#One Hour Lockup

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Prison-tech company bribed jails to ban in-person visits

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in BOSTON with Randall "XKCD" Munroe (Apr 11), then PROVIDENCE (Apr 12), and beyond!

Beware of geeks bearing gifts. When prison-tech companies started offering "free" tablets to America's vast army of prisoners, it set off alarm-bells for prison reform advocates – but not for the law-enforcement agencies that manage the great American carceral enterprise.

The pitch from these prison-tech companies was that they could cut the costs of locking people up while making jails and prisons safer. Hell, they'd even make life better for prisoners. And they'd do it for free!

These prison tablets would give every prisoner their own phone and their own video-conferencing terminal. They'd supply email, of course, and all the world's books, music, movies and games. Prisoners could maintain connections with the outside world, from family to continuing education. Sounds too good to be true, huh?

Here's the catch: all of these services are blisteringly expensive. Prisoners are accustomed to being gouged on phone calls – for years, prisons have done deals with private telcos that charge a fortune for prisoners' calls and split the take with prison administrators – but even by those standards, the calls you make on a tablet are still a ripoff.

Sure, there are some prisoners for whom money is no object – wealthy people who screwed up so bad they can't get bail and are stewing in a county lockup, along with the odd rich murderer or scammer serving a long bid. But most prisoners are poor. They start poor – the cops are more likely to arrest poor people than rich people, even for the same crime, and the poorer you are, the more likely you are to get convicted or be suckered into a plea bargain with a long sentence. State legislatures are easy to whip up into a froth about minimum sentences for shoplifters who steal $7 deodorant sticks, but they are wildly indifferent to the store owner's rampant wage-theft. Wage theft is by far the most costly form of property crime in America and it is almost entirely ignored:

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2023/jun/15/wage-theft-us-workers-employees

So America's prisons are heaving with its poorest citizens, and they're certainly not getting any richer while they're inside. While many prisoners hold jobs – prisoners produce $2b/year in goods and $9b/year in services – the average prison wage is $0.52/hour:

https://www.dollarsandsense.org/archives/2024/0324bowman.html

(In six states, prisoners get nothing; North Carolina law bans paying prisoners more than $1/day, the 13th Amendment to the US Constitution explicitly permits slavery – forced labor without pay – for prisoners.)

Likewise, prisoners' families are poor. They start poor – being poor is a strong correlate of being an American prisoner – and then one of their breadwinners is put behind bars, taking their income with them. The family savings go to paying a lawyer.

Prison-tech is a bet that these poor people, locked up and paid $1/day or less; or their families, deprived of an earner and in debt to a lawyer; will somehow come up with cash to pay $13 for a 20-minute phone call, $3 for an MP3, or double the Kindle price for an ebook.

How do you convince a prisoner earning $0.52/hour to spend $13 on a phone-call?

Well, for Securus and Viapath (AKA Global Tellink) – a pair of private equity backed prison monopolists who have swallowed nearly all their competitors – the answer was simple: they bribed prison officials to get rid of the prison phones.

Not just the phones, either: a pair of Michigan suits brought by the Civil Rights Corps accuse sheriffs and the state Department of Corrections of ending in-person visits in exchange for kickbacks from the money that prisoners' families would pay once the only way to reach their loved ones was over the "free" tablets:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/03/jails-banned-family-visits-to-make-more-money-on-video-calls-lawsuits-claim/

These two cases are just the tip of the iceberg; Civil Rights Corps says there are hundreds of jails and prisons where Securus and Viapath have struck similar corrupt bargains:

https://civilrightscorps.org/case/port-huron-michigan-right2hug/

And it's not just visits and calls. Prison-tech companies have convinced jails and prisons to eliminate mail and parcels. Letters to prisoners are scanned and delivered their tablets, at a price. Prisoners – and their loved ones – have to buy virtual "postage stamps" and pay one stamp per "page" of email. Scanned letters (say, hand-drawn birthday cards from your kids) cost several stamps:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Prisons and jails have also been convinced to eliminate their libraries and continuing education programs, and to get rid of TVs and recreational equipment. That way, prisoners will pay vastly inflated prices for streaming videos and DRM-locked music.

The icing on the cake? If the prison changes providers, all that data is wiped out – a prisoner serving decades of time will lose their music library, their kids' letters, the books they love. They can get some of that back – by working for $1/day – but the personal stuff? It's just gone.

Readers of my novels know all this. A prison-tech scam just like the one described in the Civil Rights Corps suits is at the center of my latest novel The Bezzle:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

Prison-tech has haunted me for years. At first, it was just the normal horror anyone with a shred of empathy would feel for prisoners and their families, captive customers for sadistic "businesses" that have figured out how to get the poorest, most desperate people in the country to make them billions. In the novel, I call prison-tech "a machine":

a million-­armed robot whose every limb was tipped with a needle that sank itself into a different place on prisoners and their families and drew out a few more cc’s of blood.

