her like this more often from now on, even though she expects to be sore in the morning.

“You're so good to me, baby,” he chokes out. “So tight, I just…” his words die in his throat when she raises her hips to meet his.

Logan needs tremendous self-control, but that doesn't translate into how his slow, hard thrust make her body slide against the sheets. The image displayed under him is rather obscene, his eyes following her breasts bouncing up and down as a result of his powerful movements. It makes his mouth water, so he attaches it on one of her nipples, taking the other one between his fingers.

“Lo…” she exhales sharply, arching her back against the mattress.

His thrusts grow rougher, more insistent, his hips snapping against hers with a force that sends shocks of pure pleasure through their bodies.

She cries out, but it’s not in protest. Her nails dig into his back, her head falling back against the pillows as she lets herself drown in him. “That’s it,” she gasps, her voice shaky but full of want. “Don’t hold back, baby, yes. I want all of you.”

Her praise spurs him on, his pace quickening as if he’s trying to make up for every moment he’s spent doubting himself, every ounce of self-restraint he’s forced upon himself this season. Each thrust is deliberate, punishing in the best way, and she meets him halfway, giving herself over completely.

“Shit, you like this, don't you?” he growls, his voice rough as his hand slides up her body, gripping her breast more firmly.

“Mhm, yes... yes, you feel so good,” she moans, tracing her palms over his back. “I love every part of you, Lo. Every damn part.”

Her words push him further, and he leans down, capturing her lips in a kiss so fierce it leaves her breathless. His hand moves to tangle in her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her whimper, and he groans at the sound.

“And I love your pretty noises, baby. Keep making them for me, and I won't last much longer,” says Logan, breathing wetly against her skin, his cock dragging against her walls, and thrusting back in full force to show her that he means it.

She squeezes her eyes in pleasure, the pressure building rapidly inside her stomach.

His pace becomes erratic, every movement driven by pure emotion — frustration, need, love — all colliding in a chaotic duet of moans and whimpers. He’s rough, but not careless, every touch and thrust a declaration of everything he feels but can’t put into words.

That just makes her clench her involuntarily around him, dripping wet every time he pulls out only to shove himself back in. The slick sound is accompanied by their heavy breaths blending together, and the final result almost pushes both of them over the edge.

Except Logan's movements are getting restrained, his grip on her hips tight but trembling as if he's holding himself back. She feels it in the way his body hesitates, the tension coiling in his muscles but never fully released. It’s like he’s afraid to lose the last ounce of control, afraid to let go of the last thread of composure he’s clinging to.

“Lo,” she whispers, her voice cutting through the haze between them. He doesn’t stop fucking into her, but his eyes flicker up to hers, confusion mingling with the intensity in his gaze.

She cups his face with both hands, her thumbs gently brushing against his cheekbones. “It’s okay,” she says softly, her voice laced with reassurance.

His brows furrow, his thrusts stalling for a heartbeat. “No, baby.”

She tilts her head, holding his gaze steady. “Please. Whatever you’re feeling, let it out. I can take it, love. You know I can.”

He buries his face in her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin as he drives into her harder, rougher, with an urgency that leaves her gasping.

Her fingers slide down his back, nails scraping lightly against his skin as she holds him closer. “My perfect boy,” she murmurs, her voice small but encouraging. “I’ve got you.”

The sound he makes is guttural, almost pained, as if her words are the final push he needed. He drives inside her with a desperation that’s raw and unfiltered, pouring every ounce of frustration, anger, and self-doubt into fucking his girl. His girl, who was always there. His girl, who loves him, needs him, trusts him enough to let him ruin her.

No questions asked.

Suddenly, it's too much. All of it.

Logan stills inside her, wrapping his hand around her neck as their eyes meet.

Watching him come while his hand tightens possessively around her becomes quickly her favorite thing in the world. He looks like a dream, all drenched in sweat, floating above her like an angel, his chest heaving rapidly. His mouth falls open, letting out a noise so melodious, that she is sure it has the power to wake her up from the dead.

At that, it doesn't take much for her to follow him, coating them both in their release. He thrusts a few more times, lazily, before crashing on top of her, his face buried in her shoulder.

Right after, she feels the first shuddering sob escape his chest.

“Lo? Baby, look at me,” she whispers, her arms wrapping around him instinctively.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice muffled against her skin. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears prick her eyes, and she strokes his hair gently, her own voice shaking. “No. Don’t ever be sorry.”

His sobs grow quieter, but they don’t stop, and soon she’s crying with him, their tears mingling in the quiet intimacy of the room.

“It’s going to be alright,” she whispers, her lips brushing against his temple. “I'm with you, baby,” she reminds him all over again, determined to keep doing it until he believes her. “And it's never too late to start over.”

He clings to her like a lifeline, his fingers digging into her sides as if afraid to let go. “I don't… know where to start.”

“We'll figure it out,” she says firmly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “You’re not done, Logan. Not by a long shot. Yeah?”

He stares at her, his eyes red and glassy, but there’s a flicker of something else there now — hope, gratitude, and so much love.

“Thank you,” says Logan, his voice cracking under the weight of his own doubts.

She presses a kiss to his forehead, holding him as close as possible. “Always, my love.”

MASTERLIST

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2024

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 | mark grayson x gender neutral reader

love mail — URGGHHH laurie... LAURIE!MARK GRAYSON IS REAL. THE AGENDA IS REAL !!!! hes actually quite a horrible husband pls forgive me ☹️ aarrgh this is kinda bad i hate writing 🥀 cw: for CHEATING. don't cheat yall 😓 this is how i express my hatred to how laurie was written in the movies. not proofread save me (´＿｀。)ﾞ

there's a hilltop that haunts you in your dreams. seeing mark’s tear-filled eyes, black hair an absolute mess and his heart laid bare for you to see. that heart that's loved you for years; longed for you in ways that you can never imagine, watching it break with each passing moment of your silence – the way you looked at him was enough of an answer.

you sit atop it now, wondering what could have been. you're 26, unmarried, and quite happy with that. but it's lonely, your siblings have gone and left massachusetts. and eve, your sister, was preparing to marry in chicago.

you were happy for her, really. after her fall out with that jerk—rex sloane—she deserved this. a good man, and who else could it be, if not the best one you knew? mark, mark grayson. the boy who loved you like he'd never love again. but he did, and he was getting married. you smile at the invite that had been brought with you to the hill, overjoyed to attend their wedding.

you could've sworn mark looked at you while he said his vows. maybe you were just seeing things.

after the ceremony, you returned to massachusetts. back to the home you took your first steps in, and likely your last. the halls that were full of child wonder and laughter are empty, replaced with the ticking of an old clock. the silence is your friend, you've learned. it was so quiet that it made you think, work, do anything to replace the eerie stillness.

couple of years pass, and a knock comes to your door. a rare noise, really. no one's bothered to visit ever since they've outgrown the house that you can't seem to leave. like the very foundation has been built to fit you, and you alone. there is an unexpected comfort in something feeling genuinely right for you. especially in a world full of love for a partner, while your adoration remains for the words written in the pages of novels and books.

and while you turn the old knob, you're greeted with mark. he's got a fond smile on his face, and a baby in those arms that used to carry you over muddy grass. he's clearly grown, dressed like a true man and the messy locks have been brushed and gelled down. and the ring, the beautiful ring that signified his commitment and devotion to eve.

you chuckle at the sight. "and you couldn't write in advance?" he gives the baby a squeeze. "hands were full."

and the house doesn't feel as empty. there's hot water boiling in the kettle, and two cups set out on a counter. the atmosphere is warmer, more familiar. and laughter shared between two old friends are the reason. "and you're telling me that you'd nearly lost your ring, the night after the wedding? goodness, mark! i'm surprised you had woken up with eve still in bed the next morning." he quickly let out a scoff, but he couldn't stop the smile that naturally came when he was with you.

he missed that greatly. what a traitorous heart he had.

the baby girl in his arm coos, reaching out to you with happy babbles. it was a little funny, she was an almost exact copy of mark. black hair, thick brows, you had expected at least eve's eye color—but you pause.

it's like a mirror. what stares back at you, are your eyes. your exact color.

the eyes that have haunted him since he was 21. eyes he had fallen in love with when he was only 16. yours.

like he's always been, even if he's married to another.

he knows you've figured it out. he opens his mouth, but you cut him off. "mark." it sounds like a broken record, the way your voice trembles. he's got that look, the one engraved in your memory, and all of a sudden you're back on that hilltop.

and what could have been is suddenly very real, when the daughter he's cared for all this time could almost be your own. but it isn't, and you curse yourself for ever thinking that way. eve probably loved that girl as her own, and mark—he was loving her like she was yours.

betrayal for your sister burns in your chest, and you can't stand to be in the same room as him for another moment. mark's gaze follows you when you abruptly stand, calling your name in a plea for forgiveness. "please, (name)." he tries to start, but you're shutting him out. how could he do this to eve? your sweet, gentle eve. "why? mark, why?" you question harshly, clutching the material of your shirt in your hands.

you don't bother to hear the answer. the idea that you are the reason, that the love mark harbored for you made him an unfaithful husband for your sister makes you sick.

he's kicked out without a word. his head hung in shame, his confused baby in hand as he knows a letter addressed to his wife awaits him at home.

the guilt consumes him. but at least—he had a few hours of you laughing again. that's the only thing that keeps his aching heart soothed, no matter how horrible of a man it made him.

