#BETTER GET A MOP ITS GETTING STICKY IN THIS BITCH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

visceravalentines · 11 months ago

Text

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin.

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck.

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes.

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking.

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line.

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly.

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards.

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin: sunburn, bug bites, bite marks.

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes.

“What’s for supper?”

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips.

Supper gets cold.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry.

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them.

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale. “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor.

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.”

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?”

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get.

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass.

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?”

“Almost.”

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do.

You snip them one by one, bittersweet.

“Done.”

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.”

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side.

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones.

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.”

Have you always been such a good listener?

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face.

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands.

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world.

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry.

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept.

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too.

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in.

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds.

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit.

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.”

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish.

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have.

“Get the light,” he says.

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck.

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat.

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him.

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall.

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night.

“Please,” you moan.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.”

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties.

“Good.”

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory.

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here.

Neither is he.

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt.

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap.

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget.

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle.

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles: a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake.

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children.

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet.

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that.

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk.

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails.

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak.

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood: the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.”

You frown.

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair.

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You.

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach.

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning.

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth.

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him.

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television.

“I killed my mama, y’know.”

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed.

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red.

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling.

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday.

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

#this really truly took it out of me #vignette-style writing like this is SO HARD for me idk why #but i wanted so many moments of normal life in hell and i wanted them all #he's probably so ooc god but it's fine it's fine #we're so back #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax fanfiction

407 notes · View notes

voidsuites · 25 days ago

Note

ITS GETTING STICKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

BETTER FIND A MOP IT’S GETTING STICKY IN THIS BITCH!!! (RUFF RUFF RUFF—)

#voidsuites ask

9 notes · View notes

watermotif · 2 months ago

Text

BETTER FIND A MOP ITS GETTING STICKY IN THIS BITCH

#Spotify

9 notes · View notes

catgirltitties · 16 days ago

Text

better get a mop its gettin sticky in this bitch

1 note · View note

imslowlydisintegrating · 2 months ago

Note

ITS GETTING STICKYYYYYYYYY (i don’t usually listen to Tyler but I love love love this song it might have converted me)

BETTER FIND A MOP ITS GETTING STICKY IN THIS BITCH 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

you should def listen to more of tyler, he’s a great artist!

#rhiannon speaks #cal 💍#evvy still uses wired headphones #tyler the creator

1 note · View note

int3rtwiningh3artstrings · 16 days ago

Text

BETTER FIND A MOP, ITS GETTING STICKY IN THIS BITCH

it's sticky lucid, by Tyler, the creator

Um so.. anyway.. how are you guys doing 😁

30 notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 6 years ago

Text

Red Little Shoes III

Masterlist

Warnings

Smut

Dub!Con

Gif credits: bonniebirdsgifcentre

A few days later, your phone was trilling along the hard wood of your desk. It prattles against the desktop, reverberating and though you hadn’t flipped it over, you knew who it would be. Ivar wouldn’t be off until at least six in the evening which meant this was…

Sigurd Lothbrok.

You glared at the photo of him in the cutest of floral crowns, budding with white and gold flowers. Christ you thought, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t done like other women. Put a sassy, bitchy name on his contact or even delete the number that was burned into your brain.

Zzz, zzz…

The first call hung up. Less than ten minutes later, another began to trill. At least once a day, he began to bother you since your final recital. You didn’t blame Ivar. He faced pressure from all sides to supply Sigurd with him with a way back into his wife’s life. After all, the white stack of divorce papers sat there on your desk. They were still crisp as they were the first day you filled them out. But they were married to the white wood of your desk.

Zzz… zzz… zzz… You were so going to regret this.

“Hello?” You pluck up your phone, bringing the cherry red case to your ear.

“Can I come over?” His voice-- shuddering.

“You don’t even know where I live. We should keep it that way.” You mumble, finding he would grunt.

“Considering you’re having a baby with Ivar, it might be important.” He remarks. A side sweep of his tongue leaves you without words. He must have overheard. You release another long sigh with a nod of your head. Fine, you had said. You gave him the directions to your new rental home and when the knock of the door came, you found yourself cursing yourself for letting him know where you lived. You open the door and stand aside, forcing yourself to ignore his adorable crazy mop of hair that was cropped short to the side of his face. Before with his braids-- you had threatened him with a straightener. Even now, he just had the wild boy hair.

“How did you find out?” You say as you close the door.

“I overheard.” He explains, dropping his briefcase of sheet music and other knick knacks on your posh wooden floor. “What are you thinking? There are millions of men out there. Ivar? He is crazy.”

You heard this song and dance before. You had been crazy this time, however, because you had taken his sperm.

“It has nothing to do with you anymore, Sigurd. I trust Ivar.” You lean against the cream coloured walls of your home, glaring at the persistent click of a silvery clock.

“He could never be a good father.” Sigurd snaps. All too suddenly, you snap too.

“Ivar actually wants to be a father. He is giving me a baby without conditions. I’ll allow him around. What did you ever have to offer me but lies?” You turn your hands up, leaning out towards him when Sigurd groans. Of course, he couldn’t escape this.

“That was not all of our relationship.” Sigurd’s arms fold one over another.

Maybe so. Maybe one of those very pictures of the day he proposed still sat on your coffee table, unable to tuck it away. Maybe you kept a summer solstice photo in your wallet as well, when he took you to celebrate with others who shared your common belief. But those days were done. It was easy to latch onto those things because they were without hard feelings.

“Who would you have give me children, Sigurd?” You supply, pushing off the wall. You pass through your foyer and through the living room to your kitchen. You would hold the island’s granite countertop as you look for wine.

“Someone that isn’t psychotic.” He supplies as you pour him a glass and hand it to him. “They have sperm banks.”

“A designer baby?” You laugh, bringing your own glass to your plump lips. “Ivar has everything I want. Beautiful blue eyes and a killer smile.”

Sigurd stands quiet, throwing his drink back down his throat quicker than he intended. You lean over the island in one of those cute white spaggheti strap tops-- but he quickly notices your bra is sunshine yellow today, distracting him somewhat off his rage.

“Eyes up here, snake eyes.” You snap at him.

Sigurd stops. “You look beautiful.” He murmurs.

“So now you’re here for sex, Sigurd?” You grumble, much more grouchily than your usual, he makes a note of. That makes you stop at least, shaking your head as you set down your drink with a sharp crack.

“It’s the ovulation inducers they had me on before they injected me. I feel like shit, I’m bloated and my tits hurt.” You grumble about a headache-- but he’s stopped listening. He knows Ivar’s seed is swimming in your uterus, but he doesn’t care.

“You haven’t had sex in a while, have you?” He remarks.

“Why?” You say with your hands finding your hips.

“It is like when you’re hungry-- you get to be a bitch.” He teases as gently as he can and despite your growl at him not to call you that, you know he’s right. You’ve been aching to go out and have sex. But the whole act of having to dress up, drink, find a man, seduce the man and not even know if he would be a good fuck?

Exhausting.

“Shut up Sigurd…” You mumble, pushing your drink away. Slowly, Sigurd treds around the table as if to innocently approach you. You know better, but you can’t convince yourself to move when his arms encircle your waist. You’ve felt disgusting for months and as his jeans scratch against a black little skirt from your long day out, you can’t deny the urge to lean back against him. His cock has swelled to life under those pesky slender jeans.

“I don’t think you really want me to. Aren’t you lonely?” Sigurd suggests in your ear. Sure, you could call Ivar and ask him to fuck you into your mattress. But you hadn’t-- and Sigurd thinks there is a reason for that when his hands cup your hips, grinding his cock against the shortness of your dress. You lean forward over the island, trying just so hard to will away the excitement that moistens your cunt. Sigurd melds his body over your back, muscles melding against yours. You shudder-- knowing that his mop of blonde hair is what is tickling your nape.

“I know you are.” He whispers, beginning yo pull away altogether when your hand shoots out to his wrist, yanking him back.

“Just once.” You murmur in a low whisper, as if Ivar could hear you. “Do you have a condom?”