But over time, that furious empathy gave way to dread. Prisoners are at the bottom of the shitty technology adoption curve. They endure the technological torments that haven't yet been sanded down on their bodies, normalized enough to impose them on people with a little more privilege and agency. I'm a long way up the curve from prisoners, but while the shitty technology curve may grind slow, it grinds fine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

The future isn't here, it's just not evenly distributed. Prisoners are the ultimate early adopters of the technology that the richest, most powerful, most sadistic people in the country's corporate board-rooms would like to force us all to use.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

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[kitkatpancakestack]

So annoyed with small town erasure. why do we need a 9-1-1 taking place in another major city when we could have a 9-1-1 taking place in can'tevenfindthetownonamap, USA. there are three dispatchers total and they know everything about everybody. there's one major retailer in the whole town and they get robbed every episode. the closest hospital is an hour away. There's one firehouse and none of them are paid they're all volunteers. shining star of the show is a punk high school kid with no real family no real prospects who turns to arson for fun. instead of juvenile lockup they have to do community service with the firehouse where everybody is at least 30 years their senior and now they're all mentoring this kid who is breathing life back into their monotonous routines. Small Town Found Family is literally the original flavor hello. it'd run for three whole seasons before getting cancelled but I just think it'd be beautiful y'know burn bright burn strong burn fast

[kuni-is-daddy]

Imagine, sub!catboy scaramouche who's obsessed with Dom! female reader's breasts. He loves playing with reader breasts, there just so soft in his hands as he plays with them, while in your lap. Dom! Female reader riding his cock as he's playing with her breasts and sucking on them. Then after catboy scaramouche ends up being the one on top of you now. (It could be either a mean Dom or a soft Dom female reader if you'd like and sorry if it's a weird request to make)

the first thing I thought: BREED HIM but u said female reader. Don't be sorry anon. This is a open space!

SUB! CATBOY SCARA X FEMALE READER

921 words

MINORS DO NOT INTERACTT

Art credits!

Scara masterlist

Sub wanderer

Catboy scara who always cuddles on you while you rest. Sometimes he'd even take it farther depending on his mood to rub and rest on your breasts as if it resembled a soft pillow. Scara stressed out? He wants to lay and play with your breasts and he'd purr at how comfortable it felt.

If he was being your goodboy you'd even let him climb up on you and suck on your nipples. Moaning to let him milk your boobs. Catboy scara would fantasy while he's at work of the day you'd finally let him cum on your titts. Desperately waiting for you at home. Poor scara was at home in a rut all by himself :( He'd pull up a picture he snuck on his phone of you naked in your room taking off your bra and stroke his cock to it over a pillow. Begging and pleading to cum on your boobs. "MOMMY i- Oh shit~ Fuck- I- i wanna be your good boy mommy, I wanna cum f' You~ Please let me cum~"

Catboy scara who gets on top of you and begins sucking on your tits eagerly. Drooling and moaning out how good you taste and how much he loves your boobs but you start rubbing on his cock. "aH~ y/n d-dont touch their-" Your hand made him feel so good. "Y/n...Please mommy i..." you pushed his face into your chest. "shh shh its okay baby. Cum on mommys hand. You've been so good f' me. Been such a goodboy."

Cat scara who would travel with you in your bag or purse to places he couldnt go with you as catboy scara. For example, work! Scara isnt home so you assume he went to go 'find better things to do' instead of waiting for you at the door for hours to come home. little did you know while your on a lunch break you go to open your bag and all of your snacks are half eaten. "what the.. where's all my food?"

Cat scara who runs around the cafe hopping off of tables and scaring customers, some even allergic to cats and falling head first off their chairs. It was funny at first, Until you realize that was your pet Causing so many problems.

Cat scara who enjoys as you chase after him through the cafe, Your breasts bouncing up and down through your suit as you move past table after table. You end up retrieving your devious little pet and get kicked out of the cafe. 'whoops'

Cat boy scara who you lead home after he acts like a brat. You order him to sit on the bed and he does without a second thought. You then lockup and get infront of scara. "Do you have anything to fucking say for yourself scara?" Ooo you we're 100% mad. Scara wanted you mad. "Mmm what? That im sorry?~" Scara got a kick out of you getting mad. Because he knew you'd punish him and you did. You pushed him and caged him in between your arms on the bed. "You like gettin me mad scara? Getting me all worked up like this?" He didnt reply, Just kept looking at your breasts in his vision. You pulled him into a sloppy kiss and scara let out a moan from your aggression. "Hmm? You wanna touch them? Does my little pet wanna touch mommy?" you said while rubbing your hand against your boobs. "Y-yes..Fuck yes. Wanna touch your tits mommy." You smirked "Then help mommy take of her clothes." And he did. His nails we're a little sharp and tugged at you a little bit. In a matter of seconds you were undressed and scara desperately reached for your beautiful tits on full display. But you grabbed his hand and he purred at you. "Nu-uh baby. You need to get punished for earlier. Take off your clothes too for mommy." He roughly took of his clothes and threw them on the floor. "Now lay down." You commanded and he did. "Stay like that for me baby." You climbed ontop of him, Scara's body started burning up as you slowly sat down on his cock. "S-shit mommy~ your so warm, Wanna cum inside of you~" He went to put his hands against your waist but you patted them away. "Uh uh uh scara~ brats dont get to cum." He whined "N-no mommy. please let me AH~" you began bouncing on his cock "aH~ fuck mommy"

Catboy scara moaning and begging for you to let him cum and milk his cock "Y-YES MOMMY F-FUCK IM SO CLOSE- PLEASE. PLEASE LET ME CUM. ILL BE GOOD F' YOU. I PROMISEE~" at this point he's just flat out yelling and moaning for you, "Oh yeah? T-then be my good boy scara and cum for mommy~ Cum inside of me scara~"

[umdbooklab]

letterpress dashboard simulator

🖌️ slapdash-setter Follow

you can just do a shitty lockup. no one cares. be who you want to be

🗜️ century-oldstyle-stan Follow

ummmm no you can't???? your type will fucking wiggle

🖌️ slapdash-setter Follow

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

24 notes

🗜️ century-oldstyle-stan Follow

people will just defend the worst printing practices known to man on this website

3 notes

✒️ lines-and-linocut Follow

I spend sixty hours on designing a fucking poster and I get a million comments about how $30 is too much to charge for it. how about you try it

340 notes

🗝️ key-to-the-quoin Follow

people on here really forget that Gutenberg was a fucking hack. he didn't invent shit

#type invented in china and/or korea #so was paper #presses were using in wine and cider making #people just love their white guy blorbos

23.1k notes

🏫 sacramentohistorymuseum Follow

We're going to print a bike for national bike day!