[genderqueerdykes]

transmasc experience. I've been stealth at three different workplaces and it boils my blood when people act like being stealth is some kind of privilege. like even if it is "easier" for us to be stealth (it's not, I get clocked as queer even if I can pass for cis, but whatever) it's also not a fucking good thing that we are forced into the closet. like, when I got my IUD placed, I was in pain for days and days, but I only took one sick day because i would have needed a doctor's note to take more and I didn't want the letterhead to be from an ob/gyn. I worked manual labor at the time and it was fucking PUNISHING having to deal with that level of pain with no reprieve. to say nothing of the way I was always terrified that my coworkers would find out and ridicule me or worse. nothing about being stealth ever made me feel safe. at one job I worked with a client who was a known sexual abuser (he had multiple accusations of groping people) who was extremely homophobic and had been known to harass female staff, and it was like he could smell that I was different. he hated me in particular and I never figured out exactly why but I think it was because my body was more feminine looking than the other male staff (the organization tried to avoid putting female staff with him as much as possible). he threatened to kill me once and that was with him not knowing I'm trans. I feel like if he ever found out he would have legitimately hurt me. I had so many panic attacks at that job, so many times I ended up crying in the bathroom bc of how he behaved towards me, and I couldn't even tell my supervisor because I didn't want it to become gossip and somehow make its way to him. being stealth transmasc can be so fucking miserable is my point. hazing. sexual harassment. violence. all of that is constantly on your mind when you're trying to make sure no one can tell you have tits every day. because they DON'T see us as men when we get outed! they see us as women, not only women, but mannish women (which is the worst kind to a lot of people) - they see us as *failed women.* tainted women. if women are seen as property by the patriarchy then trans men are seen as broken toys.

thank you so much for taking the time to share your story, i really appreciate it. i am so sorry you've been through this but you are so fucking right. the second a trans man is outed the people around them CEASE to see them as men. it's dangerous as hell because now they have to deal with being treated like a "tranny dyke" or a "Confused lesbian" or just a cis woman. it's disgusting. ive seen it happen to me in real time on many, many occasions. especially around other trans people. i'm transmasc & transfem because i'm intersex, and the second the trans punks i was friends with found out i'm transmasc they started treating me like a cis woman and being misogynistic as hell about it. this crap is real and it's affecting people in real time

they see us as failed women. tainted women. if women are seen as property by the patriarchy then trans men are seen as broken toys.

i hear these sentiments so much time and time again. so many people end up hearing these sentiments. this is something that gets repeated to us over and over and over again.

thank you for sharing your story. take care of yourself. be safe

transandrophobia is real.

[str4ngr]

do you feel what i do? [ sae itoshi ]

cw: angst, all reader perspective, gn! reader. notes: ughhhhh, break ups suck, writing it out feels more irritating. not proofread, dont act surprised. pt.1, pt.2.

since that night, it's been deafening loneliness. the sounds of the street as you walked from work to home blurred into meaningless buzzing. your ears felt like they were filled with water, your eyes felt like they were always on the verge of tears, your throat like it was filled with hives.

your friends told you that he isn't worth your tears. if he truly loved you, he wouldn't have broke it off so quickly. you should've known, you reminded yourself, you shouldn't cry, you told yourself. yet none of it helped, because even though it seemed like it was all 'in vain', why did your heart still ache?

maybe it was really all just a fleeting moment, an experience that you would soon forget, move on from. though, that didn't feel accurate. ever sunrise reminded you of him, when he'd gently kiss you goodbye before his morning run. the smell of breakfast always startled you with the memory of his voice as he scolded you for burning your tongue on the fresh, still-hot pancakes. the sunset a reminisce of going to the beach together during off-season, making sandcastles; being in love.

the clock ticked behind you, and you wondered what other memory your mind would conjure at its mechanical timeliness. maybe his timeliness, his perfect skill at planning.

shaking your head, you turned back to your book. the pages felt loud, crackling under your fingertips as the words of the story you were diligently following barely a moment ago jumbled into pools of ink. comfort didn't come easy no matter how hard you tried to pursued yourself into believing this brea up was a good thing, you were lying, and you knew it.

he was a wonderful boyfriend, and you felt cheesy saying it, but it was the honest truth. he was always checking in on you, yet now your phone has never been so quiet. he always remembered the small things, and now you keep forgetting to take your vitamins.

moving from your couch to your kitchen, you sighed as you tossed your phone onto the lousy cushions of the now abandoned sofa. your mind wandered as you went through the habitual motions of preparing coffee: filling the tank, putting in the paper, 'measuring' the grounds, and waiting for the pot to fill.

silence surrounded you again, like a lingering figure that constantly shadowed you. it began to hurt again, the coldness of your apartment, the framed photos, the decoration, everything reminded you of-

beep. beep. beep.

coffee was ready.

you sighed as the dark liquid filled your mug, swirling with creamer and sugar. It was a nice smell, soft, wafting through the chill that pierced your apartment. it reminded you of him. again. you weren't sure if it was just the curse of being freshly single; every little thing in the would bring you back to your last date.

it was a home date, like many, the crowds of people never something sae would welcome. the vision of his apartment was burned into your memory, each decoration that you both decided on together--as if it wasn't his apartment--the past lingering in the worn fabric of the couch you two sat on.

your eyes fell shut, the coffee warming your palms through the ceramic mug as your head tilted back, trying to wash away the sickly warmth that sprouted in your heart. just as quickly as it bloomed, it decayed, rotting and writhing in boiling agony.

the echo of his voice played in your mind like a broken record, vibrating with softness that brushed against your cheek before sharpening into the dagger he stabbed into your heart barely a week ago.

your coffee was cold now. emotions, such deep ones, took so much time to handle, you thought, your heart sore. the figure of the sun danced among the clouds as it set outside your window. his voice never wavered when he said that to you, when he told you he didn't need you. sunlight flickered like a frail flame, slowly darkening, swallowed by the night, like you. your heart fought against the damp sorrow that suffocated it, but now, there was nothing else to feel but anguish.

notes: i need title ideas for this series.

[aesopsbaby]

"𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙜𝙤 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩."

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫(s): Yandere!Casimir ( @boiling-potato) x Reader

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You’re not a guest. You’re his. And in a place where no one leaves without permission, Casimir makes sure you never even want to try. You learn quickly that obedience is the only thing keeping his hands gentle.

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Casimir, you are such a sophisticated character, I hope I did you justice here... I love this manipulative butler so much, he's so interesting and AGGHH SO MUCH YANDERE POTENTIAL FRFR!! I have SO many ideas for him, so this may be a little messy...I apologise in advance!!! :(

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Psychological manipulation, emotional distress, possessive/controlling dynamics, threats of violence, forced proximity, trauma response (crying, flinching), use of petnames

𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: Behind Closed Doors

The Mansion was oddly silent that morning.

But the silence didn’t last. It never did with him.

Casimir had returned.

And he was furious.

A crash—loud, violent—ripped through the walls of Casimir’s bedroom, followed by another. A shattering sound like glass—maybe porcelain. Then, a heavy thud, like a chair being overturned. You shrank further into the corner of the room, arms wrapped tightly around your legs, heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted to run where your legs couldn’t.

You don't think you'll ever get used to seeing how quickly his attitude and face changes. How he gently locks the door shut behind him—a stark contrast to what you're subjected to witness everyday.

His room, once pristine and tastefully decadent, looked like a war zone. Velvet cushions strewn, star-dusted drapes half-torn down. A fractured mirror layed near your foot, and books from his shelf had been thrown with such force that a few pages scattered like feathers in the air.

He was muttering something to himself—frustrated, angry. Incoherent curses spew from his lips, something about one of the members. You're not sure, and you're definitely not going to pry about it.

His hands trembled before curling into tight fists as he clenches and unclenches them. His breath came in sharp exhales as he kicked aside a broken ceramic teacup.

You hadn’t meant to make a sound. But when he hurled a golden candelabra across the room, it shattered just inches away from your head, at the wall—and a quiet whimper escaped your throat before you could stop it.

His head snapped towards you.

You froze, lips trembling, shoulders tensing harder. Damn it, your entire body screamed fear as you trembled.

You hadn’t made eye contact with him since he came in, but now his cold green eyes, so sharp behind his glasses, were locked on you. Those buttons staring deep into you causes your throat to close up almost instantly.

Then—he smiled.

And you hated how gentle it looked.

Casimir stepped slowly over the mess he made, gracefully so. His top hat casting a subtle shadow over his eyes, making him seen even more intimidating. With every footfall, the sharp click of his boots echoed against the floor like a clock ticking down. He crouched down beside you, reaching out.

You flinched hard, your breath hitching. You tried not to cry.

Shit, you're trying so hard to force them back, your vision is blurring so quickly as it builds up.

But his hand reached for your cheek and, ever so softly, brushed a tear away.

Gentle. Soft. Not right.

“Oh, sweetheart…” His voice was like silk—low, warm, but fraying at the edges. “There’s no need for that look. I would never hurt you.” And you doubt his words.

He leaned in closer, palm cupping your cheek, and you could feel the barely-restrained tension in his hand—how it twitched just slightly against your skin.

“Not unless you give me a reason to.”

His other hand gripped your face suddenly —fingers splayed across your jaw, thumb pressing just below your eye, firm and unyielding. His smile didn’t leave. If anything, it darkened.

“You wouldn’t disobey me, would you, Little dove?” His voice dropped, velvety and laced with danger. “Because if you do… I can’t promise I’ll behave, love.”

Your tears welled faster, breath stuttering as your vision blurred instantly once again.

His grip wasn’t painful, not yet, but it was controlling, dominating. Like he was reminding you that you were his, and no amount of shrinking away could change that.

He noticed. He noticed everything. He narrows his gaze down at you,

“I said, don't look at me like that.”

He sneers, squeezing your face tighter, harsher. Then releasing all tension instantly when you let out a weak whimper.

Casimir tilted his head, releasing your face only to place his hand on your shoulder, tugging you forward into his chest. As he wraps his arms suffocatingly around you—an imitation of love and comfort—he sighs.

His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your ear, as if none of this was wrong.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you, dearheart?” he whispered, stroking your hair now with a mockingly tender hand. That cruel, sick petname he uses to mimic something sweet makes you want to puke.

“Say it.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came at first.

Then..forcefully, shakily— “Y-Yes…”

His arms wrapped tighter around you.

“There’s my good doll.”

Looking for more?

⤷. [OCs Masterlist]

Tagging:

@honeysleepy

[schrodingerspsycho]

Another Shot - Chapter 2

Pairing - Sam Carpenter x Reader

Warnings - Mentions of alcohol, addiction, weed

Word Count - 5.1k

Summary - (Some of) the truth comes out. Tensions rise between you and Sam.

Chapter 1

Help Palestine by clicking this link!🇵🇸

You couldn’t sleep. Of course, you couldn’t. Sam Carpenter was in New York City.

All the memories you’d tried so hard to repress had come flooding back in full force, washing over you like a tidal wave. It hurt more than you would’ve imagined. And that fucking look in her eyes. As if she had any right to be angry with you. It made your blood boil. God, you wished you could hate her.

But you couldn’t. Yes, the memories were bitter, but they were still oh-so-sweet. You wanted nothing more than to crawl back to that better time when she was by your side and you were happy, uncaring of how the broken glass cut your hands and knees along the way. Then you remembered that fucking face, and you knew you couldn’t do that either.

You groaned and rubbed your eyes, which still ached from crying, and rolled over to stare at the clock. It was four in the morning. You wanted a drink. How ironic, Sam made you want to drink.

Instead, you opted for the one vice you still allowed yourself; weed. You stepped onto the balcony as you lit up, pulling your blanket tight around your shoulders. Just a few hits to help you sleep, you told yourself. The high would pass before your shift started. And just this once, you let that be a lie.