“Of course I have a condom.” Sigurd leans back, unbuckling his pants and sliding his wallet out from his back pocket. There’s a shuffling of plastic behind you before Sigurd’s tip is pushing in, filling your wet walls full of his cock. The condom feels as bizarre as it usually does deep within you, but the affectionate kissing against your neck rivals the pleasure from his fingers sliding between your legs to rub along your lips as he presses himself in completely.

“Did you miss it?” He husks out in your ear, withdrawing his hips agonizingly slow. He would thrust back in forcefully, a sole thrust filling you up completely. It had only been a year, but it felt so long since he had stretched your walls on his cock and filled you whole like this. With no answer, Sigurd’s rocking hips still.

“Tell me or I’ll take it from you.” Sigurd hisses in your ears, beginning to pull out when you grasp his slender hand massaging your outer lips.

“Please don’t.” You say with cheeks hot in embarrassment. “Of course… I… I want it.” You murmur, gasping when he chuckles, driving himself in with a stutter of his hips.

“Then beg for it like you mean it!” Sigurd teases you with an achingly slow drive forward and back, enough to tease you into the true pleasure he could give you. Like no other man could, not even Ivar, you were sure. If he could, it would be his fat cock you would be bouncing on.

“Please, fuck me Sigurd!” You shriek with a swallow of the pride that said-- fuck Sigurd Lothbrok. Fuck him because you didn’t need him. But you did, fuck you needed him to pound you into a mess against this island and leave you used. “Please, please Sigurd please!”

Not sparing another second of those achingly slow thrusts, Sigurd forced himself deep within your body, ramming thrust after thrust in just the right way. Your body felt hot with embarassment, knowing that just a few hours ago you were injected with Ivar’s spunk, and here you were, gripping and milking Sigurd’s cock. You couldn’t tell Ivar. You could only imagine how he might throw his hands up in irritation and--

“You don’t think of anyone else.” Sigurd shoved your neck forward to the granite tabletop. Your cheek would rub rawly against the granite. His hand shifted around to your front, finding your clit like a map that was cemented in his memory. He curled his fingers against it how he knew you liked and in seconds, you were a moaning mess. Your body ached to take more of his thrusts, but there was only so much you could take.

“Mmmm, Sigurd!” Thoughts whizzing, cunt pulsing Sigurd found your weakness when he gasped out your name in return into your ear in husky puffs. Sigurd’s eyebrows forced together when he felt it. Your velvety walls contracting around him as if they were tugging him off in completion. He knows that you’ve hit that peak-- if not from that, your wonderful screams that finish him off completely. His hips buckle, seed spilling into the condom that gripped him so tightly. Sigurd pants above you, forcing air into his lungs as he slows down a few remaining thrusts then pulls out altogether. Liquid remorse spills through you as you catch your breath feeling almost dirty-- sticky. Almost as if something was seeping out. Impossible, because Sigurd wouldn’t and you’ve never had a man do that to you anyway. He didn’t want babies.. The only other explanation was how much lube he must have used.

“Too much lube or… maybe its me, Sigurd. I’m going to go shower, you can text me.” You murmur while he tucks himself away, the condom disposed in the trash. He walks back to the foyer, picking up his bag. You hold the door open for him this time, and as he gives you a kiss to the cheek, you notice a trace smile beaming on his lips.

Of course, you chalk it up to being laid… but Sigurd knows far better than that.

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok (no mix), @romanchronicles, @ateliefloresdaprimavera, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @concretewaywardangel, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @kirah34, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns @float-autumn-leave, @huntingbears, @lisinfleur, @AzmentineDaWinters, @looneytunes20033, @jtrstp, @rabeccablake,

#Sigurd #sigurd ragnarsson #sigurd snake in the eye #vikings sigurd #vikings #vikings/reader #vikings x reader #vikings imagines #viking imagine #Vikings imagine #sigurd snake in the eye ragnarsson #vikings sigurd snake in the eye #honestsycrets

148 notes · View notes

corruptedpoltergeist · 7 years ago

Text

Solitude

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Reader, Bela, Random characters for plot purposes

Summary: Your father was nothing but a petty thief, stealing valuable items from everyday jewelry to cursed objects for the sake of his ‘collection’. But when a robbery gone wrong gets himself killed, you’re left with the aftermath of his problems.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Depressed!Suicidal!Reader

Word Count: 5457

Warning(s): minor swearing, depression, loneliness, suicidal thoughts, solitude, suffocation, gore, cutting, self-inflicted injuries, angst, panicking, excessive and vivid details of suicide attempt, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE PRONE TO PANICKING OR ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH SUICIDAL SITUATIONS

Square Fill: Suffocation

Important A/N: Please if you are in a situation where you feel that all is lost and you have no other choice left, please contact someone. Call a suicide hotline, hit up a close friend. Don’t go through this alone. There are people who care!

A/N: This was written for @spnangstbingo and their Supernatural Angst Bingo Challenge. Many thanks to @sumara62 who beta’d this for me! Thanks so much, sweets! Hope you all like this because there might be a part two to this? Maybe, maybe not, we’ll see. Enjoy and please leave some feedback! Shoot me an ask if you wish to be tagged for the SPN Angst Bingo fics!

An angry sigh left your lips for the third time in the span of thirty minutes as you sat down on your bed, running one of your hands through your hair while your other hand was clenching around your phone against your ear. Bela’s voice was starting to irritate you, especially since you’ve been hearing it every single day for the past week. She’s been trying to get you into the business your father was in, the one she had slipped into, but you knew better.

The life of thievery wasn’t what you wanted to do. You knew it was wrong, and that one day it was all going to come back and bite you in the ass, maybe quite literally. With the number of cursed objects in your home, who knew what those things could do, and you had no intention of finding out.

“I’ve said it before, Bela and I’m only going to say it once more. I don’t want to partner up with you. I’m not into that lifestyle.”

“Oh, but dea’ (Y/N), it would be so much fun. We could have a girls’ night out, go to a salon and get our hair done. Spend quality time togethe’ and gossip about boys,” she all but purred at you through the phone, probably hoping to persuade you with the bribery. But you were better than that.

“No thanks. I’d rather spend quality time with my reflection” you retorted while standing up and looking at your reflection in the full body wardrobe mirror. Though it wasn’t something you very proud of, it was still better than hanging out with a thief.

Bela’s British accent rolled out with her slightly pleading tone. “Come now, darlin’. We could have fun playin’ pranks on people again… You used to love doin’ that when you were younge’.”

She wasn’t lying. You and Bela had known each other since your early teen years. It was supposed to be a one-time friendship, but Bela had always been a persistent person. In her own way, that is.

With your father’s reputation as a renowned thief, the two of you were constantly moving around, your mother having divorced him a long time ago when she figured out why his ‘job’ paid him so well. You and Bela had met after school one day, a four-year gap between your ages, but that didn’t stop Bela from wanting to be your friend. Probably because she figured out your father was filthy rich and wanted to use you to get to him.

Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, you responded in a firm tone. “No, Bela. Maybe I thought it was funny when we were younger, but not when I know how serious the pranks really are. Don’t call me for these types of businesses again. Goodbye.”

Finally hanging up on the phone as you laid back on the bed with an agitated growl, you stared up at the ceiling of your room, simply contemplating your life, as usual. Numerous times, you’d find yourself staring up at the ceiling, finding no good reason to get up out of bed. For the past couple of years, your motivation for getting out of bed had waned tremendously.

Though your home was large, almost Victorian styled and there were a great many rooms to the house, you only use four of those rooms for yourself; the bathroom, the kitchen, this bedroom you were in, and the living room. There were two other rooms you used, but it was a simple walk in, get what you need, and walk out kind of usage. The rooms your father called the Treasury, which was where he stored all the stolen objects.

Recently, you’d been returning as many of the objects as you could to their rightful owners. Some of them were still alive and well, and you’d return the objects to them in person. Some were overseas, and you shipped them over with an apology letter. Others were deceased, and you had to search for the next person in their lineage to return it to.