198.3k notes

🗄️ mind-your-ps-and-qs Follow

anyone know where I could get a historical press for cheap? under $50?

🗝️ key-to-the-quoin Follow

UNDER $50??? are you kidding? you'll be lucky to get one for under $200

15 notes

🪧 linoscribes Follow

kissing my metal type on the mouth

🗜️ century-oldstyle-stan Follow

it's made of lead. are you insane

🪧 linoscribes Follow

getting lead poisoning because I love my type so much

🗄️ mind-your-ps-and-qs Follow

it's actually probably not lead! and if it does contain lead it's stabilized in the alloy! you can totally kiss your type :D

🗜️ century-oldstyle-stan Follow

or maybe. consider. don't

35 notes

[pedrospatch]

weakness l part ii

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: Back in the Boston QZ, you confront Joel about what happened at Bill and Frank’s place.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. BOSTON QZ ERA JOEL. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is in his early 50’s) two idiots who have feelings for each other, one idiot is in denial, Joel is kind of an asshole, confrontation, confessions. little bit of backstory on how they met, very brief mention of attempted SA. SMUT. reader loses her virginity, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v (practice safe sex, pls and thank you), post sex cuddles (ish) and more feelings.

word count: 6k

You splash several handfuls of warm water onto your face and scrub, making sure to be as thorough as possible as you rinse off all the suds from the cleansing soap that you’d used to wash the makeup off your face. You had also changed out of the dress that Frank had you wear for his special lunch earlier that afternoon and back into a much more appropriate outfit for your pending return to the Boston QZ with Joel��as always, Frank had kindly encouraged you to take a peek through a number of cardboard boxes full of women’s clothing in your size that he’d collected from the boutique and insisted that you go on and help yourself to whatever your heart desired out of them.

 After plucking a pair of dark wash blue jeans from one box, a long sleeved olive green blouse from another box, and a matching, white lace underwear set from a third box, you’d gone into the bathroom and started making the transition back to your usual appearance, minus the dirt and the grime for the time being.

There’s a part of you that’s relieved to see yourself looking a lot more—well, looking a lot more like yourself. On the other hand, there was another part of you that almost grieved the short lived feeling of what it had been like to look like a normal woman. Perhaps that’s the reason why, instead of putting your hair back into its usual braid, you decide to leave it down, loose around your shoulders.

“I told you it suited you,” Frank states with a little grin. Affectionately, he runs his fingers through it one more time before pulling you into his arms for a warm hug. “Thank you for coming over for lunch..”

After you and Joel had said your thank you and goodbyes to Bill and Frank, you started the journey back home. Not that the QZ was really a place that you wanted to consider home, but it was where you had spent the better part of the last six years. The truth was, you couldn’t stand living in the Boston QZ, but it was probably the closest thing to a home you’d ever have again.

 And it only felt like that because of Joel.

He’d crossed your path when you first arrived in Boston after Providence had been overrun with infected. Like most of the other survivors, you had found yourself in Boston, as it was the closest operating QZ and only about fifty miles away. It was a rougher crowd in Boston than in Providence and you’d found that out the hard way on your third night there when you’d been walking back to your quarters after that day’s work assignment had run late into the evening.

You had been trying to get to where you needed to be before it went past the set curfew hour and you remembered being so preoccupied with trying to avoid a disciplinary lockup that you hadn’t noticed the two goons who had been following you from the work site.

It happened in the blink of an eye—one minute you were walking and the next you’d been shoved into some empty alleyway. They roughed you up, and although you had tried to fight back, you ended up being overpowered and found yourself pinned down to the ground on your back by one of the assailants; meanwhile, his partner in crime eagerly unbuckled his belt and reached for the button of your jeans. Before it could go any further than that, the sound of a much older man’s deep voice threatening the promise of two broken jaws sent them running into the darkness as fast as their trembling legs could carry them.

That was the night you’d met Joel Miller. 

The one man in the zone that nobody in their right mind would ever dare fuck around with.

He’d scolded you for being stupid enough to walk the streets alone so close to curfew hour and then took you back to his apartment where he’d cleaned up all of the cuts and scrapes on your face with a torn, cotton blue handkerchief and some cheap whiskey. The two of you hadn’t been apart from each other since that night for longer than a day, if that.

So, the bottom line was that Boston wasn’t home. It never was home, and probably never would be.

It was Joel. He was home. 

It didn’t matter where you laid your head to sleep at night. Whether it was on a clean pillow in Lincoln or on that old, shoddy mattress that you’d noticed was starting to sprout bits off fluff through open tears in Boston—hell, you could lay your head down in the dirt at night and as long as Joel was there by your side, you wouldn’t give a single shit about it.