Luckily, you had an afternoon shift, and the weed was completely out of your system by the time you clocked in. Not that anyone would have cared, you wouldn’t be the first person to show up to work high. But you didn’t want to risk it. You couldn’t lose this job. So you made an effort to push Sam far from your mind and man the counter with a smile on your face. And it would’ve worked too, if it weren’t for her meddling little sister.

“Hey, Tara!” you smiled when she walked in. She waved back, clearly distracted. You took no notice, turning back to the lobby to go about your business. But Tara stepped out in front of you, blocking your path and nearly making you drop the menus you were carrying. “Shit! What the hell, dude? Don’t sneak up on me like that!” you cried.

“I want to know what happened,” she said, ignoring you. “Sam wouldn’t tell me.”

You stared at her. “Are you serious? I told you to drop it.”

“You didn’t really think that was going to stop me, did you?”

You sighed. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, or maybe you were secretly dying to unload all the memories clogging your brain. And talking about your feelings was supposed to help, right? “If I tell you, you can never bring this up again, got it?”

“Got it.” She crossed her finger over her heart, excitement shining in her eyes. You hoped she wouldn’t regret asking for the truth.

“If you can get Jay to give us our breaks at the same time, I’ll tell you then.”

Tara nodded and rushed off to find your manager, finally leaving you in peace. Maybe after this, you would finally be able to put it all behind you. And if Sam didn’t want Tara to know… then perhaps you could relive it after all. Sure, it was petty. But after everything she’d put you through, you deserved to be a little petty.

Jay must’ve been in a good mood because he granted Tara’s request. She didn’t mention her sister again for the first half of the shift, choosing instead to gush about how Chad had surprised her by taking her out for breakfast that morning. You listened eagerly, glad to finally put a face to the name you’d heard so many times.

“He’s going to come in to have lunch with me tomorrow,” she smiled. “Are you working the morning shift? I want you to actually meet him. I think you’d get along.”

“Yeah, I’m working a double tomorrow. I look forward to it.”

“Yay!” she exclaimed, and you grinned back at her. She’d only been working at the diner for two weeks, and she’d already become one of your best friends. You hadn’t grown so close with someone so quickly since… well, you knew where she got her charm.

Your break time seemed to arrive faster than ever, and you steeled yourself for your unorthodox therapy session as you made your sandwich. Tara was watching you like a hawk as if she expected you to run away.

“You sure you wanna do this?” you asked her. “Last chance to change your mind.”

“You have to know that only makes me more desperate to hear this story.”

“Fine,” you sighed. You led her into the break room and shut the door, making sure no one would overhear. She gazed up at you, her eyes wide and serious now as you sat next to her on the couch.

“Take your time,” she said softly. You nodded in appreciation, and with a deep, shuddering breath, you began.

“We met through a Facebook group four years ago. It was for young people in Modesto who were trying to get sober. Like a support group, but without the stuffiness of AA.”

“Wait, when you say sober, you mean-”

“Alcoholics,” you nodded, a grim look on your face. “Some people were addicted to other things too, and we did what we could to help. Mostly cigarettes, like your sister. She’d weaned herself off the harder drugs by that point, thankfully. We would have meetings in coffee shops and cafes, and sometimes people would host at their apartments during the week. Then we would all go out to clubs or parties together on the weekend.”

Tara stared at you, bewildered. “What? How is that helpful?”

“It wasn’t. The idea was that we would do all our drinking in one night and stay sober the rest of the week, but there weren’t any professionals involved. Most people at least thought they wanted to get sober, but we all wanted to drink more. It was still better than getting hammered every night, but not by too much.” You swallowed, and your hands started fidgeting; one of your nervous habits. You hadn’t spoken this much about your alcohol problems in a long time. “Anyway, that’s how we met. I don’t remember which one of us joined the group first, it’s been such a long time. I mean, your sister was still using a fake ID to get booze back then!” You chuckled at the memory. “But we became friends pretty quickly. Then we realized our apartments were only a neighborhood away from each other, so we started going to meetings together. And after about a year of being friends, we started- well…”

“You started dating?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “God, no. She never would’ve made a commitment like that. She was kind of infamous for it, actually.” You took a swig of your soda, hoping to dowse the heat you felt rising in your cheeks. “But we were probably the closest thing to it. We were together just about every other night, we knew each other better than anyone, she knew I wasn’t seeing anyone else and after a while, she stopped seeing other people too. Pretty much all we would’ve had to do was say the words. But that was the problem. She never wanted to talk about anything real. Her past, her feelings, our relationship, nothing. I knew who she was, but I didn’t know anything about her. And believe me, when you drink with someone for that long, you get to know them really well. She knew how I felt about her, how much I cared for her, and she just wouldn’t reciprocate. But I told myself that being with her was enough. And maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I don’t even remember.”

“Then what happened?” Tara asked, her voice small.

“About a year into us being… whatever we were, there was… an incident. We went out together, without the group, to a house party. That I invited her to. And we were having fun, y’know, drinking, dancing, just having a grand ol’ time. Then she asked me to go to the bar to get her another shot.” You ran your hand through your hair to try to quell the agitation bristling in your chest. “It took me two minutes to push through the crowd, get the drinks, and come back. Two minutes. But when I came back, she was… she was…” Angry tears welled up in your eyes, and you turned away from Tara. You hated that it still had such a hold on you, even after all this time.

Tara laid a shaking hand on your back and you let out a strangled sob. Why was this so fucking hard? You felt like you were back there, the pounding of your heart drowning out the loud music, your vision blurring, the taste of vodka burning your throat, and the feel of your stomach dropping down to hell.

“She was making out with someone else,” you croaked. Tara’s hand stilled, and from the corner of your eye, you saw her mouth open in a silent gasp. “It was some- some guy. Just a random, boring-ass guy. She didn’t even know his name. And when I asked her what the hell she was doing, she laughed. Like it was all just some big fucking joke.” Your fists were clenched, and you could feel your fingernails digging into your palms. Then the tears finally began to fall. “She told me we were nothing. That I meant nothing.”

“I… I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Tara breathed. You leaned back against the couch and wiped your eyes, chuckling in spite of yourself.

“We were both drunk and angry, so what happened next is kind of a blur. But we started shouting at each other, and I think I was crying. I don’t know. Then she slapped the drink out of my hand and spat in my face.”

“She what?” Tara uttered, appalled. You laughed again. It was a sinister sound, but Tara didn’t seem to notice and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“That was actually the most normal thing she did that night,” you said, to Tara’s growing horror. “She’s an aggressive drunk, and it was far from the first time she’d spat at me. But she’d never done it as an insult before.”

“That’s disgusting,” Tara said. You finally turned to look at her.

“I want you to know, I’m not trying to make you think badly of your sister or anything. I think it’s great that you’re talking again, and I would never do anything to hurt your relationship. I’m just telling you my side of the story.”

“I know,” Tara assured you. “Thank you.”

You shook your head. “I’m not even upset that she didn’t feel the same way. I just wanted her to be happy, and we weren’t even together. But she just had to let me down in the cruelest way possible. She knew how much she was hurting me, and she did it anyway. With a smile on her face.”

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Tara grumbled, and you gave her a brief smile. “So what happened after that?”

“Well, I went home, and the next day I found out she had blocked me on everything. She even left the Facebook group. And the next thing I know, I hear she’s calling this guy her boyfriend and switched to a new shitty, minimum-wage job so she could work with him. She led me on for a whole year, then committed to him in one night. I lost my partner and my best friend at the same time. In two fucking minutes.”

You sat in silence for several moments, the conversation weighing heavily on both of you. When Tara finally spoke, her voice was thick with emotion.

“Thank you for telling me all of this. I know it wasn’t easy for you to relive it. I’m sorry she did that to you, and I’m sorry that I’ve brought it all back-”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you insisted. “She’s your sister, and you can’t help that I have a history with her. What happened with us- whatever happens with us- none of it is your fault.” She nodded, but the look in her eyes told you she didn’t believe it. “She told me about you, y’know.”

“She did?”

“Oh, yeah. I could never get her to talk about herself, but if you got enough alcohol in her, she wouldn’t shut up about her baby sister.” You grinned at Tara, and she smiled back. “You’re exactly the way she described you.”

“I’m gonna assume that’s a compliment,” she chuckled. Then her expression turned serious. “I really am sorry that she did that to you, Y/N. It’s… it’s horrible. But I can promise you, Sam’s changed. She’s sober now, and she’s reliable. She’s done so much work to be a better person. She would never do something like that now.”

You gave Tara a sad smile. “I’m happy to hear that, I really am. But I’m going to need her to prove that to me herself.”

“C’mon, Mindy, let’s go.”

“Can’t we just stay in our rooms? We won’t interrupt-”

“No.”

“She said she’d tell us later, let’s just give them some space.”

“Fine.”

Sam put down her book. The twins had been quietly doing their homework on the couch for the last hour, giving her a much-needed respite after the back-to-back six-hour shifts she’d worked at her two jobs today. But now their hushed voices roused her, drawing her from her room in time to see Tara ushering them out the door. “Hey, how was work?” she asked nervously. She didn’t like the serious look on Tara’s face.

“It was fine,” she said with a sigh. “We need to talk, Sam.”

Sam felt her heart rate spike, and her mouth went dry as her palms started to sweat. Truthfully, hearing those words from Tara was more terrifying than the five Ghostfaces she’d faced. She nodded numbly and took a seat at the kitchen table, following Tara’s lead.

“Y/N told me what happened between you two,” Tara began, and Sam’s breath hitched. She knew she should’ve expected this, but it caught her off guard all the same. “I don’t believe they would lie to me, but I have to ask… did you really cheat on them? After leading them on for a year?”

“Yes. I did.” Sam felt like crying. Having you as a reminder of her mistakes was bad enough, but now Tara was judging her too. She wanted to beg you both for forgiveness, but she knew she didn’t deserve it.

“Jesus, Sam,” Tara groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “That’s really shitty. Do you know how broken up Y/N still is about it?”

“I know. I’m so sorry, I-”

“I’m not mad at you, Sam.”

“You’re… you’re not?”

“No,” Tara said with a small smile. “I’ve forgiven you for worse. And I know you’ve changed. We don’t need to talk about what happened.”

“Then what do you want to talk about?”

Tara grinned. “Do you still love them?”

“What?” Sam stared at her, shocked. “Who-who said anything about love?”

“Okay, fine. Do you still like them?” she corrected, rolling her eyes.

Sam gaped at her as her cheeks started to burn. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. Y/N doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I need to respect that.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Did you see how they looked at me?” she deflected, beginning to sound choked up. “They hate me. And they have every right to.”