But it wasn’t as easy as you thought. Some of the owners were armed, and wouldn’t listen to reason, requiring lengthy, and occasionally tense, dialogue just to convince them you were only here to return what was stolen from them. You always went home with some sort of flesh wound, bruise, or similar injury.

“As long as I get rid of em, I don’t care what people think of me.” You got up from the bed and walked out into the wide hallway, stopping in front of a room with a door made of metal, though it was cleverly disguised to make it look wooden. A doormat was placed in front of it, just like all the other rooms in this goddamn house you lived in. The doormats were made to blend in with the flooring, which was mostly soft carpet since marble was just a pain in the ass to clean. At least vacuuming didn’t take as long as mopping or dusting did.

Bending down, you picked up the carpet and flipped it over, revealing a small zipper underneath where the ‘L’ in ‘Welcome’ was. You unzipped it and dug two fingers into the compartment, pulling out a key, placing the mat back down and inserting the key into the lock, unlatching and opening the door with ease.

You headed into the room, grabbing the clipboard that was hung on the wall next to the door frame and looking down the list. For every stolen object that was encased in glass containers, protective boxes, or containers of their own, there was a sticky note placed on it, with a name and an address corresponding to the papers attached to your clipboard. There were nearly three dozen objects crossed out with a green highlighter on your list, while two of them were crossed out with a pink highlighter.

The ones highlighted in pink were ones with no recorded owners. Or none that you could find alive, anyway. So, you had no choice but to keep them around, one being an old family photo of what looked like a royal family and the other… Well, you weren’t sure what exactly it was since it was completely encased in bindings wrapped tightly around it and covered with Latin words. Probably something cursed.

“Let’s see… The next thing is this dagger.” You muttered to yourself, using a handkerchief to pick it up out of the glass container. You didn’t want to touch any of the objects in this room with your bare hands since, for all you knew, they were all cursed. It had a rounded end and hilt. Along with the blade, the whole thing seemed to be made from pure silver. It had a good weight to it, and it seemed genuine. You had no idea what it was for, but whoever owned it must have paid a fortune for its creation.

“Eh. Guess it’s time to take you home, Shiny.” You laughed bitterly at yourself for talking to an inanimate object. “But then again… It’s not like I have anyone better to talk with, right?”

“Dean, for the last time, stop eating your burgers like that. It’s dripping with grease and you look like a pig.”

“Sammy, for the last time, don’t tell me how to eat my burgers, and lemme eat in peace.” Sam rolled his eyes as he huffed and leaned back in the booth he was seated in at a nearby diner, trying his best not to watch Dean eating his lunch like a slob while his older brother was giving him a shit-eating grin, mouth stuffed with whatever was in the burger.

“Fo? Waf da caf?” With his mouth full, Dean tried asking Sam about their case, but it was useless; with his mouth full, he sounded like he was saying a load of gibberish. Sam gave him a fabulous bitch face, raising an eyebrow at Dean, who took a moment to realize Sam had no fucking clue what he’d just said. He swallowed the food in his mouth then asked again. “So? What’s the case?”

“Well, it’s not much of a case really. At least… not a supernatural one.”

Dean didn’t seem the slightest bit interested as he continued to chow down on his burger. “Okay, no problem. I’ll just go and do some shoe shopping, see if there are any good bars around, have tea with Eddie Murphy, and then try finding you a girl so you can finally get laid.”

Yet another bitch face directed at Dean as Sam leaned forward with a serious look on his face. “I’m being serious, Dean. It’s not supernatural, but it’s really odd. Expensive, stolen objects all around the world are being returned to their owners in the exact same condition they were taken. Uhm, jewelry, paintings, cutlery, weaponry, anything you can think of that’s priceless.”

“Like this burger?”

“Dean, get serious-” Sam’s phone suddenly went off, buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the caller ID, then to Dean with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s Bela.” This seemed to pique Dean’s interest as he leaned forward, finishing up his sandwich while Sam answered the call.

“What is it this time, Bela?”

“Aw, Sammy. Baby, not even a ‘hello, Bela, darlin’! How’ve you been?’. Nothin’ sweet?”

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Bela. This is not the time to be messing around. If there’s nothing you need, then I’ll hang up.”

“Oh, wait!” Bela sighed through the phone line as her teasing tone died out. “I have a reason for callin’ you. There’s goin’ to be a theft tonight, but I have important business, so I can’t stop it.”

“... And how exactly does that concern us?”

“The object is an angel blade. Isn’t that somethin’ you hunters use?” Bela was quick to speak, noticing that Sam was about to question how she knew about angel blades. “This is all I can tell you, Sam. Tonight, after 10. I’ll send you the address.”

Just moments before the clock struck ten, you were already inside the home where the owner of the dagger lived. Apparently, the owner was away, an active hunter who was on a case in a couple cities over.

“Well,” you muttered aloud to yourself, pulling out the safely-wrapped blade from your pocket. “Seems like it’s my lucky day. I don’t have to deal with angry hunters.”

It was just when you were about to put the blade down on the table that you heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen. You perked up, trying to gently place the knife down and make a run for it.

“Sorry, what was that about not dealing with angry hunters?”

Your (E/C) orbs flickered up, slowly looking over your shoulder as you released your hold on the knife, letting it hit the table with a soft thud. You said nothing, standing up straight and staring at the two men before you. One was extremely tall and had shaggy brown hair and the other, the one that spoke up, was shorter and had dark green eyes. Or maybe it was just the dim lighting in the room that made them seem dark. Both carried guns in their hands, both aimed in your general direction.

Your posture gave away nothing of your true intentions as you gazed at them. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you two.”

“Oh no, pleasure’s all mine sweetheart,” the green-eyed devil said as you took a few steps backward. “Might not wanna move any further than that.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” You challenged, spreading your arms out and shrugging your shoulders. “Go ahead. I’m open.” The nonchalant comment made Dean falter, his gun slightly angled down a bit, and without hesitation, you took this chance to escape, running to the conveniently opened window behind you and jumping right out of it.

Your car was parked right up ahead, and without so much as a glance over your shoulder to see if the boys were giving chase, you made a beeline for the vehicle. Quickly getting into the driver’s seat, you turned it on, pressing on the gas pedal hard, kicking dust and debris behind you as you disappeared down the road.

Hours later, when Sam and Dean were chilling in their motel room and searching for signs of the most recent supernatural activity, they couldn’t help but think back to the thief that they stopped.

Sam sighed softly under his breath, taking his eyes off his laptop and turning around on his chair to glance over at Dean, who was currently sprawled across the motel bed on his back, the built-in massage machine in the bed finally turned off. “Hey, Dean?”

Dean hummed in response, raising his eyebrows to let Sam know he heard him. “Don’t you feel there was something… strange about her?”

“You mean besides the fact that she didn’t take that angel blade, and she wasn’t clad in all black like most robbers?”

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. She… I don’t know, Dean. I just have a weird feeling that she’s not a petty thief.”

“Like Bela?”

“Exactly,” Sam ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair and exhaled again. “Her reaction was different, and she didn’t even look the least bit disappointed that she wasn’t able to take that angel blade with her.”

Dean was silent for a while, his mind racing while allowing Sam’s words to process. “I see what you mean. She looked like your average town girl. Though a nice-looking town girl. Sweet ass, that one.”

Sam gave Dean a bitch face. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. “Dude, I don’t need to hear your opinion on every single girl you see.”

“And I don’t need to see you drooling in your sleep. Who were you dreaming about last night, hmm Sammy?” Sam’s face stiffened as he puffed his chest out, his hands itching to smack that smug look off of Dean’s face.

“Anyways… Back to that girl. I think we should keep an eye on her. Just in case she’s not who we think she is.”

“Whatever you say, Sammy boy,” Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out two quarters, inserting them into the massage machine’s coin slot and making himself comfortable on the bed, a loose grin on his face while Sam’s thoughts continued to swirl around this mystery girl.

Once again, hours had passed, and your gaze had never once faltered from the ceiling of your room, lying in bed with one arm tucked under your head and the other one sprawled next to you, wrapped tightly in bandages. Your upper arm contained cuts, deep ones that came from stabs and shallow ones that were just from slicing your flesh open.