Gripping the straps of your  hundred liter pack, you glance up at Joel, your eyes meeting his own pack that he carried on his back. For a majority of the walk back, he’d stayed at least a few steps ahead in front of you. He hadn’t really said much of anything to you since your shared kiss in the middle of Bill and Frank’s living room.

Somehow, even several hours later, the feeling of his lips on yours still linger and you had to wonder, did Joel feel the same? Was it on his mind too? Or was he trying to forget that it ever even happened now that you two were heading back into the cold, hard reality of living in the QZ?

You’d be lying to yourself if you said that it wouldn’t devastate you if that were actually the case.

The two of you make it back just after nightfall. You and Joel sneak past the authorities and despite the fact that it was well after FEDRA curfew hour and the zone is crawling with guards on night patrol, you manage to make it all the way back to your shared apartment without being caught. Being thrown in lockup would have put quite the fucking damper on what had otherwise been one of the most decent days that you’d had in a while.

Joel’s silence towards you holds on pretty strong as he shoves his way through the front door, dropping his heavy pack with a loud thud on the floor. He stalks over to the couch and drops down onto it; his legs and feet are aching from the long, nearly five hour trek back to the QZ. Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel leans his head back and then closes  his eyes, his chest rising and falling steadily with each breath of recovery he takes.

Taking off your own pack from your shoulders, you set it down beside his, and then walk over towards the couch too. However, instead of joining him as you usually did, you stand in front of it—in front of him, and although his eyes are still closed, you know damn well he can sense you standing there. 

And yet, he refuses to acknowledge you.

Shuffling your weight from one foot to the other, you wrack your brain in search of something, anything to say—though you know he’s exhausted, it’s still incredibly obvious that there’s a tension that lingers over the both of you. In reality, it had followed you and Joel the entire way back from Lincoln, but at least out in the open, it hadn’t seemed that bad. Now that you were back in the apartment and confined to such close quarters together, it could be sliced with a fucking machete. 

Finally, you speak, saying his name softly. “Joel?”

“Hmm?” comes his reply, his head still resting back on the couch.

“We should—um, we should probably talk.”

His eyes snap open, but he fixes them on the crumbling ceiling of the apartment. “Talk ‘bout what?”

“About the fucking weather outside,” you answer, flatly.

Joel lifts his head from the couch, raising an eyebrow at you. “Oh, is someone feelin’ like being a smartass tonight?”

You sigh irritably. You should have known better than to think Joel would actually make this easy for you. “Listen, about what happened back at Bill and Frank’s house earlier today—”

He’s quick, too quick, to cut you off. “It was nothin’.”

You feel your heart drop down deep into the pits of your stomach. “It was nothing?” you repeat after him, wondering if you’d looked just as stunned as you had sounded. “Really, Joel? It was nothing?”

Joel gives you a subtle, but curt nod. “We both know it was nothin’ at all. Best we just forget about it. Pretend like it never happened.” He stands up from the couch and kicks off his worn, faded leather boots. “S’real late. We should probably get to bed.” He brushes past you and starts towards the bedroom.

You spin around on your heel, and while your words are gentle, they hit him in the back like a ton of fucking bricks. “It wasn’t nothing to me, Joel.”

He halts abruptly in his tracks and freezes, his wide shoulders squaring.

“And you know what, I don’t think it was nothing to you either.”

Slowly, Joel pivots on his heel and turns around to face you. “You listen here. I ain’t exactly too sure where you went off and found the fuckin’ balls to even think you can speak for me, but I’m gonna need you to go put ‘em the fuck back right now or else we’re gonna have a problem, darlin’. That understood?”

A chill runs up the length of your spine. Though he keeps his voice calm, there’s slight, dangerous edge to his tone that almost makes you back down—somehow, you will yourself to stand your ground. “You said it to me yourself, Joel.” You lift your chin slightly. “Earlier in Lincoln. You said you don’t want a life without me. Remember that?”

Joel’s jaw clenches.

He couldn’t deny the exact words that had come out of his own goddamn mouth, now could he?

You take a careful step towards him. “Am I your weakness, Joel?”

Instantly, he drops his eyes away from yours, his voice lowering as he asks you, “Now where the hell would you get an idea like that?”

“Frank told me—” You stop  as he lets out a scoff, shaking his head. “He did, Joel. He said that I’m your weakness.”

“Did he now?” Joel’s eyes are now on the floor.

He can’t even look at you.

“Yeah. He did.” You take another step forward, and then another. And even when you stand right in front of him, your body just mere inches away from his, he forces himself to keep from meeting your gaze. “Joel?”

He stiffly shakes his head. “Don’t,” he utters through tight lips. 

You try again. “Joel?” Knowing he would be too stubborn to give in, you bend slightly at your knees, crouching down in front of him just a few inches or so, low enough to place yourself into his view. You then slide your index finger underneath his chin and lift it, forcing him to look at you as you draw yourself back up to your normal height. Your expression softens once you see the battle he’s fighting behind those tortured dark brown eyes of his. “Just tell me the truth, Joel. Please,” you beg him, softly. “Am I your weakness?”

Joel reaches up with his hand, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. He tears your hand away from his face and holds it down at your side, but doesn’t let it go. “Why the fuck are you askin’ me that? Huh?”

“Because,” you reply, the gentle tone of your voice causing his grip around your wrist to tighten. “You sure as hell are mine.”