“They don’t hate you, Sam,” Tara said kindly, placing a comforting hand over her own. “Trust me. Yes, they’re hurt. Really hurt. But they wouldn’t be if they had moved on.”

“Or if I hadn’t cheated on them and treated them like shit,” Sam mumbled. She leaned against the table and put her head in her hand. Just like mom.

“I think you were wrong,” Tara said, ignoring her. “There is something you can do about it now.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

“You can apologize!” she smiled.

“You don’t really think it’s that simple, do you?” Sam scoffed. “Apologizing doesn’t just make things go away, Tara. Not something like this. It won’t mean anything.”

“Yes, it will,” she said softly. “It’ll show them that you’ve changed and that you know it was wrong to cheat on them. It’ll let them know that you’ll be a better person if you start talking again. I mean, sure, it’s not gonna fix everything right away, but it would be a start.”

Sam shook her head. “That’s not enough. It wouldn’t be enough.”

Tara sighed. “Will you at least answer my question?”

“What question?”

“Do you still have feelings for Y/N?”

Sam stood up abruptly and turned away from Tara. She ran her hands through her hair and took a deep breath. “Where did you send the twins off to?”

“Seriously, Sam? Are you really just going to ignore me?”

“I was thinking I could make spaghetti for dinner, does that sound good?”

Tara glared at her incredulously. “You are unbelievable,” she said, standing up and stomping toward her room. She slammed the door, and Sam stared at it for a long moment. Despite everything, Tara was an optimist, and Sam admired her for it. But two little words wouldn’t mean anything in the face of what she’d done to you. No matter how much she wished it could.

After telling Tara the truth, the rest of your shift had felt awkward, with both of you staying uncharacteristically silent when you weren’t talking to customers. But luckily, everything was back to normal the next morning. You had teased her for being a few minutes late, she teased you for always arriving early, and you passed the time by joking around like you always did. She once again asked Jay if you could take your breaks together, and he once again obliged.

“Dang, he must really like you,” you smiled at her. “He never would’ve said yes if I asked him.”

She shrugged. “I’m very likable.”

“Yeah, you are. Little manager’s pet.”

“Maybe I’ll ask him not to give you a break at all.”

“What, am I suddenly not good enough to meet your boyfriend?”

“No, I’m excited for you to meet him,” she grinned. “He’s excited to meet you, too.”

“Then it sounds like we’re all excited. It’s going to be a very exciting lunch break.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, nudging you playfully as she went to make another pot of coffee. Usually, it was all the customers ordered at this time of day, which made the morning shifts more bearable. You were able to hang out and talk with each other while they finished their nearly forgotten homework and nursed their hangovers, frying up some eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns every now and then. It made the time fly, and soon Jay was calling you and Tara to go on break.

Chad arrived just as you finished making your food, announced by Tara’s squeal of delight. She ran to him and leapt into his arms, and he spun her around gleefully. The few customers in the lobby didn’t even look up from their phones.

“Y/N, get over here! I want you to actually meet Chad!” Tara called, beckoning you with her hand. You smiled and headed over, your tray of food in hand.

“Shouldn’t you let him order first?”

“No, it’s fine. He doesn’t need to eat,” she smirked. He gave her a look of feigned offense.

“Excuse you, I’m very hungry. I ate a very light breakfast so I would have room for an amazing lunch made by my beautiful girlfriend.”

“I’m not gonna make your food, I’m on break,” she said, turning to face him. “That was really stupid of you to not eat.”

“Well, then what did I come here for?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“You’re breaking my heart, you know that, Tara? You’re breaking your boyfriend’s heart.”

“Oh, please, you eat enough of my cooking at home,” she grinned, leaning in closer.

“Anyway, I’m Chad! It’s nice to meet you,” he smiled, looking up quickly when he remembered you were there. Tara blushed.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you chuckled. “I’m Y/N. Tara’s told me a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope?”

“Mostly.”

He grinned. “Well, I’m going to go order some food made by a stranger, and then I’ll join you.”

Tara stuck her tongue out at him as he left, and you followed her to the table where she had set her food. “Sorry about that,” she said sheepishly as you sat down.

“Don’t worry about it. You two are adorable.”

“Thanks,” she smiled.

After a few moments of eating in silence, Chad joined you once again. “Alright, where were we?” he asked, sliding into the booth next to Tara. You looked at his tray and smirked at her. He’d ordered exactly what she’d said he would.

“You were about to tell me about yourself,” you prompted. He smiled.

“Well, I’m Tara’s amazing boyfriend who’s known her since we were five, I’m studying sports medicine at Blackmore, I was the offensive lineman on my high school football team, Mindy is my twin sister, and my favorite Pokémon is Meganium. What else do you want to know?”

You laughed and Tara raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, that’s certainly an introduction,” you remarked.

“What? Those are important things to know about me!”

“They sure are, babe. You’re doing great,” Tara said, patting his arm.

“And you said you go to NYU, right? What are you studying?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t start until next year, but I’m going to study photography. I actually can’t wait to start classes, I’ve been saving up for it for years.”

“That’s really cool! What kind of photography do you do?”

“I want to study different kinds, but I love taking pictures of little moments in regular life. Like the little things that no one notices, the things that tell stories. Candid photography, I guess.”

“That sounds really interesting! I’d love to see some of your photos sometime.”

“Thanks! Yeah, Tara’s been wanting me to show her my portfolio.”

“And yet you keep denying me!” she accused.

“I’ve told you, they don’t look good on my tiny phone screen!” you replied. “I can’t exactly bring my laptop to work, can I?”

“I’m sure we can figure out a time when we can all see your amazing pictures,” Chad said, putting his arm around Tara.

“Yeah, maybe,” you mumbled, blushing a little at the praise. “It’s cool that you were able to go to the same college. And your sister, too. That must be really fun for you guys.”

“Yeah, we’re really lucky we found a place that has a good sports medicine program for me, a poli-sci program for Tara, and a film program for Mindy. Although, we probably would’ve gone to the same school no matter what. It’s important that we stick together. After all, we can’t split up-”

“Do not say it,” Tara scolded him.

“-the Core Four!”

Tara punched him in the chest and he swooped down to kiss her cheek.

“What is the Core Four?” you asked.

“Me, Tara, Mindy, and Sam! It’s what we call our little squad.”

“It’s what you call us,” Tara retorted. “He comes up with these stupid nicknames and doesn’t listen to us when we tell him they’re terrible.”

“Oh, c’mon, you secretly love my nicknames. Don’t you, Taradactyl?”

She looked appalled. “Yeah, that’s an immediate no.”

“But I thought you liked that one!”

“I absolutely do not. Get away from me.”

“Whatever. You like Core Four. You’ve said it.”

“I have not!”

“Yes you did, Sam told me,” he said smugly.

“Lies and slander.”

He stole one of her fries and she tried to shove him out of the booth, a goofy grin on her face. You couldn’t help but chuckle at their antics.

“You two are very entertaining,” you commented.

“Are you making fun of us?” Tara demanded, still grinning.

You put your hands up in surrender. “Not at all. Having a similar sense of humor is important in a relationship. You two seem perfect for each other.”

“Why, thank you, Y/N. I’m glad someone thinks so,” Chad said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you thought we were perfect for each other, then you would support my nicknames.”

“Oh, shut up,” she groaned, leaning back against him. He kissed the top of her head before turning back to you.

“Speaking of relationships, are you seeing anyone?”

“Nope,” you smiled. “I only moved here a couple of months ago, so I haven’t really had time to meet anybody.”

“Then we need to get on that!” he exclaimed. “We don’t want you to be lonely! I’m pretty sure we know someone your age who you’d get along with. What are you, twenty-four?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m twenty-five, and it’s rude to ask.”

“You’re absolutely right, it is rude. I’m sorry. But you know what, Tara’s sister is right around your age, and she’s single too! Her name is Sam, she’s the absolute coolest, and- hey, didn’t you say you knew her already?”

You shot Tara a look of disbelief, but she avoided your gaze. “I do know her. I was just talking to Tara about her yesterday. And you know what, I just remembered that Sam once showed me some of her baby pictures.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, she wouldn’t stop talking about you,” you said pointedly. “It’s all coming back to me now. Little baby Tara… in the bathtub…”

“Okay, okay! We’ll stop talking about Sam!” Tara cried, her face bright red. You smirked at her.

Shouldn’t have broken your promise, you thought. At least she had the decency to look guilty.

The conversation carried on normally after that, with you and Chad discussing your favorite action movies and comic books. Tara was right, you did get along well. As it turned out, he had already seen the movie you were looking forward to seeing this weekend on your rare Saturday off. Tara had to quiet him before he accidentally spoiled it in his excitement, but he gave it a rave review. It was enough to distract you from the fact that Sam was apparently single again, at least for a little while. And when Jay called you back to work and you bid your goodbyes to Chad, you decided that it had indeed been a very exciting lunch break.

Sam found herself spending her Saturday off at the movies. She hadn’t been to a theater in months for obvious reasons, but Tara knew she wanted to see the new comedy that came out this weekend and convinced her to go. She was anxious like she always was when she was out in public, but she was glad to be spending some quality time with her sister. Saturday matinees used to be their thing, and Tara still bounced on her heels while she waited for her popcorn like she did when she was little.

But something seemed off with her as they walked toward the theater. She kept glancing behind her as if she was looking for something. But before Sam could ask her what was wrong, Tara spun around and slammed into her.

“I think the popcorn needs more- fuck!”

Sam looked down to see the front of her hoodie covered in Tara’s soda.

“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry, Sam!”

“It’s okay,” she sighed. “It was an accident, I’ll be fine. At least it didn’t get on my jeans.”

“Here, I’ll take the popcorn and save our seats. You go get some napkins and clean yourself up,” she said, gazing up at her apologetically. Sam nodded and handed her the bucket.

She pulled the sticky hoodie over her head as she walked, thankful that she had worn a tank top underneath it. And the theater still had the heat on despite the warming weather outside, so she wouldn’t be cold. It was still shaping up to be a pretty good day.

But before she could reach for the napkins, a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you said as you looked up from your freshly buttered popcorn.

“Y/N.”

“Sam.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see a fucking movie, obviously,” you hissed. Sam rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“I should’ve known,” she mumbled, her gaze drifting to where Tara was spying on you from around the corner. Your eyes widened in realization.

“Dammit! That sneaky little- I never should’ve told her my weekend plans.”

“What the fuck did you just say about my sister?”