A glass of water rested on the bedside table next to your head; you didn’t need to get light headed, not just yet.

This wasn’t what you wanted; to resort to cutting or self-harm just for your mind and body to realize you were alive. But there was no one you could go to for aid, no one to share your pain and agony with.

Your father’s life never allowed for you to have permanent good friends, and you had no siblings. Though your father was a bad man in terms of reputation, he was still a good father. You could always count on him whenever you felt down or upset if you ever came home crying because you fell off your bike or someone insulted you. He was there no matter what. No matter how immoral he was for stealing, no matter how much it upset you that you could never stay in a school long enough to make some friends, you still loved him.

Whereas any other person would complain all the time about the constant moves, you remained quiet and accepted it as part of your life.

And tonight, after seeing the face of those boys when they assumed you were stealing that godforsaken knife, you realized just how badly your father’s reputation had stained you. No matter where you go, you’d be known as the girl whose father was killed in a robbery gone wrong. A robbery he caused.

You exhaled heavily. What good would it do to shed tears? They would only create a mess, just one more thing you’d need to clean up before your short life came to an end.

Raising your good arm up and draping it over your eyes, you couldn’t help the lump in your throat or the swelling of water in your eyes. “Why… What did I ever do to deserve this life?”

The next time the boys spotted you was nearly three months later, your father’s so-called treasury now almost completely empty, the only evidence of the stolen objects in your home now being the sticky notes you wrote names and addresses on, stuck to each glass case individually.

You were returning a pendant of sorts, a great load of small charms attached to a necklace chain. Your handkerchief made sure your fingerprints didn’t stain the piece of jewelry, slyly making your way through a local diner in Grand Island, Nebraska and without being noticed by the owner, a red-haired woman, you slipped it into her jacket’s pocket and made your way out of the greasy-smelling diner, tilting your hoodie over your eyes so none could recognize you.

But as soon as you had made your way out the door, a hand gripped your upper arm, thankfully not the arm you’d constantly abuse. It still made you jump, whipping your head around with a gasp as you stumbled forward a few steps, trying to pry the man’s fingers off your arm.

Your (E/C) orbs gazed up into a pair of narrowed, emerald green ones, a look of seriousness in them, taking a moment to recognize who it was. The sudden yearn for struggling suddenly started to diminish, though your fingers were still hell-bent on trying to get his grip to loosen. “It’s not very nice to scare a lady.”

“Oh, believe me, sweetheart, this is as unpleasant for me as it is for you,” at which point he then proceeded to drag you elsewhere while you grunted and struggled, trying to trip him, scratch him, even bite him, but his grip was like steel. You were pretty sure a bruise was starting to form on your upper arm.

“Let go! You’re hurting me!” You cried out, which caused his grip to loosen only slightly, but not enough for you to slip away. He proceeded to drag you down the parking lot towards an extremely old modeled black car. The other man from that night, the taller guy with shaggy brown hair, was leaning against the car.

As soon as you were dragged to the car, quite forcefully, the man with green eyes gazed at you. “Now we’re gonna do this the easy way, alright? We ask you questions and you answer them.”

“Like hell I will,” your brows crossed in anger, gazing sharply at him. “Especially after the treatment I just got.”

“Come on. It’s not like if I’d asked you nicely, you would have come prancing after me like a good little girl.” He mocked, giving you a challenging look.

“Alright, you two. That’s enough. Dean, let me handle this.” The taller man said to the shorter one, who you now knew was named Dean.

With a scoff and a roll of his eyes, Dean backed down, releasing your arm as you rubbed it with your hand. The taller man held his hands up placatingly. “Let’s start with introductions. I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean. We’re the ones you ran into a couple months ago.”

You nodded your head, avoiding direct eye contact momentarily. “I remember… You were in that hunter’s home.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at you. “So, you did know what you were stealing?”

“I wasn’t stealing!” You shouted at him, getting defensive as you responded almost immediately after.

He tilted his head to the side, shrugging his shoulders upwards. “Then... What were you doing in that hunter’s home? While he was away?” You chewed on the inside of your cheek, refusing to allow them to think you were a thief, but at the same time, this was something you were doing on your own. You couldn’t let anyone know about this.

“Why should I tell you? That’s my business, isn’t it?” With that said, you turned on your heel and walked away from them.

Dean wanted to go and chase you down, but Sam held him back. “Wait. You put the tracker on her right?”

“Yeah, it was almost too easy…” Dean’s eyes glanced over at your disappearing form, his gaze on your sleeve.

“Alright, we’ll follow her tonight and see where she’s going.”

“Fine. But if she does steal something, you owe me a night of drinks.”

Sam shook his head with a light-hearted laugh, a look of disbelief on his face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re hoping she steals something.”

“Hell yeah, man. Free beer!” Dean looked over at him with a goofy smirk, chuckling at Sam’s reaction.

The brothers gazed at the computer screen for a while, the tracker light flickering as your location changed every second. Dean focused his gaze back on the road, following your car without his headlights on so as not to be seen.

Sam and Dean watched as you turned right at a stop sign, heading into town where you pulled up into a driveway and got out of the car, glancing at your surroundings before flipping your hood up, an object in your hands. Though they couldn’t see what it was since it was wrapped in a white cloth.

As they observed you from afar, the Impala parked a good distance away, you braced yourself for whatever was to befall upon you. Swallowing your nerves and remembering those lines that you had memorized by heart, you rang the doorbell, waiting for the owner of the home to answer.

You didn’t wait for long, the door opening to reveal a burly man with a black side beard and freshly showered hair, a towel around his neck. He raised an eyebrow at you, leaning his weight against the door frame. “Can I help ya with anything?”

“The more likely question is … can I help you?” You brought your hands out on display, showing off the cloth-covered item in your hands. Slowly, you removed the top part of the handkerchief to reveal a long-barreled silver gun. Newly polished and without a smear, smudge or scratch on it. “This belongs to you.”

The man before you stood up straight as he gazed at the weapon without so much of a change in facial expression. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He reached forward and lifted the gun out of your hand and tested it, swirling it around his finger, tossing it up lightly to test the weight, even bringing it up to eye level and gazing straight down the barrel of the gun. “Now how in the world did you get ahold of this? I lost this years ago.”

Here it comes. You were either going to get smacked or insulted now. “My father stole it from you. And I’m here to return it.” His gaze swiftly shifted up to meet yours, his surprisingly clear blue eyes staring at you for a moment before he slowly tucked the gun into his belt then took a step back. He looked almost conflicted. “I appreciate you returning the gun…” He said before closing the door, and after a moment, you released the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“That went… better than I thought it would.” You tucked the handkerchief into your hoodie pocket, stepping away from the door and heading to your car, hopping into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the driveway, your last destination of the day being home.

“I’m done… Finally done.” You muttered softly to yourself, a melancholic tone replacing the cheerful one you should have used. Now that all the objects with owners were out of your home and in their rightful places, you no longer had a reason to get out of bed, to continue this harsh daily cycle you’d gotten so accustomed to.

Unbeknownst to you, the boys had continued to follow you after seeing the strange stunt you had just pulled.

Entering your large house, you stripped yourself of the oversized hoodie and tossed it away onto the ground, crossing the living room and heading to your main bathroom.

A box of blades was behind the mirrored cabinet, along with a couple of bottles of painkillers and pure caffeine crystals in a small vial. You’d made it yourself using an extraction method you learned back in organic chemistry. Though it was tedious, you’d been able to extract enough caffeine from tea bags to ultimately, but slowly, kill a person with just a sip.

Grabbing the nearby glass, you filled it up from the sink then got four of the painkillers and swallowed them, drinking the water immediately afterward to force the pills down. You waited five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

Once you were sure the dizziness you were feeling was from the pills, you grabbed the glass vial and dumped all the crystals into your glass of water, stirring it with your pinkie finger until the crystals were dissolved.