Your eyes glaze over his parted lips, and before you can even think about making another move, Joel releases your wrist and both of his hands fly to either side of your face as he brings his mouth down to meet yours. Just like back in Lincoln, you thought he would attack you, devastate and ruin your lips with his—though he kisses you with fervency, you can feel that he’s being careful, almost as if he were afraid he would break you into pieces if he became too rough with you. You almost want to speak, let him know that there was no need for him to hold back, but you’re too preoccupied, far too busy getting yourself lost in the taste of him.  

Desperate to be even closer to him, your arms find their way around his neck and you close the remaining gap of space between the two of you by pressing your body flush against his.

This causes Joel to suddenly break away from you, your name falling from his lips in the most delicious way you’d never heard before.

“What?” you question him, breathlessly.

When he says nothing back to you, you take a step backwards, away from him, and lift your hands to the buttons of your blouse. Slowly, almost seductively, you undo the first top button and then move on to undo the second one. When the third one comes undone, you use your index finger to move the material of your blouse aside, revealing your bra underneath—the white lace sits delicately on the soft curve of your breast, igniting a blazing fire deep in Joel’s lower belly.

Though he longs to let you finish so he can see more of you, Joel catches both of your hands in one of his halfway down, stopping you from going further. “Don’t,” he warns you, his voice strained, hoarse. “Don’t go doin’ somethin’ you’ll regret, darlin’.”

You tilt your head slightly, giving him the most innocent, angelic look he’d ever seen in his entire fucking life. “You think I’ll regret this?”

Joel can only nod helplessly at you as you tug your hands out of his and turn your attention to his shirt instead. His breath audibly catches in his throat as your fingers start working on the buttons of his brown plaid flannel. Heart hammering painfully in his chest, he looks down at you as your hands move on from one button to the next. He’s become borderline intoxicated by the sweet, sweet scent of whatever shampoo you’d used back in Lincoln to wash your hair, and it’s causing him to lose his grasp on what very little common sense he has left.

Joel feels the heat flood to his face when you push his shirt off of his shoulders and take a long moment to admire his form. Sure, his physique may not have been what it used to be now that he was in his fifties in comparison to his younger days, but he’s still in decent shape. His upper body isn’t ridiculously built or muscular, but thanks to hours of physical labor in the QZ, he still had this broadness to him—Joel’s back, his shoulders, and his arms, fucking hell, those arms of his that you could just melt right into, arms that you would feel so safe in, no matter what.

Your eyes drink him in, and you find yourself memorizing every last distinguishing mark on his upper body. You make a mental note of every single freckle you see, of each and every one of the battle scars that he possesses and commit them to memory. You were certain that most of Joel’s scars had come from this life, but you had to wonder if any of them had come from his past life. His first life.

“I ain’t a pretty sight,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly.

“Says who?”

“Says me,” Joel replies without missing a beat. He inhales sharply as you reach out and place the palm of your hand on his chest.

You can feel his heart slamming against his chest wall right against your hand. “Your heart is beating so fast,” you whisper. You step towards him and gingerly press your lips against his neck, causing him to draw another sharp breath of air.

Unable to fight his desire to touch you any longer, Joel reaches out to finish undoing the rest of the buttons on your blouse. He discards it on the floor along with his own shirt in one quick, swift movement.

“Fuck,” he breathes out as soon as his hands met your bare skin.

The contrast of his roughness and your softness just about drove him wild. He leans down, claiming your mouth with his once again, and although he tries to keep himself from being too rough with you, Joel can’t help how hungry his kisses are—he almost feels as if he’s a starving man who hadn’t had single crumb to eat in weeks, and you’re a three course meal that had miraculously fallen into his hands. He wants to devour you, and yet, Joel uses every ounce of strength he has in him to show at least a little bit of restraint. He knows you aren’t delicate, but he fears that if he isn’t careful, you’ll shatter into pieces in his hands much like a doll made of porcelain.

His teeth lightly nip at your bottom lip, his silent demand for more and you give it to him. He slides his hands up and down your sides, and while his touch is doing inexplicable things to your body that feel so fucking foreign, it also feels so fucking good. And you want more. 

So, so much more.

Joel groans into your mouth as you rake your fingernails down the front of his bare chest. “Baby.”

Your heart skips an eager beat.

Never in this lifetime did you think Joel Miller would call you that. But then again, never in this lifetime did you think you two would ever be in this position. Half naked, wrapped up in each other’s embrace.

“Baby.” He says it again, pulling away slightly.

“What’s the matter?”

“If we don’t stop right now—” Joel trails off mid-sentence, letting his two hands continue to roam and explore your upper body. He finds it in himself, finally, to push the delicate straps of white lace down your arms; you decide to lend him a hand and reach around your back to unhook the lingerie, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the stained linoleum floor. Pulling you flush against his chest, Joel groans again and then tears his lips from yours, moving them down to the sensitive flesh of your neck.

As he does  so, you start to guide him backwards towards the bedroom.

“Careful,” Joel mumbles against your skin, causing you to exhale a tiny, breathless little laugh.

Somehow, even with his arms wrapped around you and his lips fused to your neck, the both of you manage to get around the wide, single wall that divides the bedroom from the rest of the apartment. As Joel feels the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress—the very same mattress that you two had been sharing for the last few years—he lets out an odd noise, something in between a groan and a sharp exhale of breath. He snakes an arm around your waist and turns you so that he’s able to carefully lay you back onto the mattress. He follows in suit and crawls on top of you, his body hovering over yours.