“Oh, you know damn well this isn’t about Tara! This is about us, and what you did- oh my god!” You had finally turned to look at her, and your eyes immediately went to her arms. Not because her biceps were even more muscular than you remembered, but because of the long, raised scars on her right shoulder and collarbone. Any anger you had been feeling dissipated, replaced with worry and a deep-seated need to protect. “What happened?” you asked softly, instinctively reaching out to comfort her. She flinched back, her eyes startled and scared, and you lowered your arm. She stayed silent, just standing frozen and staring at you like a lost puppy. It made your heart melt, just like it always did. “Sam, are you okay?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” she snapped after a beat, her expression hardening back into the look of contempt you were starting to get used to. You glared right back at her.

“Fine. I don’t even know why I care,” you snarled. Her scowl faltered, but you just scoffed in disbelief and stomped away. That devilish woman may still have a cruel grip on your heart, but you wouldn’t let her see it.

“Hey, Y/N, I didn’t expect to see you here! How are you?” Tara called, running up to you. But you kept walking, your only response a look of disapproval and hurt.

“What the hell was that?” you heard her demand from Sam. “Why won’t you just apologize to them?”

“I told you, I can’t do that.”

Your vision blurred as you stepped out of earshot, her words hammering the final nail into the coffin of something that died long ago. You knew Tara meant well, but she’d taken it too far. You tried to focus on the movie as you entered the dark theater, but you knew no amount of explosions could save your ruined day.

All because of two minutes with Sam fucking Carpenter.

Taglist: @smut-religiously777

[whumperstorm]

Suppressing Fire Part 5

Content: Vampire whumper, defiant whumpee, loneliness, Attempted murder, death wish, broken bones, torture, despair :)

First/Previous/Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's a dark shift in Keegan's character after the night of the phone call. She goes quiet. Completely shuts down. The universe is cruel, she thinks, for letting her get so close just to yank her away from her sister once again. At least she knows Lohitha is safe, but now that she's no longer so preoccupied with worry, all she feels is miserable longing. There's a gaping hole where her heart should be and it aches. She can be selfish now and all her selfish thoughts revolve around a single phrase.

I want to go home.

Hearing her friend's voice over the phone has reopened old wounds. She misses Vivian and the other hunters desperately. She misses her quaint life. She misses the little Italian place down the street and the neighbor's scruffy cat. She misses the sun. It's been so long now that she wonders if she'd burn like a vampire the next time she steps into the light.

Keegan buries the sadness in her hatred like she always does. The only person she ever sees is the man who has caused all of her suffering. Every day he comes into the room and steals her blood, often chatting with her like nothing is wrong. 

You did this to me. She thinks, her blood boiling. She wishes it would burn him when he feeds. 

She imagines staking his heart every time his fangs pierce her neck. She fantasizes about the light leaving his eyes. Still, she doesn't fight back anymore. It’s not worth it. Kane seems happy with what he probably perceives as submissiveness, but the violence builds up inside her just the same. She knows she can't go back to complacency. She'll either escape soon, or die trying.

---

Six months after the reunion, Keegan finally gets her chance. She spends the evening blankly staring at the television in the living room. She ignores Kane nearby, and he ignores her. The next time she wakes back inside her prison, she notices the door has been left slightly ajar.

Kane didn't lock her away properly. 

Holy shit. 

What time is it? She tends to wake up a bit before him, but he could be up any minute. Has she already missed her chance?

She scrambles out of bed and carefully peeks out the door. The ornate clock down the hall confirms her fears. The sun has just set. She could still run and try to get to a hiding place before he catches her, but it's too risky. There's a lot of open space between her and the cover of the forest and vampires are fast. She would never make it.

But… there's another way. Unlike in her prison, the rest of the house is filled with wood. In other words, a weapon. She hasn't had access to a weapon since her first escape attempt years ago. And he's asleep.

That spark of realization ignites the hatred inside her like a match to kerosene. Forget running. She could kill him. That would certainly ensure her escape. She wants to kill him. For everything he’s put her through and more. Her eyes land on a small wooden chair nearby. She snatches it up and slips back into her room. 

She closes the door, wraps one of the chair legs in her bed sheets to muffle any noise and then kicks with all her might. It takes a couple tries at the awkward angle, but eventually it folds with a satisfying SNAP. She's left with a rudimentary stake and she barks out a somewhat unhinged laugh.

This is really happening.

She takes a moment to center herself, she must focus. Then carefully, oh so carefully, she makes her way upstairs. Every tiny creak of the steps has her freezing in terror, waiting for any sign that Kane has woken up. She's as tense as a board, sweat dripping down her brow. As she approaches the bedroom door she doesn't dare to breathe. She turns the knob, thanking all that's holy that the door doesn't squeak.

There he is. Kane almost looks peaceful, his constant scowl softened by sleep. Keegan has a passing thought of how unfair this is, attacking him when he can't defend himself. But it's brief. As a human she's been at a disadvantage her entire life. Finally, it's his turn.

Step.

Step.

Closer and closer until she's right next to him. Her heart is pounding out of her chest. She half expects him to wake from that alone but he doesn’t stir. 

It's now or never. 

She leans over and positions the stake over his heart. 

She raises her arm-

Kane wakes to the smell of human far closer than it should be. He gasps as his eyes fly open, witnessing a stake dive for his heart. He grabs the human's wrist tight and in a flash he flips their positions, pinning her to his bed by the wrists. It takes him a moment to process the situation, but quickly his expression of pure shock morphs into a furious glare. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" he shouts down at her, though he full-well knows the answer.

Keegan struggles frantically against his grip, screaming angrily. "No, NO! LET GO OF ME!"

She was so close. She could taste freedom! She's not ready to accept defeat. She kicks at his stomach furiously. "Fuck you!! Let me go!"

"You're out of control!" Kane snaps, largely unaffected by her struggles. "That's it! I'm not tolerating your bullshit any longer!"

He grabs the human by the hair and gets up, hauling her out the bedroom, down the hall and to the stairs. Keegan shouts in pain as she’s dragged, her scalp burning from the pressure of her body weight. She claws at Kane’s hands but his grip is like steel.

Keegan doesn't have time to catch herself before Kane throws her down the stairs, uncaring for her well-being. She tumbles violently and her body is a mess of pain in seconds, bruises forming from every hard wooden step.

She lands at the bottom with a thud, her head smacking the floor hard enough to see stars. Pain radiates from her arm like someone took a hammer to it. She moans, trying to right herself.

Kane is by her side again in an instant to make sure she will never escape again. A harsh stomp of his foot on her shin sends a loud crack reverberating through the room. 

"That will teach you who you're messing with," he hisses.

Keegan screams in agony as her leg snaps like a twig. She has never been in this much pain and she can't stand it. She reaches desperately for the ruined limb as if touching it will somehow fix what has been done to it. She rides out multiple blinding waves of pain before she can see Kane's figure standing over her through her tears. Her head is thick with nausea but she glares at him out of the corner of her eye and her voice trembles with hatred and pain. "F-fuck.... Y-you."

He presses his foot down harder.

"Submit!" he screams, furious she would disrespect him even now. He is stronger, better, and more worthy than her in every way. He will force her to respect him.

Keegan's scream turns to a choke and she grinds her head into the floor. "NO!" She forces out, vision wavering. God, it hurts. "I'll kill you! Son of a BITCH."

"You won't. You can’t. Do you want me to break the other leg?" Kane asks, seething.

Keegan definitely doesn't want that. She can't run with her leg like this, and wouldn’t be able to walk at all with both of them mangled.

"I'm stronger than you." Kane continues. "You have no power here. You will fucking respect me, whether you want to or not. You have no choice! That's the way humans are supposed to be!" He grinds his shoe against the break.

Keegan wails in agony and despair because he's right. She has nothing. She was so close and failed so spectacularly. She's never going to see her family again. 

“Just kill me!" She cries. "Let me go or kill me! I can't live like this anymore. I won't!"

"You will! You're mine! You're my food, and there's nothing you can do about it! I can make a human submit to my will as much as any other vampire!" Kane does not let up. "Admit it! I'm stronger than you, and there is nothing you can do to stand against me!"

Keegan cries into the floor. Tortured, humiliated, completely and utterly spent. She wants to give up, shut down completely, but she can't even do that. Shocks of pain continue to fry her nerves and it's too much. Kane isn't going to stop until she submits. She bites her lip, holding out as long as she can, but finally her terror wins over when something inside her ruined leg shifts.

"O-okay! Okay stop! P-please!" She's going to pass out, blood draining from her head.

Kane removes himself from the human, taking a single step back. "I want to hear you say it."

The release of pressure on her leg brings both relief and more agony. Keegan curls up over it immediately, hands hovering over the gruesome injury, too afraid to touch. She's shaking uncontrollably from pain and fear and her stomach churns with bile. Her eyes shine with tears as she looks up at Kane. She stays quiet and tries to convince herself that it's from defiance, but she truly just can't find the willpower to speak.

"Say it!" Kane demands. He steps forward again, but doesn't touch her. "I'm stronger than you. You're powerless against me. You're mine forever. Say. It."

Maybe it's the fact that the human really did almost kill him, but his heart is racing. It's not even fear of death, not really. All he can think about is what his family would think of him if he were killed by his own human.

Keegan flinches hard when Kane moves towards her. "Y-you- you're stronger than me..." She sputters out. God, don't hurt me anymore. Please.

Her face burns with shame. "I'm p-powerless..." It's true, even with him asleep and a stake in her hand she couldn't finish the job.

"I'm..." She hangs her head. "I'm yours forever."

"That's right." Satisfied he's made his point, he reaches down and hefts the human up over his shoulder. He carries her into the human quarters and sets her on the bed. "Now. Your purpose." He shoves her head to the side, bites into her neck, and feeds.

Keegan tries not to writhe in Kane's grip and she cuts off another scream when he drops her on the bed. The bite is hardly noticeable past the all-encompassing agony of her leg, but it still feels like defeat. She cries silently as he feeds. There's no fight left in her.

Kane licks the wound closed. "I'll see you tomorrow." When he leaves, he double-checks that the door is securely locked.

It takes her an unbearably long time, but eventually, inch by inch, Keegan is able to lie back against the headboard with her ruined leg propped up by pillows. She spends the night like that, unable to move or get up to eat or drink. She eventually hobbles her way to the bathroom once, but the pain grows so terrible by the end that she spends half an hour on the tile floor, dreading the trip back to bed. She needs a cast or splint or something or she won't be able to function.

She doesn't really care, though. She can't escape, can't fight back, so why bother? She misses multiple meals before she's starving enough to drag herself to the kitchen. Somehow there's still a ghost of self preservation inside her that she can't seem to shake off. 