You took a couple of large sips of the drink, grimacing at the bitter taste, even dry heaving a bit. Nevertheless, you forced it down. Your hands were shaking and shivering so much, you dropped the glass cup in an attempt to place it on the sink, shards scattering across the floor, but your muddled mind was unable to process it, reaching for the box of small blades as you tottered out of the bathroom, hot tears rolling down your cheeks.

You weren’t even sure why you were crying. Out of pity for yourself, perhaps?

Not sparing a second glance at the noose hanging from the ceiling in your room, the one you prepared earlier that morning, you sat on the chair directly underneath it, your t-shirt exposing your arms up to your triceps. You used your index and middle finger to hit your arm, forcing the dark blue vein to bulge a little, forcing it to stand out from the bruised skin you’d just struck.

In one clean and swift motion, you’d brought the blade down and sliced your arm vertically, right along the vein. Blood poured and gushed out of your arm like a waterfall, creating a large puddle underneath you within seconds while gasping and sputtering from the pain, you did the same to your other arm. You cried out in a panic and jerked, the blade cutting into your arm quicker than intended.

The painkillers slowly started taking effect, numbing your sense of touch for the first couple minutes, just a numb ache in your arms now as you sat there, tears staining your face. Your skin was starting to become pale, your breathing speeding up slightly as well as your heartbeat. The quicker your pulse, the faster the blood would flow out of your arm.

“No more second chances…” You whispered to yourself, shakily standing up, your feet making a squelching sound as you stepped in the puddle of blood staining the carpet. You unsteadily climbed up onto the chair, untying a black blindfold from its edge. You looped the noose around your neck tightly before tying the blindfold around your eyes.

“I’m done…” And with a harsh kick, the chair tumbled away, leaving you suspended in the air, hanging from only the rope. Your neck became constricted, tightening your windpipe as your body struggled for air. The lump in your throat made it hard to do so, causing you to choke.

Lips turning blue, and body trembling from the effects of the drugs and blood loss, your lungs started to collapse. You wheezed and gasped, lips parted so you could try and inhale fresh air one more time. Arms too weak to lift up and help your struggling body, they lay limp against you, red ooze dripping down your fingers and your stomach starting to burn from the effects of painkillers and pure caffeine crystals.

One last time, you struggled for air before your already darkened world started to disappear from your grasp. Within seconds, your body was limp, hanging in the air as your heartbeat slowed down further until it was but a faint cry for help.

Dean approached your front door, clearing his throat before lifting his fist and knocking on the door since he didn’t see the doorbell that was right in front of his face. Sam stared at Dean for a moment, trying to figure out whether his brother was seriously unable to see the doorbell or if he just chose to ignore it. So, he reached over Dean’s shoulder, which wasn’t too hard to do, and rang the bell.

“Please tell me you were purposely ignoring that bell.” Dean slowly turned his upper body to face Sam as he rocked on his heels before slowly phrasing every syllable, “I was purposely ignoring the bell.”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s smart mouth as they waited for the door to open. They waited for a couple of seconds, then a minute. When they heard no footsteps approaching the door from the other side after nearly two minutes of waiting, they gave each other a knowing look.

“Think we should…?”

“Yeah. She definitely should have heard the bell.” Sam then knelt as he pulled out two bobby pins from his pocket, working on trying to unlock the door while Dean looked around, one of his hands hovering over the gun attached to his belt.

It didn’t take much for Sam to pick the lock. “Got it,” Sam whispered as he slowly pushed the door open, leaning forward a little to peek inside. When he saw nothing, he motioned for Dean to follow, the two of them walking inside to see why you hadn’t answered the door.

The brothers split up when they entered the living room, Sam heading towards the spiral staircase to their left while Dean looked around the first floor. He saw the discarded hoodie on the ground and picked it up, noticing that it was still warm. “She’s gotta be in here somewhere,” he mumbled, straining his neck around to see into the kitchen.

When he approached the open bathroom door with the lights still on, he cautiously pushed the door open, his gaze immediately hardening as he spotted the broken glass on the ground. There was some sort of fluid around the glass, though he couldn’t tell what it was, along with an abandoned glass vial and a bottle of painkillers.

He raced out the bathroom and into the short hallway that displayed a couple of doors, one being wide open. His breath hitched in his throat as he ran forward, his deep voice shouting out loudly and echoing through the house. “Sammy! Get down here!!”

Without a moment to spare, he grabbed the chair then stepped up onto it and started untying the knot in the rope with shaky hands. “Come on, come on,” he whispered in a panic.

Sam had heard the shout and, in a frenzy, ran down the stairs and headed in the direction from which he heard Dean’s voice. Upon arriving in the room, his jaw clenched tightly, wrapping his arms around your body and lifting you slightly so Dean could remove the noose from your neck easily.

Once it was off, Sam lay you down on the ground gently, Dean rushing over and kneeling beside you as he quickly slipped the blindfold off your eyes and checked for a pulse. It was there, but just barely. “Sam, we’re losing her! Take the wheel!”

Dean shouted as he quickly lifted you, being careful of your blood-coated arms as Sam took the lead out the house and to the Impala. “Closest hospital is just a few miles away. We’ll make it,” Sam assured him as he practically dove into the car and revved the engine up before speeding off down the road to the hospital.

“Come on, just hang in there,” Dean whispered in a panic, situating himself in the back as he cradled your upper body in his arms.

Tags:

@impalaimagining @bradygabrielle-blog @teamfreewill92 @chelsea072498 @not-moose-one-shots @percywinchester27 @sumara62

#spn angst bingo #supernatural fanfic #dean x reader #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn angst #angst #depression

25 notes · View notes

hollyjjangu · 8 years ago

Text

Woah this got out of hand, and it has more mentions of alcohol and weed than you probably requested but idk college parties are basically just weed weed and more weed but its still fluffy, i promise soooOOOO i hope you like it!

- admin artemis (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ *:･ﾟ✧ ♡

Taehyung knows he looks like a fine piece of meat.

Jimin insisted on him wearing the black leather jeans that make his ass a literal peach. He didn’t forget to gouge his eyes with thick black kohl eyeliner, and his hair was far from neat, practically a mop of light brown atop of his head. Nonetheless, Taehyung looked good, especially with his lips a cherry red from his tinted chapstick.

It’s Friday, the day of the week where Jimin and Taehyung frequently pretend like they do not have responsibilities and Taehyung completely ignores the fact he has an essay due on Monday he hasn’t even started yet. Right now is a time for cheap beer, stale chips, and weed at a party hosted by the one and only Jackson Wang.

Also known as the only one on campus who manages to host perhaps the craziest parties every single weekend. Jackson had too much money in his pockets and he most definitely did not want to major in law like his parents had forced him to, so he figured he should at least make the most out of his shitty situation by hosting parties where everyone gets shit-faced drunk.

Taehyung and Jimin were regulars, just the usual duo showing up in skin tight trousers and muscle tanks.

Taehyung doesn’t have much arm muscle to show off but eh, he figures any less skin can’t guarantee a good fuck tonight.

He hasn’t had a good fuck since the invention of slice bread, and he is in fact a healthy college student with a sex drive at an all time high. If he doesn’t get dick tonight he might just have to turn to toys or even his own fingers.

He prays he finds some good dick tonight, he prays to every god out there.

When they arrive, Jackson greets them with a holler, something completely indecipherable and yeah, leave it to Jackson to be drunk off his ass within just ten minutes that the party has kicked off.

All is well, Jimin finds Yoongi and they do the usual makeout session before Yoongi is dragging Jimin up the stairs to Jackson’s bedroom. Hoseok is on the dancefloor, doing all types of moves that leaves the crowd surrounding him to roar in excitement. Seokjin and Namjoon are out on the patio, flirting and walking circles around each other as always and Taehyung…

He’s bored out of his mind.

He hasn’t been feeling this party very much since he’s arrived, Yugyeom seems to notice as he stumbles into the seat beside Taehyung at the kitchen island, sporting a red solo cup in his right hand.

“You good?” He asks, taking a long swig of whatever concoction Jackson whipped up this time around.

“M’fine, not really feeling it today.” Taehyung huffs, swirling the alcohol in his drink around lazily.