“It ain’t too late, you know.” Joel pauses and brings a hand to your face. He brushes a lock of your hair out of your eyes and tucks it behind your ear, his finger grazing your cheek as he does so. “It ain’t too late to stop.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to stop?”

“Yes.”

Your heart sinks. “You want to stop?”

“No.”

A puzzled expression crosses your features. “But you just said—”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t even fuckin’ know.” He closes his eyes, furiously shaking his head.

“Joel. Look at me.”

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, Joel obliges. His pools of intense, dark brown swim with an array of different emotions, from lust and desire to concern and fear. “Things won’t be the same,” he tells you, shaking his head again. “We cross this line and there’s no goin’ back for us, do you understand that, darlin’?”

You chew nervously on your lower lip. Your hand is at the back of his head, your fingers anxiously toying with the curls at the nape of his neck. Of course you knew that there was no going back—but hell, you didn’t want to go back, not if it was to a time where you went about your days thinking that you meant nothing to Joel Miller. Not to a time where you didn’t know what it was like to be kissed by him, or to be touched by him.

Finally, you will yourself to reply to him.

“Is it shitty of me to say that I don’t care that we’re crossing a line we can’t come back from?” you ask, quietly. “It doesn’t fucking matter to me, Joel. I want this and I can tell that you do too.” The same hand that had been in his hair moves to the side of his face. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Losin’ you.”

You honestly hadn’t thought that he would actually give you a reply, at least not one that contained the truth, so when he does, it takes you completely by surprise.

“You won’t lose me,” you assure him, though you know better than to make a promise you weren’t absolutely certain you could keep in a world like this one. Joel had lost people, you had lost people, but you would do everything and anything that you could possibly do to keep from losing each other. “It’s like I told you in Lincoln, okay? We are in this together. I’ll never leave your side, Joel. Never.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

Joel leans down, letting his forehead rest against yours. “I want to. I want to believe you, I swear it. More than anythin’ in this world, I want to believe you. But my mind is sayin’ there’s just no fuckin’ way.”

You delicately touch your fingers to his chest, feeling his heartbeat again. “What about this, what does this say? This thing in here that I can feel racing against my fingertips as we speak?”

“It’s tellin’ me to make you mine.”

Propping yourself up on your elbow, you tilt your face up towards his for another kiss. This kiss is different from any of the others you two had shared that day.

No, this kiss was softer, it was tender—sweet like honey.

Loving, even.

“Then do it,” you encourage against his lips. “Make me yours.”

“Only if that’s what you want.”

“I do. More than anything, Joel.”

With your reassurance, he finally releases any hesitations he had, and Joel gives you a subtle nod of his head, one you almost didn’t catch.

He gingerly pushes you back onto the mattress and kisses you lightly on the lips one more time before he begins to trail his way down your neck. He continues to move down your chest and stomach, and as his nose skims against your skin with each kiss, Joel can still detect a hint of soap from your shower earlier that afternoon. As soon as he reaches your waist, his hands reach for the button and zipper of your jeans, undoing them both with ease. He lifts himself up on his knees, silently beckoning for you to lift up your hips so he can slide your jeans down your legs. You’d never been more grateful that you’d chosen a pair of pretty lace underwear instead of the usual cotton shit that you wore.

Joel hooks his index finger underneath the elastic waistband, slowly pulling them down your legs as well before tossing them aside. He lets his eyes lock themselves on every part of you, his burning desire for you only fueled by everything that he sees.

Much to your own surprise, you aren’t all too shy. There you are, lying before him completely bare—Joel can see everything, but you cannot possibly care less about any freckles, any stretch marks, any scars, or any other so-called imperfections on your body.

He’d let you see him—now you were letting him see you.

Joel would be lying if he said he’d never thought about this—thought about you like this. He had often tried his best to keep those thoughts at bay considering how much older he was than yourself, but fuck, he could never deny the fact that you were the prettiest damn thing he’d laid his eyes on since the world had gone to shit. Joel often imagined that every inch of you was nothing short of perfection and hell, he’d been right. He brings himself back down over you and lets his mouth make its way back down your body.

“Joel.”

The sound of your voice as you say his name is unrecognizable, to both you and to him. 

It’s low, husky, and like sweet music to his ears.

“What is it, baby?” He asks you as he stops right in between your legs. He glances up at you for a brief moment. His gaze meets yours, as if looking for permission to proceed. The instant he receives your nod of approval, Joel starts to plant another trail of burning kisses along the inside of your thighs, going back and forth from one to the other.

His beard scratches the delicate skin there as he carries on, moving slower and slower the further he goes up your legs in an effort to get your anticipation built up. You only find this agonizing and you’re just about ready to lose your goddamn mind. The moment you open up your mouth to tell him to cut it out with all of the teasing, Joel dips his head, his mouth finally moving to the apex of your thighs.

You gasp out his name, your back involuntarily arching off the bed.

Joel moans into you—something about how he just knew you would taste so fucking sweet—and lets his tongue swirl around your arousal, eliciting the most heavenly noises from you. He switches off between using long, firm strokes of his tongue over your clit and taking you into his mouth, his chosen technique causing your hips to buck upwards, asking for more. He hums against your cunt and lifts his arm, draping it across your hips to hold you down in place. The sounds escaping you, every curse word, every whimper, every little cry of pleasure, bounce off of the paper thin walls of the apartment.