She'll stay alive, even if it hurts. Even if it's pointless. Even if she’d rather die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @whumpsday @not-a-space-alien @anomalys-taxonomy @what-if-i-just-did @dragonqueenslayer6

@jumpywhumpywriter @writereleaserepeat

[bridenore]

HD fic recs : Career - Aurors (part 2)

Here are a few recs where both Harry and Draco are Aurors. This is part two of three and focuses on 20k to 50k words fics. Listed in alphabetical order, as always.

Agnus Dei by SilentAuror [20k]

Post-Hogwarts. Mystery abounds in the Auror Department, and two of the Aurors find themselves experiencing a friendship more intense than it should be.

Boiling Point by @goldentruth813 [42k]

Ferveret - n. boiling point After an Auror raid gone wrong, Draco ends up trapped in a dodgy safehouse with nothing but Harry Potter’s dubious company and a dwindling supply of food. With only each other and the walls surrounding them, they’re forced to confront their past and their feelings which have long been threatening to boil over.

Draco Malfoy, Bloodsucking Fiend by @kbrick [23k]

There are two things that Draco’s Auror partner, Harry Potter, must never know about him. One is that he’s a vampire. The other is that he’s been completely, pathetically, head-over-heels in love with Harry for years. But when the duo is trapped inside an old shop on Diagon Alley with no means of escape, Draco finds himself fiending for blood and unable to put even a modicum of distance between himself and the man he can’t stop lusting after.

Eye of the Storm by Mx_Maneater [25k]

A storm rages blindly around a cabin with no doors. Without magic, Draco and Harry are trapped inside. 

Nothing But You On My Mind by @moonflower-rose [29k]

Potter has been in Australia on an internship for almost a year, and Draco cannot wait for him to get back home. They’ll finally have a chance to talk about their feelings for each other. What could possibly go wrong? Loads, as it turns out.

The Partner, The Rival and The Very Big Case  by oceaxe [24k]

When Harry and Nott are paired up to go undercover as fake boyfriends, Draco is disappointed not to get the assignment. It’s just professional jealousy that’s making him feel so upset. Obviously. He’s engaged to be married to Astoria, after all. But when he walks in on Nott kissing Harry for ‘practice’ and has a wild magic outbreak, he starts to think that something else might be going on. Is Nott right? Is Draco a homophobe? Or is there… just possibly… another explanation?

Poppiholla by @moonflower-rose [12k]

Harry had accepted that he would pine silently for Malfoy forever, but one, humid summer might change that. Hoppípolla by @moonflower-rose [20k] Falling in love was as easy as jumping in puddles, and Draco Malfoy was completely drenched.

Potential Gravity by @lol-zeitgeistic [32k]

Draco is not good at Cards Against Humanity, but Harry’s not good at being human, so it all works out. Except for the explosions. And Harry’s inability to live when Draco’s not around.

Resistance by SilentAuror [25k]

Everyone but Harry seems to have forgiven Malfoy his past, and tensions are thick in the Auror Department.

Stop All the Clocks (This Is the Last Time I’m Leaving Without You) by @firethesound [44k]

Living with Draco was difficult; living without him is unbearable. But if there’s one thing Harry learned from the war, it’s that even when one life ends, the rest of the world goes right on living.

Take These Lies by white_serpent [34k]

Repeatedly rejected by the Auror training programme, Draco Malfoy attempts an unorthodox method of gaining admission.  

Trust In A Broken Thing by SqueekaCuomo [23k]

If the ring was broken, that could only mean one thing… Harry Potter was dead.

Two Weeks by @shiftylinguini [21k]

If Harry had to guess which out of he or his Auror Partner, and tentative new friend, Draco Malfoy, would turn out to have Veela ancestry, his answer would be: neither, because that is ridiculous. Finding out the answer is actually him, and that his Veela heritage is wreaking havoc on his ability to work, sleep, and above all be in the same room as Malfoy, is a surprise to say the least. But this is fine. Harry’s been through worse, and he can just sit this one out, regardless of how much his body is screaming for the one person he doesn’t want to ask for help. Can’t he?

Waiting For A Song by @korlaena [49k]

After a couple years spent avoiding Draco in the Auror Department, Harry gets assigned to one of Draco’s strange cases. They investigate the mysterious disappearances of a witch and wizard, but in their search for the missing persons they find a lot more than they were looking for.

You Send Me (Honest You Do) by @firethesound [37k]

As far as potion accidents go in general, and deaging incidents go in particular, Draco knew this could have been so much worse. Harry only lost about ten years, and all his memories are still intact. But the sight of him looking as if he’s stepped straight out of Draco’s Hogwarts memories has dredged up a whole mess of complicated feelings Draco thought he’d buried years ago, and Draco really doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[zmediaoutlet]

hi!! if you feel like it, claire/alex (from spn duh), relieved

Alex wakes with iron in her mouth. A chime, caught just after it should've been, as her front door's not-that-expertly picked. She licks her lips and blinks at the ceiling. Sweat clammily sticking her legs together and her arm hot over her own stomach and the past climbing up her spine—but there was the chime, and she rolls out from under the sheet to the far side of the bed, where despite her objections there's a shotgun and a silver knife in a sheath belted to the bedframe and, if all else fails, a wooden bat. If it breaks it turns into a stake. Handy. She crouches behind the double-stack of boxspring and mattress and breathes silently through an open mouth and listens—

—something heavy's set on the wicker chair, from the creaking; bootheels on the wooden floorboards, quiet but not sneaky; the lipsmack of the fridge door opening as the sloppy rubber flange unseals, and a sigh, and then the door closes again and there's a crack of aluminum and, okay, that settles it.

"Should charge you for that," Alex says, leaning into the bedroom doorway.

"For a diet root beer? You should be paying me to take it off your hands. Get better taste."

"Maybe if you had a job you could buy something you like to keep in my fridge," Alex says, and Claire mouths the last part back to her sarcastically but she takes another swallow from the can anyway, so.

Three twenty-two on the microwave clock. Alex taps on the over-the-stove light, grabs the kettle. Leans hard against the counter while she fills it, watching the gleam of the water level rising. Her heart thudding high in her throat but slowing.

"You got a shift today?"

"It's Wednesday," Alex says, which should be an answer, but there's silence from the other side of the kitchen and she shakes her head, turns off the tap. "Yes. Like every Wednesday, and every Thursday and Friday, too."

"So I didn't wake you up too early, then," Claire says, and Alex kind of wants to throw the full kettle at her head but that would just compound her many and various types of damage, and so she sets the kettle on the front burner and flicks it on to boil and only then turns around and looks, in the half-light, to see what else has been added.

Claire dropped her jacket along with her duffle on the chair and she's leaned with her ass against the island, looking down at the pop can and thumbing the tab. Not many injuries Alex can see. Scrapes on her cheek and jaw that won't need stitches; bruises on her bare arm, peeking from under the torn tank, but when isn't Claire bruised. "Blood loss? Broken bones?" Alex says, and Claire shakes her head, and Alex's tipped-over heart shudders and finally settles. Claire's still staring at the pop can and Alex tips her head, trying to see her expression. "No details. Good or bad?"

A deep breath, Claire's shoulders rounding out. "It's not a Netflix Original," she says. Then shakes her head, and puts the can on the counter, and folds her arms loosely over her stomach, and puts on something that could kind of be a smile if you'd read a description of one in a magazine. "Um, I don't know. Maybe sixty-forty."

Alex sucks her lower lip between her teeth. Claire looks at her face and the smile falls off like it was never there, and she looks away. Just as well, because a rush of heat comes to the back of Alex's eyes and things go blurry, for a second—for reasons she knows, and refuses to call stupid after how long she's worked to have a perfectly normal reaction to Claire's awful life and awful choices—but she's also worked very hard to be calm, and steady when that's needed, and she takes a deep breath and the blur goes away and she crosses the kitchen and wraps her arms solidly around Claire's shoulders, puts her lips to Claire's neck and breathes her nasty sweat-blood-gunsmoke-death smell, and says, "You came back," and when Claire takes a weird shudderly breath and clumsily unfolds and gets her hands on Alex's waist, Alex says, quieter: "That's good. In case you were wondering."

"Yeah, I was real worried about it," Claire mumbles, and then hugs her back for real. Alex kisses the skin in front of her and then slides her mouth up to under Claire's ear, and then to her temple, stroking Claire's hair back. In return she gets Claire's breath hot and living against her cooling sweat and Claire's hands sliding back down to her waist and then up, under the hem of her too-big sleep shirt, and it's been—eleven days, since Claire left on the trail of something Alex refuses to ask about, because she doesn't want to know even if imagination is something that can fill every shadowed corner of the apartment with things worse than what's real, and Alex has seen enough of what's real for a lifetime—eleven days of dreams getting worse, and memory roaring up, and texted check-ins getting further apart, until you start to think, maybe it'll be the dark basement after all, and the blood spilling to fill the cracks in the earth, and life dwindling into the smallest spark, so easy to snuff out.

The kettle whistles. Alex takes a deep breath and Claire ducks and cups her face and kisses her, sour and sweet with the metallic fake sugar of the root beer and the hard press of bone, because Claire always kisses her too hard at first, like she's worried she'll only get the one chance and she wants to make it count. Alex takes it, her heart turning over one more time. Then she touches Claire's chin with her thumb and pulls back, kisses her softer—then again, because Claire made kind of dumb with the weariness after a hunt and wanting her is so endearing Alex just can't help it—and then she pulls Claire's hands out from under her shirt and says, "We're gonna wake up the whole building," and Claire says, "So what, they should wake up, day's wasting," and Alex rolls her eyes and goes to turn off the stove. Kettle steaming, warm. She was thinking chamomile, honey.

Claire covers her back, her hips pressing against Alex's ass. Warm, too, through Claire's stained jeans and Alex's panties. "Your shift doesn't start until six," Claire says, memory apparently working again. True. Alex usually wakes up at five, though, for a quick shower and a cup of tea with the morning birdsong before the drive to the hospital—and she should really be responsible, go back to bed. Should be the adult in this relationship, if one of them is going to be.

The bed's been full of memory, though, and Claire's half has been empty, and Claire's also sliding knowing fingers down the front of Alex's panties, her lips plush against the nape of Alex's neck. Alex moves the kettle to the rear burner to cool. "You get an hour," she says, firm. Against her skin, Claire grins.

[e-leohiss]

"Here lies..." || A John Price fan-fiction

Author’s note: This is drama and my first fan-fic of Peepaw. As of now I'm not sure if I'm worth taking requests. Personally, John Price is the most comfortable character to write but I do want to write the others too.

Others being Konig, Simon, Johnny, and Kyle.

**PLEASE DO NOT translate, repost, or in any way reformat my work on this site and on any other social media

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Title: Here lies...