Yugyeom reaches into his pocket, discards god knows what and slapping it on the table before him.

“Loosen up a bit.” Is all he says before he’s gone.

Taehyung inspects the item before him, brownies.

Considering this is Yugyeom, at Jackson’s party, Taehyung knows there’s some type of drug infused within the chocolate and he simply can’t bring himself to care very much. He wants to let loose and truthfully, if he doesn’t any time soon, the bitch of a headache he’s been sporting for the past hour will turn into a bitch of a migraine. Jackson’s sound system sucks, he can barely hear himself think.

Taehyung is a complete mess.

It took only thirty minutes after Yugyeom swiped him some edibles and Taehyung was already not only high off his ass, but had somehow downed too many cups and is now within the crowd of hot, sweaty, bodies. He’s been grinding on too many bodies to the point he’s lost count, has had too many tongues down his throat, too many hands up his shirt, and whoever this bulky guy who has a finger pinching his nipple is, seems like a perfect candidate to fuck Taehyung senseless and relieve that sex drive he hasn’t been able to relieve in months.

After making out with too much tongue and teeth, Taehyung deems the foreplay enough,

“—Mmph let’s go upstairs.” His words come out muffled, the man not wanting to detach his lips away from Taehyung’s.

He hadn’t even gotten his name, he didn’t really care either, he was leading him up the stairs to fuck him two ways to Sunday, how the hell could he find an ounce of fuck to give?

So with his tongue still down his throat, Taehyung attempts to walk backwards, up the stairs, and into one of the free bedrooms in the dorm.

He backs into someone however, spilling the contents of the red solo cup in their hand all over Taehyung causing their lips to detach from one another.

“Fuck, I-I’m so sorry!” The boy exclaims, hastily removing his jacket and attempting to wipe Taehyung’s now sticky skin away from the alcohol.

Taehyung doesn’t say anything, he just raises his head, and then he’s puking, all over his potential fuck who drops him with a rather squeamish yelp in disgust.

That damned brownie was undercooked.

Taehyung falls on his ass, and if the music wasn’t so loud he’d hear the man cursing him the fuck out before storming off.

“Where are y-you going!” Taehyung practically screams over the music, flailing his limbs before shouting profanities at the man and the boy with the now empty solo cup just stands there, practically paralyzed at the scene that just unfolded.

What in the fuck just happened.

“Jeongguk? What the hell just happened?” He hears an unfamiliar ask the boy, Taehyung is completely wasted, the entire room is spinning, his stomach feels like it’s going to burst all over again and he can’t even comprehend where the fuck he is or who the fuck he is.

With all of his surroundings swirling into each other’s hues, darkening slowly but surely by the second, Taehyung blinks dazedly.

Yeah, his brain capacity is the equivalent of a potato right about now. He doesn’t know much, he just knows that the guy with probably hella good dick game is gone and the boy Jeongguk is responsible for it.

Taehyung is up on his feet, and now in Jeongguk’s face.

“You fucking bastard! Do you know how long I haven’t had dick? It’s been months, and that weak ass fucker was g-going to fuck me! You ruined my chances with some g-good ass d-dick!” His hand, it’s in the air now, almost pummeling into Jeongguk but who the hell knows how, Taehyung manages to hit himself in the face instead, falling over his own feet before collapsing into Jeongguk’s arms.

Jeongguk isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry.

He does a bit of both, turning to Namjoon who previously called him.

“What the fuck do I do?” He asks, voice boarding desperation because he’s really not in the mood to deal with this right now, this was his only day off from his hectic schedule of classes and dance practice. If this was anyone else, he probably would just toss their body onto the ground, or drag them somewhere upstairs to sit until they woke up again.

But sadly, this was Kim Taehyung, someone Jeongguk’s friends were friends with for who know’s why, the boy was a complete mess.

“I dunno.. He seems like he’s knocked out pretty bad.. Take him home, maybe? He’s roommates with Jimin.” Namjoon advises with an apologetic expression, all the while, he stifles his laughter.

“Fucking hell, he smells like shit.” Jeongguk mutters under his breath, lugging Taehyung through the crowd of sweaty drunk students and out to the front lawn.

Jimin’s dorm was just down the street, Jeongguk wasn’t anywhere near drunk still, he just arrived five minutes prior to Taehyung punching himself in the face.

So he lugs Taehyung all the way there, reaching the buzzer at the door when it suddenly hits him, no one is in there to buzz him in.

He curses, glancing downwards at the boy in his arms.

Taehyung, he’s.. Attractive. It was a no brainer.

His eyes, are still encircled with thick black kohl, his hair is even messier than when he first came, and even with the putrid stench of vomit, alcohol, and weed clinging to his skin, the boy still manages to look kissable.

“Stupid, cute, idiot.” Jeongguk mutters under his breath, hand sliding down Taehyung’s pants, patting his front pockets before his back with his cheeks flushing a bright red. There, in his back pocket, his dorm keys.

Jeongguk thanks every god he knows.

He’s been here two times before, still hasn’t properly met Taehyung though, so it didn’t change the awkwardness in the slightest. He drags Taehyung all the way to his bed, before taking a few steps back and heaving a sigh in relief.

Now what?

His clothes still have some traces of vomit clinging to them, his face looks rather oily and sweaty, Taehyung’ll probably get some pimples if he doesn’t wash off that foundation too.

Should he shower him?

Is that too creepy?

Reluctantly, Jeongguk lifts Taehyung again, this time lifting him up and into the bathroom.

He decides a bath would be easier, and it’s then that Jeongguk realizes the boy isn’t even asleep, he literally blacked out and he can’t help but chuckle as he scrubs the boy’s skin gently.

Patting down his damp skin with a towel before towel drying his hair, Jeongguk yanks a t-shirt that’s most definitely not his size over Taehyung’s head, slipping some boxers over his legs, and sets him gently back in his own bed.

He quickly runs to the kitchen, pouring a glass of cold water, grabbing painkillers, and a bag of frozen peas before returning.

He places the frozen bag on Taehyung’s right cheek, it’s still a bright pink from where he punched himself.

That’s better, now he smells like strawberry instead of cheap beer, and his cheek swelling should be down hopefully morning. Jeongguk is a saint.

Running his hands through his hair, Jeongguk takes a seat on Jimin’s bed, directly across. He’s exhausted, that was a lot more work than he initially presumed and now he’s just tired.

So he decides to stay here, just for a little longer, besides, it isn’t like Taehyung is going to wake up anytime soon.

Maybe he spoke too soon.

Jeongguk stays for just a few more minutes, admiring Taehyung’s beautiful facial features like the slope of his nose and his pretty long eyelashes, plush pink lips and smooth tan skin.

How in the hell has this boy been deprived of dick when he looks like that?

This is creepy of him, he’s more than aware, but Jeongguk can’t help his feet that carry him back over towards Taehyung’s bed, or his hand that falls atop of Taehyung’s cheek, caressing the skin there gently, a fond smile on his face as he remembers how in the hell he ended up here.

Taehyung is an idiot, is the only thing he knows about the boy, also that he’s ridiculously adorable and wow Jeongguk 11/10 would fuck him any day.

And then Taehyung’s eyes snap open, yanking the cold bag off from his face, Jeongguk, once again, is paralyzed.

“... Did we fuck?” Is the first thing Taehyung mutters, voice husky, and then the next thing he says is a distressed fuck as his hangover hits him like a freight train.

“No, we didn’t.” Jeongguk manages to say, shoving Taehyung back down onto the bed when the boy tries to sit up.

“You need rest, idiot, you knocked yourself out.” Jeongguk can’t help the chuckle that slips past his lips, and then Taehyung is tilting his head slightly in confusion.

“What? I did what?”

“You knocked yourself out, literally.” Jeongguk states once again, this time not bothering to hide his laughter and Taehyung joins in momentarily.

“Fuck my head hurts like a bitch.” He pouts, Jeongguk feels something in his chest twist.

“Drink.” He hands the boy the glass of water, he sips it gratefully, before downing the two pills Jeongguk placed in his palm moments after.