Even though you’re certain your neighbors are getting an earful, the truth was that you couldn’t give two shits as to who heard you or not. Hell, there was a woman a few doors down the hallway who often threw suggestive glances at Joel when she saw him and you can only pray to the heavens above that she can hear what he’s doing to you.

You feel the beginning of an orgasm coiling up inside of you in your lower belly. It’s tightly wound, mere moments away from snapping and springing forward. With no sheets on the mattress for you to grasp, you clenched at air, trying your best to fight it in a futile attempt to draw the pleasure out for as long as you can. You never want this to end. Joel didn’t get the memo and he keeps on at it, and before long, his lips and tongue send you tumbling over the edge.

As you cry out his name over and over again, his mouth continues to keep at it slowly, helping you ride out the high of your orgasm. Once the sensation of the intense climax begins to subside, you drop your head back down onto the mattress and focus on trying to catch your breath.

Joel looks up at you and forces  himself to bite back his groan.

It’s  dim in the room, but the moonlight that filters in through the window illuminates what had to be the most stunning sight he’d ever fucking seen. Your hair wild, skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your mouth plump, swollen from his kisses.

Joel pulls himself back up to you. His mouth meets yours, letting you get a taste of yourself. He then lets his thumb graze over your bottom lip, asking you, “You alright?”

“Just a bit breathless is all.” Suddenly, it dawns at you—what comes next. Up until this moment you had been fine, and now, your nerves feel like they had been lit on fucking fire. You swallow harshly, knowing you had to tell him. “Joel?”

Sensing the sudden shift, he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

 “Joel, I’ve never—the thing is, I’ve never—”

You stop, clamping your mouth shut, unable to say it out loud.

It takes  him a second or two, but he finally understands.

You’ve  never been with a man before. 

Not like that. Not like this.

“As much as I want you, we don’t have to go any further than this,” Joel assures you, his nose skimming lightly against your cheek. “You tell me to stop and I’ll stop, darlin’. No questions asked.”

And you believe him.

You know he would only take what you were willing to give him.

At this point, you were willing to give him everything.

Your hand reaches down between your bodies, brushing against the waistband of his jeans. “I don’t want to stop,” you tell him. “I really don’t.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Are you—?”

“Damn it, Joel! I said what I fucking said, now can you please get rid of these? Or am I going to have to do it for you?”

Joel drops his face into the crook of your neck for a second, letting out something mixed between a scoff and a chuckle before he finally obliges to your request.

He stands up from the mattress just long enough to unbuckle his old, worn out leather belt—he then unbuttons his jeans and pushes them off before climbing back over you.

You place a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards you.

As you do, you feel his hard, thick cock brush against the inside of your thigh.

 “Joel,” you gasp out his name, wetness pooling between your legs all over again.

“Askin’ you one last time, sweetheart.” Joel’s mouth ghosts over yours. “You sure ‘bout this?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” You hope you don’t sound as desperate as you’re beginning to feel. “Please, Joel. I want you.”

You couldn’t have been anymore sure that this was what you wanted.

Still, that didn’t exactly stop the wave of apprehension from washing over you as you felt him settle himself between your thighs and against your entrance. Joel must have sensed your nervousness, because he pauses, pressing his lips against your forehead. He lets them linger for a moment, as if silently reassuring you that he would take it easy. He pushes himself inside of you, slowing down the further he goes. It hurts, at first. It’s a sharp feeling of discomfort unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Painful. You can’t help the small cry that escapes you, causing Joel to abruptly stop his movement. 

“Relax, baby,” Joel murmurs, taking your hand in his. He laces his fingers together with yours and gives it a gentle squeeze. He remains still as he waits, willing his body to listen to yours before picking up where he left off.

It takes you a minute to adjust to him, and while the discomfort doesn’t completely go away, a new sensation joins in, one of searing heat and the sudden urge to feel more of him.

Joel’s opposite hand is curled into a fist at the crown of your head, and he finds himself having to silently remind himself to get a grip. As much as he wants  to take you the way his body is telling him to take you, he refuses to do anything that can potentially hurt you. Though he’d given you his hand for the sake of comforting you, he found it ended up being more for his benefit than for yours. He holds it tightly as he gives another gentle, experimental thrust.

“Joel, move. Please. I need you to move.”

“Baby—”

“Please,” you all but plead him. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and push your hips forward, wanting to feel every inch of him that you could.

“Fuck!” Joel curses out in a moan. As careful as he wants to be with you, he knows that if you keep it up, that would all go out the fucking window.

Any discomfort or pain that you might have felt initially vanishes completely, having been replaced with nothing but explosive waves of ecstasy that come with each and every single one of Joel’s thrusts.

There isn’t one single part of you that isn’t lost in just the most heavenly haze as he picks up his pace and delivers swift, smooth strokes. Just when you think it cannot possibly get any better, Joel dips his head and begins whispering into the hollow of your neck. “You feel so good, baby. Fuck, I’ve been dreamin’ of this for years now, y’know that?”

“Joel,” you whimper his name.

“You’re mine, you understand me? You’re all fuckin’ mine,” Joel whispers breathlessly. He continues to pick up the pace as he demands, “Tell me you’re mine, sweet girl. Need to hear you say it—”

Biting your lip, you look up into his eyes and nod your head, managing to find your voice in between your moans. “I’m yours—all fucking yours, Joel.”

You’re close and so is he, you can feel it.

“Fuck!” Joel curses out as his entire body begins to shudder. He gives you one last, deep thrust that brings you both to come at the exact same moment.

Joel collapses beside you onto his back, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath and recollect himself.