Main characters: John Price x F!reader Contains: Drama, heartbreak, broken marriage Wordcount: 2.2k Song link: My Mind (slowed & reverb) - Yebba

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Exposition:

John returned home with a new woman that his wife hardly knew about.

But she’s heard of her husband’s affair with another.

Her husband is a busy soldier, constantly absent due to his line of duty. He would only be home for 2 weeks at most–once almost nearing a month. To think the day had come that he would bring his new lover to their home. Did John even consider this as his home? 

His poor wife doesn’t think that he does. Not when he had just returned only to be leaving with duffel bags in hand filled with the rest of his portable belongings that he packed minutes ago.

As she gazed at both her husband and his muse, innards boiled whereas her exterior was passive.

She blamed herself the most, the ruin of their marriage. 

~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~

Who knows how a woman would react if she saw the personification of her heartbreak before her person.

‘How do you kill your lover without killing yourself?’ A woman thought to herself. She stood still, and so did her heart. What could possibly be going through her head to become so still? 

It didn’t appear to be the “calm before the storm” kind. No. She was the unsettling aftermath of the disaster. 

Jonathan Price stood in front of her–stood between two women. John wasn’t looking at her. Instead he firmly stared at the floor. He chose to be a coward than to look her in the eyes as he spoke blunt blades of poison.

She broke her stillness to cut him off, “Jonathan.” He paused, but still refused to look her way. The new woman behind him shifted her eyes between the couple, discomfiture transparent on her face.

The heartbroken woman continued to focus on the visitor’s face; a tinge of satisfaction sparked in her when she noticed the new woman’s shoulders caving in from unease. ‘At least this one is looking at me,’ she thought.

Her low, toneless voice spoke again, “End this.” Jonathan’s head dipped down and heaved a generous amount of air through his nose. It took him a few seconds, but she saw the white sheets of paper in his grasp. Her limbs moved on their own accord. She lightly took the sheets from his hands and walked to the study to get a pen. Jonathan followed her a couple paces behind, his steps heavy and slow. As if it were the ticking seconds of a clock counting the duration of the dying home.

She placed the documents neatly on the desk as she sat feeling her muscles lose their strength by the second. Hell, the words seemed alien-like. She couldn’t read the damn content of the sheets. Her eyes skipped to regard the blank lines that remained unsigned. From within, more fragments fell off that made her chest more hollow.

She felt herself perish further.

Why would she sign it first?

She didn’t want this marriage to end. She did her best to nourish it. Thoughts of her husband always filled her mind. She would never seek feelings from another, not when she had Jonathan as hers.

But Jonathan did not think of her the same way. He did not think of his wife’s awaiting arms back home. He didn’t think of the constant worry his wife would always endure while he was away.

He did not remember his loving wife. 

There were no lies in their marriage and it was only now that she came to terms with those odious facts. Jonathan didn’t love her, not anymore.

And so it is.

Jonathan entered the study wrapped in solemnity. His face, however, stoic. Well, he was drenched to the bone with a captain’s ego, one of the traits she respected about him, and she still did up to this moment.

She placed a pen on top of the sheets. Jonathan understood immediately–a signal for him to make the first move. With three long strides he stood by the desk, pen in between his strong fingers. Her body stilled again when Jonathan’s hand raised but stopped midair. He readjusted the pen in his hold, his mind ran which caused him to falter.

“Dear–” he began, but his words got caught when he finally looked her way. He took in the sight of a broken woman. He couldn’t recognize his wife anymore. It’s like the color from her body faded into shades of gloomy greys. She would’ve looked serene in the yellow glow of the desk lamp weren’t it for the apparent wreck in her eyes and posture. Then her eyes laid on his. There it flickered: resentment. The tired look on her face crumpled as the corner of her lip raised.

“You should damn well treat her far better than you did me. Do you understand me, Jonathan?” Her silvery voice is tight. There it was, spoken anger. “She doesn’t deserve to feel this way–failure as a wife.” 

She placed her wedding ring on the desk with such care that it looked graceful to the speechless Jonathan, who had yet to sign the papers first. “In another life, I could have probably given you the family you deserved,” her voice cracked and her chest swelled with gradual pain at the sensitive topic. 

“How I wish I could provide that for you right now, John. But, nothing. I’m sorry.” 

She wanted to yell at the woman standing in the threshold of their home that she would not take him away from her. She refused to let another muse earn Jonathan’s attention; her role as his wife, as his equal. ‘You won’t take him away from me,’ she wanted to swear. ‘May these promises be written on stone, how much I want to remain by his side, by my John.’

Her mind went off alarmingly, ‘Damn her. I won’t leave him. Not John.’

Yet no such arguments came out from her.

How could she, when she blamed herself the most for her shortcoming as a wife.

A defect, unable to make John a father.

“I’m sorry we ended up like this. I’m sorry for hurting you so much when I vowed to put your happiness first.” Jonathan spoke thickly. He gulped, then surprisingly took a knee by the seat she sat on. “Our marriage may not have worked the way we promised it would, but I will take our memories together till the end of the line. I’ll always be grateful for your constant patience and effort. In another lifetime, we…” Jonathan’s words hung in the silence of the night as the endless possibilities ran in his head. Anything could have happened.

“If it makes you feel any better…curse, yell, scream, hurt me,” he said instead. “You can do whatever to lessen the pain–”

Her hand cupped his bearded jaw softly. With words full of conviction she said, “I won’t do that to you. Never you, John.” She smiled. She had the audacity to show him a smile.

The stoic mask of Jonathan Price fell apart the longer he looked at his wife. The longer he observed her the more he was convinced that a saint sat before him.

His left hand found itself atop hers to place it against his cheek. His rough digits massaging her smooth ones. “I don’t…” John whispered, his voice wavered with no trace of the soldier they knew him to be. He groaned, expressing his displeasure.

However, with a new-found purpose he stood and signed the papers quickly. He held up the pen for her to take, his face facing the other direction. Again with avoiding. She took the pen delicately. It took her a moment to follow-through but, at last, her signature appeared on the opposite side of John’s.

Her stare locked on the sheets that John collected hastily, his feet rooted to his spot. ‘Move. Move. Move.’ He chanted in his mind. 

“John,” the meek voice of his ex-wife called to him. He peered down at her seated form. Maybe it was the glass paperweight on the desk, or the picture frame, but something shattered. 

John bent down to capture her in his arms. Her body racked with pure heartbreak. Tears of blood could’ve been mistaken for the thick tears that cascaded down her cheeks. She cried so bitterly the back of his eyes boiled as he cradled her head on his collar.

Words tumbled out her mouth, “I hate you. You lied. Don’t leave me, John. John, please,” she begged, fisting his shirt. He pulled her tighter against him.

“I’ll always protect you, love. I’ll always put your safety first. Remember that. This, I swear. Don’t forget that.” He said to her with intensity as she kept calling him a liar.

“I have to go. Always take care of yourself. Put yourself first. I’m so sorry, dear.” And with one last kiss to her wet cheeks he unclasped her hands on his shirt and left the house, signed sheets crumpled in his fist.

He left her again, only this time it was painful. It was the last.

The woman waiting outside the door recoiled as the door slammed shut. John stood with his back to her and his head low with the doorknob forcefully in his grip. He didn’t wait for her as he began to walk towards the car. The woman felt the atmosphere shift when he walked past her. It was burning, and menacing. 

He hurriedly threw his bags to the backseat before stepping into the passenger seat. The woman moved swiftly, getting on the driver’s seat and revving the engine to life. She’s taken by surprise when he suddenly pounded the side of his fist onto the door. John’s breathing was deeply filled with aggravation as he tried to forcefully control his temper. 

“John?” She addressed the soldier without looking in his direction. “Step on it.” He seethed roughly as he glared out the window. With no further questions, she does as she’s told and stepped on the gas. 

John Price was known for being stoic most times, flashing a close-lipped smile occasionally, but how that changed when a silent tear trailed down his cheek. He had just left the love of his life back home drowning in despair. She wasn’t his wife any more and that made the damage in him a thousand times worse. 

================================================

An umbrella in hand, the sky wept sorrowfully as you.

Your mind flitted back to when Laswell appeared once again at the threshold of your home.

“I’m sorry we hid the truth from you.”

Who would’ve thought that the woman from before would be standing outside your home–your new home of almost a year–saying the most shattering news to you. You swallowed thickly. Mind still not fully comprehending the amount of information that Laswell had told you. 

“It was never supposed to be this way. However, a previous enemy had threatened to hunt you down in exchange for John executing his wife,” Kate took in a breath. “For the life of me, I don’t know how he knew that John had a wife. Turns out we had a mole who found John’s file and broke into his office.” Kate pulled out a picture from the folder she brought, a picture of a foreigner and a soldier wearing the familiar U.S uniform. The words began to construct in your head and they got heavier the more you listened.

“He managed to threaten John a couple of times but we weren’t convinced, calling it a bluff. Roughly a year before John and you…he was threatened once again, but this time we couldn’t risk it. Which led him to decide that cutting ties with you would be the best diversion.” Kate’s voice became softer as she continued. 

“We also had to convince you, so you wouldn't set foot at base. Rumors were spread about John having a different woman back at base so the mole wouldn’t discover your real location–” 

“Where’s John?”

Kate’s eyes snapped to yours when you spoke up. She noticed the atmosphere around you had changed. “When will he be coming here? No – when can I see him? I’m sure the mission’s done because you’re here.” You held your hands together, begging Kate to see how much you want to see John again. 

“I want to see my husband again. Please, Kate.” 

You continuously begged, and with that Kate’s shoulders appeared to sag from the pressure. She did not know how to tell you the terrible news. 

“You are a liar,” you said to John. “A horrible one.”

Chin quivered with another sharp intake of air. Nose is clogged, cheeks tear-stained, skin cold, eyes swollen and red rimmed. You kneel on the wet ground, sitting on the heels of your feet. You rearranged the flowers by your knees.

“You don’t like flowers, dear. Nothing to worry about this time though.” A choked laugh slipped through but vanished as another set of sharp breaths racked your lungs. John’s dog tags clinked against each other from the motion. 

“How I miss you, my love, it hurts.” Your fingers dig into the soft soil, reflecting your vulnerable state. “Wait for me. This time I won’t let you leave me so easily.”

The handwritten letter that came with all of his belongings burned in the back of your mind. The last paragraph you could recite word-for-word.

‘This is the only way, love. How I wish it wasn’t. But for you, I’d do anything. Even if it means leaving you in exchange for your protection.’

‘HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY 

CPT. JONATHAN PRICE 

BRITISH SAS

1985

PRESENT YEAR’

And soon, a new gravestone settled right beside it, with your name, year of birth and death. The promise written in stone.