“Your name is Jeongguk, right? Why are you here?” Taehyung asks, wiping the water from his lips on the back of his palm.

“Well, I spilled my beer all over you, you threw up over this guy you were going to fuck, and then you tried to punch me in the face but ended up punching yourself and knocking yourself out. I figured I should bring you home and clean you up.” Jeongguk explains earnestly, not missing the shade of crimson the envelops Taehyung’s face at his words.

“Did I actually? Thank you so much but fuck that’s so embarrassing!” He groans, hiding his face in his hands and Jeongguk just laughs, not really thinking much when he reaches forward and pulls Taehyung’s hand away from his face.

He wants to see his adorable smile, how dare Taehyung keep it away from him?

“It’s fine, really!” Jeongguk reassures, expression mirroring Taehyung’s grin, but with a hint of perhaps fondness?

“You didn’t have to do all this though, you could’ve just thrown me on Jackson’s bed, vomit all over me and everything.” Taehyung counters, face only reddening as he speaks.

“Nah, I’m not that big of an asshole, besides, your kind of adorable, and I needed an excuse to ask you for your number without blowing my cover.” He admits, and if Taehyung was red before, he’s practically a fucking tomato now.

“I’m adorable? I threw up and punched myself in the face!” Jeongguk bursts into laughter at that.

“And, I guess giving you my number is the least I could do, I could also throw in a coffee date as well, on the house!” Taehyung offers, beaming at Jeongguk who doesn’t bother to suppress the urge any longer, he leans forward and pecks the corner of Taehyung’s lip gently.

“I’d like that very much.”

pssst, our ask box is open… send in a prompt, a headcanon, ask us a question, etc!

- admin artemis (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ *:･ﾟ✧ ♡

32 notes · View notes

eustasskidweek · 8 years ago

Text

Day 17- Date

I lied yesterday. I wrote this while even more drunk then yesterday. However, I wrote it; it’s finished! I’m so sad that it’s over but I just have to say, this year has been great. I have to say a huge thanks to @a-redharlequin for making this all possible. Make sure you show her lot’s and lot’s of love! Also all of you guys were reading and leaving such kind words. I would not have continued if it hadn’t of been for you. This has by far been one of the funnest things I’ve written thus far. It was nice to just have some fun and do what I pleased. Stop by my personal Tumblr and say hi, it’s just @razzledazzle2k13.

I love you guys so much! Thanks for reading and being so awesome and for the fanart and comments! You guys are too kind! Much love!

~Raz

Kid Law

“So I see he stayed,” Killer smirked as he entered the kitchen.

“Don’t start with me,” Kid growled.

“I was just trying to state a fact,” Killer shrugged as he grabbed the bottle of orange juice to take a swig straight from the container.

“Yes he stayed. Yes you were right. Yes I was being a bitch. Now I will never repeat those words so shut the fuck up about it already,” Kid glared at his brother.

The blond held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, I just wasn’t about to let you throw the the best thing that has ever walked into your life away.”

“Oh and what about you?” Kid asked. “You are always all over my love life but what about your own?”

Killer blushed, Kid had to do a double take just to make sure he wasn’t going insane. His brother was standing in the middle of the kitchen blushing.

“What are you not telling me?” Kid grilled, turning his full attention to his brother.

“Well I met someone,” the blond mumbled.

“And you didn’t think to mention it to me?”

“You were busy being a little bitch,” Killer accused.

“Whatever. So tell me now,” Kid commanded.

“You’ve met him,” Killer said, looking at the ground. “Well do elaborate,” Kid crossed his arms over his chest, resting against the cabinet.

“Shall I help?” Law asked, joining them in the kitchen.

The doctor walked over to Kid, kissing him before the man wrapped his arm around his thin waist.

“Just tell him,” Killer mumbled.

“He met my roommate Penguin. They hit it off and are going on a date tonight,” Law smiled.

“What?!” Kid yelled.

“Well while you were being a prick Killer came to talk to me at the restaurant where he met him. I swear I have never seen Penguin so enamored with someone. It is kind of cute,” Law laughed, causing Killer’s blush to deepen.

“Whatever. Yeah we're going out tonight,” he admitted.

“To do what?” Kid questioned, enjoying making his brother uncomfortable.

“Dinner, maybe a movie,” Killer shrugged, putting the juice back in the fridge to try and leave.

“Dinner?” Kid mused. “Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Wherever,” Killer said.

“You’re going to withhold details from me?” the redhead feigned being hurt. “Fine. Law, do you know where?” Kid turned his attention to the shirtless man he was holding.

“Maybe but I don’t give up information for free,” the doctor smirked, turning to face Kid.

“Well how about you repay you with dinner and a movie?” Kid suggested, winking at his brother.

“That sounds like you are asking me on a date.”

“Hmm, I guess it does. Where would you like to go?” Kid asked, kissing his neck.

“That new Mexican restaurant that that just opened up a few blocks from the hospital. I’ve heard they are really great,” Law replied.

Killer groaned and Kid knew, he knew that was where his date was. He smirked at his brother who only flipped him off before taking his leave.

“So what time?” Kid asked.

“I’ll be here at eight,” Law told him.

“You picking me up? I asked you out though,” Kid complained.

“Yes but my car is nicer,” Law pointed out.

“Whatever,” Kid grumbled, knowing he had lost the argument before it even started.

“Then I am headed to the office to do some paperwork and go home and take a shower. I’ll be back tonight,” Law kissed him, turning to leave.

Kid pulled him back, kissing him again before letting him go. He watched the doctor leave and shook his head. If that damn man swayed his hips any harder he was going to break them. Kid ran his fingers through his tangled, messy mop of red hair before grabbing some cereal.

Killer was the first to leave with a quick bye before leaving for the shop. Law was next, stopping in the kitchen to give Kid another kiss before letting himself out. The redhead finished his cereal before washing out the bowl and deciding to give physical therapy another try.

---

I made it all the way through PT

That’s progress How do you feel?

Like I want my body to function again

Understandable so

How is paperwork?

Boring I have another heart transplant in two days so we are starting the prep for that I meet the family tomorrow

Sounds like fun Sarcasm intended

I figured as much Anyway I better get back to it See you at 8

Bye

---

Kid grew tired of watching the seconds hand on the clock tick by so slowly so he ventured out of his house. He found himself at the shop. He parked in his spot, making his way inside. He checked up on the new guys and the crew before finding himself in his office. He filled out some of his paperwork before going the front to help take calls and payments. Being so busy helped the time fly by. The last customer was helped and walked out as the new receptionist locked up.

“Ready to go?” Killer asked, covered in motor oil from a previous incident that day.

“Yeah,” Kid stretched still a bit sore from his physical therapy.

The two watched their crew leave before locking the back door behind them.

“See you at home,” Killer told him as he climbed into his own truck.

Kid nodded, starting up his old beater. The two raced home, as per tradition. The redhead winning this time. He started up his own shower just as Killer was making it inside. Kid stripped down, thankful that the stitches had dissolved and he could shower without getting nagged to death. He clumsily washed his hair with one hand before moving onto his body. Once he was satisfied he was clean enough, he stepped out, drying off. He pulled on the boxers he had already picked before walking to his closet to pick out an outfit. He started tossing shirts on the bed trying to find the best one. After making it to the back of his closet he pulled out a black long sleeve button down. It had a grey tribal cross on the back, not that he was religious but he liked the design. He pulled it on, taking way too long to button it with one hand. Once he had finally gotten all the buttons done and in the right hole, he picked out a pair of black pants he had. He stood in front of his mirror, tucking the shirt in before deciding to grab a red tie to finish it off.

He made his way to his brother room to force him to help tie it. Killer grumbled. as he was trying to find his own outfit, but did it anyway. Kid laughed, pointing out a black and white button down, leaving to fix his hair. He pouted gel into his good hand, taming the mess that was his hair. He slicked it back after many failed attempts. Washing his sticky hand he pulled out a makeup bag he had hidden in his cabinets. After finding the eyeliner, he stashed it away again.

To say doing eyeliner with one hand was the understatement of the year. Kid had poked himself in the eye more times then he could count but he refused to give up. This was his first date that he actually cared about and he was going to look damn good because that was just who he was.

His phone vibrated in his pocket just as he was stashing the eyeliner away.

“They are here,” Killer called out.

“I know I just got a text,” Kid responded, making his way to the front door to let them in.

He opened the front door to see his date in a fitted white v-neck, showing off his tattoos and clinging to him in all the right places. It was also the first time Kid was seeing Law in skinny jeans and a pair of knee high black boots. Kid licked his lips, keeping his comments to himself for the moment. Penguin was next to him in a light blue long sleeve and skinny jeans.

“You look nice,” Kid told him. “Killer’s in his room, last door on the left.”

Penguin nodded, stepping around Kid to force Killer out of his room.

“You,” Kid turned his attention to Law. “You look good enough to eat.”

Law laughed. “Maybe after dinner,” the doctor winked.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Kid warned.

“It’s not a threat,” Law took a step forward, whispering in his ear. “It’s a promise.”

The redhead felt a chill go up his spine but he couldn’t do anything as his brother and his date joined them.

“Ready?” the blond asked, clearly just as nervous as his date.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Kid told them. “I have dessert plans.”

Law just laughed as Penguin looked confused and Killer shook his head. The four stepped out of the apartment, Killer and Penguin taking Killer’s truck and Kid and Law climbing into Law’s car.

The four men drove to the restaurant, choosing to be seated together as Killer knew Kid would make his life hell otherwise. They made small talk, mostly Killer and Penguin as Kid and Law were content to watch them act like highschool girls. It was pretty much like they weren’t there as the two men discovered how much they had in common. Kid was getting amusement out of watching his brother act a total fool all the while teasing Law under the table. His hand kept find its way up his thigh but every time he almost made it to his destination, Law would stop him. Kid glared at him but the doctor acted as if everything was fine, choosing to ignore Kid’s attempts at getting his hand in his pants.

By the time dinner ended the waiter came to ask if they wanted dessert. Kid declined for him and the doctor, throwing money on the table before practically dragging Law out of the restaurant. The doctor just laughed, earning another glare from Kid. The valet took too long for Kid’s liking.

“I should have just gotten the damn car myself,” Kid complained.

“Someone is impatient,” Law teased.

“What of it?” Kid growled as the car rolled around.

“We have all night, what’s the rush?” Law asked, tipping to valet boy before climbing behind the wheel.

“The rush is I want my dessert,” Kid told him.

“Your wish is my command,” Law laughed, gunning the engine and taking off.

They made it to the apartment in record time, hardly making it through the door before Kid was stripping Law down. Their clothes were strewn from the front door to Kid’s bedroom. By the time Kid pushed Law on the bed, he was naked. Kid got down on his knees, pulling Law to the edge of the bed as he took his hard cock in his mouth.

Kid took his full length in, savoring him, teasing him with his tongue. He looked up at the doctor, who was watching him as he sucked him off. Kid licked the tip, wrapping his hand around his shaft, pumping his fist quickly as he stood up. He leaned down, kissing Law, forcing him to taste himself. The doctor moaned into the kiss, pulling Kid on top of him.

The redhead removed his hand from Law’s member, instead pulling out of the kiss to hold his fingers to Law’s lips. The doctor’s eyes never left his as he opened his mouth, licking Kid’s fingers as the redhead slipped them into his mouth. Law sucked on them, swirling his tongue around them as if he was sucking Kid’s cock. Kid felt his member throb against Law’s leg. He pulled his fingers out of Law’s mouth, spreading the man's legs as he roughly shoved two fingers into his tight hole. The doctor let out a moan, grinding down against the pressure inside him. Kid took his time, teasing the man as he scissored his fingers inside of the doctor.

“More,” Law breathed out.

“Now you want more but just an hour ago you wouldn’t let me put my hand in your pants,” Kid pointed out, adding a third finger.

“We were in public,” Law moaned. “If I would have let you have your way I would have came all over myself and made a fool of myself in public.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Kid taunted, removing his fingers. “Get the lube.”

Law did as he was told, turning over to get into the drawer. He pulled out the bottle, pouring the wet substance on his hand. Kid watched him as he sat up, reaching between Kid’s legs he wrapped his cold around Kid’s member, stroking him.

Law kissed him, pushing him back on the bed so he could straddle him. Instead of sitting on his dick like Kid had expected, he leaned down to kiss his neck. The doctor kissed his way down down Kid’s toned torso, spreading his legs to kiss his thighs. Kid let Law take the lead, finally straddling him to line himself up and slowly lower himself on Kid’s dick.

The redhead attached his hand to the doctors hip. Law adjusted a bit, getting comfortable before lifting himself off Kid’s dick and immediately lowering himself back down. Kid let out a moan, letting Law set the rhythm. The doctor picked up his pace as he adjusted around Kid’s size. He leaned down, digging his nails into Kid’s chest as he fucked himself on Kid’s dick. Kid met each of Law’s thrusts, enjoying the man bouncing on his cock.

Law rode him, moaning and mutaliting Kid’s chest. The redhead didn’t mind, getting more turned on by the pain. He thrust into Law, causing the man to cry out as he took control. Kid flipped the man under him, biting his neck as he slowly fucked him. Law’s hands moved from Kid’s chest to his back. His nails bit into his skin, begging the redhead for more.

Kid obliged, picking up his pace. He shoved into Law, hitting his prostate in the process. The doctor moaned his name causing Kid to stop.

“You want more?” he asked, teasing Law.

“Of course I do,” the raven haired man whispered.

Kid gave him, thrusting into Law. He hit the bundle of nerves that drove the doctor into a moaning mess. He loved seeing the man come unraveled under him. He loved having that kind of power over a man who was in such control always. He watched as Law came undone under him. The doctor turned into a squirming mess, begging for Kid to go harder and faster. Of course Kid slowed down tormenting the poor man.

Law dug his fingernails into Kid’s back, drawing blood. Kid moaned, enjoying the pain. He leaned down, roughly biting Law’s neck. The doctor turned his head to the side to Kid could get better access. The redhead wasted no time in marking every inch of free skin he could. Law just moaned, letting Kid have his way. As the assault on Law’s porcelain skin continued, Kid picked up his pace again. Law wrapped his legs around around Kid, trying his best to keep up with the redhead’s grueling pace.

The redhead bit Law’s chest as he rammed his prostate. Law cried out in both pain and pleasure. Kid could taste Law’s blood but he refused to stop. He bit down harder as he reached between the two of them to stroke the doctors leaking dick. Law moved down, trying to cause more friction between the two. He was in sensory overload between the pain and pleasure he couldn’t focus on one or the other. He just moaned under Kid, begging for release.

Kid eventually caved, drawing close to his climax. He sucked where he had just bitten, tasting the warm blood that flowed into his mouth. He pounded into Law, hitting his prostate with each thrust. The doctor cried out, grinding down on him.

As the doctor came, he shredded Kid’s back, his walls tightening around Kid’s dick, his seed spilling over his own stomach and Kid’s hand. Law’s orgasm didn’t stop the redhead from pounding into him harder. Law cried out Kid’s name as he became more sensitive. The redhead’s breathing came out in ragged gasps, signaling his end. His stomach clenched, calling out Law’s name as he filled him with his warm, sticky cum. He stayed in the man until his dick stopped twitching. He carefully pulled out, still sensitive.

Kid collapsed next to Law, both of them coming down from their high as they tried to catch their breath and regain their composure.

Law was the first to break the silence, rolling over onto Kid’s chest. “I have to meet with a family for a heart transplant tomorrow,” he told the redhead. “How am I going to explain all of this?”

Kid looked the man up and down, seeing he was pretty marked up. “Tell them you got mauled by a bear.”

“Something close to it,” Law mumbled.

“Or just tell them you have a jealous boyfriend who want’s to make sure everyone know that you belong to him,” Kid mumbled.

Law went silent, thinking about what Kid had just said. “I like the sound of that.”

#eustass kid week #eustass kid #trafalgar law #kidlaw #one piece #part 17 #razzledazzle2k13

29 notes · View notes