‘WIFE OF CPT. JONATHAN PRICE’

~~end~~

[reactivatedrockstar]

Closed starter for @goldenspringshow

Before now, Bonnie had only ever received a controlled shock twice, and that was years ago. Today, as Bonnie fought for his mechanical life as he knew it, that number jumped up to six. He didn't want to leave the van- he knew he'd never come back if he did. He pleaded, begged, bargained with the staff to not make him go, he'd do anything, but they were adamant on scrapping him.

By the third consecutive shock, Bonnie's systems... they weren't failing, or further damaged, but they were stunned, allowing the staff members to push him out the doors, and into the mud. Bonnie managed to regain control of his body just in time to see the doors shut.

"No! Wait!!" He quickly rose, hearing the vehicle switch gears in horror, "Do not leave me!! Do not leave me here!!!" He begged, chasing after after the car as it began to drive away. "Do not leave me here!!! Do not leave me! No!! No!!!!" The gate closed in front of him, and Bonnie watched in horror as the van drove back to the Pizzaplex. Bonnie placed his fingers through the chains, just watching. He'd never see Chica again. He'd never see Roxy again. He'd never see Monty, or Sun, or anyone ever again.

He'd never see Freddy again.

Bonnie couldn't hold it back any longer. He wasn't a crier- he hated the feeling, but months of frustration and sadness had finally reached its boiling point and... he dropped to his knees and started quietly sobbing.

"Please come back...." He begged to no one. He stayed like that, hands desperately, yet defeatedly gripping the fence with fingers tightly curled around the metal. Then, he screamed, as if he'd just experienced anguish in its purest form for the first time. He wanted to rip this gate apart and throw it all the way to China!! He shook the fence, bending the metal at his fingers as his fists ball and yet... he didn't actually try to.

He was all alone.

Fingers unwravel from the chain link, and his hands drop to the still wet ground. He finally saw the mud on his legs and stomach, and now his hands. Gross, he thought, before slowly wiping it off- he wouldn't want any of the kids- oh....

He was still. Defeated. He had no idea what to do next. He had maybe half an hour before he shut down? His clock system was one of the many broken things with him. He listened and heard... almost nothing. No music. No music. No music.

No music!

No music!!

This was insanity! He had to get out of here! But where would he go?! He had to find a way to recharge his battery!!

[acsisz]

Real DecaP Friend-Ship Fanfic (I'm making it myself cause I'm desperate)

It's a friend-ship fanfic between Harvard & Carl. Hope you enjoy!

Plot: Harvard and Carl have breakfast together.

It was morning when Carl banged on Harvard's door, "Harvard, it's morning! Wake up!"

Harvard and Carl are living together on Harvard's old house, since Carl's family mansion is a long way away from Broadstone.

There was also the choice of renting an apartment (or a hotel room since money isn't a problem for Carl), but Carl was too worried about Harvard living alone.

Since they were also roommates back in Police College, Carl knew exactly how broken Harvard's life skills are.

Harvard is the sort of person who would rather order and eat fast-food every day for a year just because it was faster than getting regular food.

Not to mention cooking, Harvard would rather take a bath than cook and he HATES baths! ("Just like a cat," Carl might add)

So, with that sort of worries, Carl decided to once again become roomies with Harvard.

Really, Carl moving in was more of for Harvard's sake rather than his own.

BUT OF COURSE, it's Harvard we're talking about so it's only fair that Carl is compensated by being tasked with doing ALL of the houseworks in this house, while Harvard does his hobby, which incidentally, is also his work.

Carl walked over to the kitchen to cook pancakes with the batter he was mixing while banging on Harvard's door.

He has to multitask a lot of things.

Carl was never good at cooking, not that he was bad, but more of he never really tried it.

Carl was the youngest son of the prestigious Oxford Family after all, every houseworks was already done by their servants.

But, since meeting Harvard, Carl HAD to be good at this sort of thing.

He remember the time back in college where Harvard prioritize solving a past case for fun for DAYS, to the point of not even taking a single bath or changing his clothes.

In the end, Carl had even BEGGED Harvard to take a bath. And that still didn't work!

But Carl didn't give up and he at least managed to make Harvard changed out of that smelly clothes for him to wash.

Carl was never good at using the washing machine, until he LEARNED TO because of Harvard.

The pancakes are all cooked, now Carl is preparing coffee for Harvard and tea for himself.

But Harvard still hasn't come out of his room yet!

Carl switched the coffee machine on and put the kettle on the stove, and went to bang on Harvard's door again.

"Harvard, WAKE UP!! Pancakes are done!"

But Carl didn't hear any reply.

Carl sighed as he heard the kettle boiling.

He never signed up to be Harvard's mom.

Carl was never good at banging on doors and screaming for other people to wake up.

Carl never had to scream a lot in his life, since most things are already taken care of by his helpers.

He also never banged on doors to wake someone up, that was his helpers' works (Carl refuses to call them his servants).

But his helpers never banged on his door to wake him up, they just knocked politely.

Carl briefly wonders why that never works on Harvard before.

"What is Harvard doing in there...?"

Carl wonders why someone can't get up early according to the rules.

Carl's life has always been filled with rules and restrictions, but he doesn't hate them, rather he's thankful for his family being so caring towards him his entire life...

Carl put the mug filled with coffee and another filled with tea on the table.

He sighed, "It's still so early in the morning, but I'm so tired already..."

He briefly glanced at the clock and gasped! It's already so late?!

Carl immediately went back to Harvard's door and banged on them again.

"Harvard wake up! WAKE UP! We're gonna be late on our 2nd day of work! That CANNOT happen!"

No answer.

"Harvard...come on!"

Carl started turning Harvard's doorknob, hoping it was unlocked somehow.

It's not in his taste to go inside someone else's room uninvited, but this was an emergency!

The doorknob doesn't turn, it's locked. Of course.

Carl started to panic more and began pleading through the door.

"Harvard...please! Wake up! Please..."

Carl's voice almost disappear, his last words tinted with tears about to spill out.

Just then, a miracle! Harvard's door opened from the inside!

"Good morning, Carl," Harvard was smirking as he opened the door, he was already wearing his work suit.

Harvard went to the bathroom to wash his face and comb his hair, and for the gazillion time after they started living together on Harvard's house, Carl sat taken aback by Harvard's expression when he opened his door just before.

Carl realized, also for the gazillion time, that Harvard doesn't look the least bit sleepy.

Harvard had also been wearing his work suit, which means he had time to change out of his pajamas already.

Carl then realize, again, that he had been done in.

And he silently buried his face in his palms, grimacing all the while.

As Harvard sat down to eat his pancake and drink his coffee, Carl felt something boiling inside him.

"Um, Harvard?" Carl asked curtly.

"Yes?" Harvard put a slice of Carl's homemade pancake inside his mouth.

"Don't you have something to say to me?"

Harvard looked at Carl a bit, then turned back to his pancakes.

"Well?" Carl demanded again.

Harvard chewed and swallowed the pancake in his mouth before speaking, "Good morning?"

"Not that! You've said that already!" Carl could feel his fuse getting shorter.

"Then what do you want me to tell you?" Harvard asked simply as he sipped his coffee.

Carl followed suit and sipped his tea, not wanting to let his anger and annoyance towards Harvard to control him.

Carl sighed and said, "How about sorry?"

"Apologies accepted," Harvard said, and Carl internally cursed Harvard even though he knows it's not proper to curse to someone, internally or externally.

"Not to you, I-" Carl sighed again, "Forget it..."

"Forget what?"

"Please- Harvard, just, shut up for a moment," Carl also doesn't like to use the words 'shut up' to someone else, it's too hurtful he said. He prefers the words 'please be quiet', but that never works on Harvard.

Harvard smirked and sipped his coffee again.

Throughout the duration of having breakfast with Harvard, Carl thought about how many times he's been bullied by Harvard like this, back at the college and even now.

For a brief moment Carl thought about Harvard getting married someday.

He wonders, if whoever that person who decided to marry Harvard is in their right mind, or if they were tricked by Harvard, or even worse, bullied into signing the marriage contract.

Carl feels bad for whoever that person is.

He resolve himself to tell them about his past experience with his friend, so they would know what they're getting themself into.

He would even do a presentation on it on their wedding day, just to make sure for the last time that they DO know what they're getting into in marrying Harvard.

Carl then thinks about their child- and he stops.

'Harvard CAN'T have children,' Carl thinks to himself, terrified.

"Carl, what are you thinking about?" Harvard, with his plate clean and mug empty, called out to him.

"Uh, nothing."

"Then let's go, we're already late."

Carl glanced at the clock, screamed internally, and laments to Harvard, "Oh no, it's already so late! We're not gonna make it, and it's only our 2ND DAY!"

Harvard just got up and took the car key, "Nothing is impossible for Harvard Marks."

"Oh no....." Carl, realizing what's about to happen, lamented again.

"Then mom, I'm going now," Harvard said to a picture of a woman resembling him by the front entrance.

Carl looked sadly at Harvard, and asked, "Hey, Harvard? Isn't it painful to keep staying in this house? I mean, umm..."

It was a question Carl had always wanted to ask Harvard, why didn't he just moved away.

After all, this house must bear such a painful memory to Harvard.

A painful and bloody memory.

But Carl have common sense and basic human decency not to ask his friend something so sensitive.

At least, that's what goes on every other day, all the panic and anger today must have burned his brain out.

But, now that he asked, he wants to properly hear Harvard's answer.

"...So I wouldn't forget."

That's all that Harvard said as he went out of the entrance.

'Forget what? The happy times with your mother? Or...the anger and madness that comes with losing her?' Carl thought briefly as he went after Harvard.

"Alright, let's get a move on," Harvard fastened his seatbelt and started the car.

"Okay Harvard, but remember, be careful and don't go out of the speed range. Please."

"What's that, Carl? You wanna be late on your 2nd day at work?"

"No! I'm just saying-"

Harvard cuts Carl's words, "Sometimes in life, Carl."

Carl turns to Harvard.

"There is only one or the other," Harvard said as he stepped on the gas, HARD.

"No no no no! I'm sure there'a way we can have both! Let's just SLOW DOWN as we think about it!" Carl yelled frantically on the passenger seat beside his friend and partner.

"Don't worry, Carl! As long as we go fast enough, the cops can't catch us!" Harvard laughed. With madness, Carl might add out of disbelief.

"We are the cops! Harvard, slow down! PLEASE! AAAA-"

Carl could feel himself screaming, but he couldn't quite hear it over Harvard's loud laugh.

The sort of laugh only someone between life and death, right or ruin could make.

A crazed laugh, one that would haunt Carl's memory always.