You’re in a similar state, though perhaps a little more shaken.

“C’mere.” Joel pulls you close to him, tucking you into his side. “You’re tremblin’ a little. You alright?”

“I’m alright.” You look up at him and raise an eyebrow. “Are you?”

He remains silent, as if thinking over his answer.

Your throat goes dry—he didn’t regret it, did he?

“Joel—”

“Earlier, you asked me if you were my weakness.”

You nod. “Yeah…”

Joel pulls you so that you’re laying across his chest. He holds you close, squeezing you as if he’s afraid someone’s going to come along and snatch you out of his grasp. “Pretty sure you know by now that you are,” he says, his fingers subconsciously running themselves through your hair. “You’re my weakness, my Achilles’ heel, whatever the fuck you wanna call it—all I know is that if somethin’ ever happens to you, I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Joel.”

“What if I can’t keep you safe?”

You frown. “Joel, I’ve been by your side for what, six years now? And you’ve always kept me safe. Hell, you saved my ass on the night we met. If it hadn’t been for you showing up and scaring those guys away—” You stop, shoving the thought of what could have possibly happened to you that night out of your mind. “I told you. I’m the safest when I’m with you. I know I am.”

“But—”

You silence him with a kiss. “Joel, stop looking for a reason to push me away.” You toss him a small, exhausted smile. “Besides, I think it’s a little late for that now anyway, don’t you think?”

You lay your head back down onto Joel’s chest and he continues to run his hand through your hair, over and over again. He surely must have known that he’s lulling you into a deep sleep.

“Joel?” you say his name, drowsily.

“What is it, baby?”

“You’re not going to lose me,” you mumble into his chest. “Ever.”

Joel holds you closer, trying with every fiber of his being to set aside his fears as you drift off to sleep in his arms.

[sevcasejay1chicago]

Real- Jay, Matt, Kelly

Authors note: SUPER SHORT ONE. I’m sorry. I just needed some comfort and figured I could share. ❤️

Summary: An undercover assignment goes wrong.

Warnings: Some angst related to being captured. Mostly just fluff.

>>>>>

It had started as an undercover operation gone sideways. You were posing as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune that was looking for the latest scoop on the robberies that were taking place. This crew had been feeding information to another reporter, but he was now in lockup at the 21st. You had taken the opportunity to slip into his empty space, thinking that it was a clean swap, but you were clearly wrong.

Since the team was under investigation because of Voight, they had to play by the rules. Unfortunately, the reporter was able to call someone who knew his source. That person turned around and immediately called the guys you were under with. Within hours, they had you cuffed to a pipe and beaten half to death. They figured they would get away with it, but boy were they wrong.

Hours later, you wake up to the feeling of being slightly jostled as two bodies climbed on a bed with you. You immediately jerk up, hands flying to defend yourself from your attackers once you realize they made a mistake and freed you. You struggled until two pairs of hands held you down and you recognized the scent of Jay and Kelly.

“Hey hey hey. Shhhh. It’s okay. Your safe now. Your safe.” Jay murmured, hand clutched tightly around your own as he ran his thumb soothingly along the back of your hand and brushed your hair away with the other.

“J-Jay?” You whimpered, squeezing his hand.

Jay smiled as you opened your eyes and squinted in his direction. “Hey sweetheart.” Jay murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “We gotcha.” Jay confirmed, nodding slowly as he watched the confusion cloud your eyes.

“We couldn’t let our girl not come home.” Kelly murmured, drawing your attention to him. You barely registered his hand on the top of your head, soothingly rubbing his thumb over your forehead.

“Real or not real?” You asked, knowing they would pick up on it. You still have an obsession with the Hunger Games and you all started using the quote when nightmares got bad or jobs went sideways.

“Real.” Matt replied from the doorway, smiling sadly at you. He hated that you had to even ask. He wished he could have done more, but it was out of all of their hands. They are just glad to have you back.

Looking around, you realized that you were in a private room at Med. You could see Conner and Maggie peer in to check on you, but they made no move to intrude on this reunion. You slowly began to remember Jay carrying you out of the basement you were locked in, yelling for Voight to drive faster on the way to Med, whispering sweet nothings to sooth your shaking form.

With that confirmation, you nod, adjusting yourself in the bed as Jay settled himself into your side. You immediately turned into his chest, basking in his warmth and the touch of your boys as they calmly reassured you that they were there. You hummed, borrowing as far into Jay as you could.

“Go to sleep sweetheart. We will be here when you wake up.” Kelly soothed, tucking you and Jay in before motioning for Matt to turn off the lights.

Matt cracked the door before shutting off the lights. He pulled a chair over by Jay as Kelly cocooned himself around your figure carefully, making sure not to bump or pull any wires. Matt held the hand you extended for him, your arm resting on Jay’s hip. You needed them all, and their touch confirmed that the nightmare was finally over. You could rest.

>>>>>

@treehouse-mouse

@shadowmeadowsworld

@sorry-i-spaced

@zephyrmonkey

@allisonargent144

@amie134

@lane-rodgers-barnes

@pensfan5871

@dumb-fawkin-bitch

@marvel-and-chicago-fan

@daggersquadphantom

@100yroldteenagers

@senjoritanana

@celtic-shadow-wolf

@starset21

@mrspeacem1nusone

@wh0reforsmutstuff

@geekgirl1996

[tightjeansjavi]

The Menu | Part 4

“splinters in his knuckles bangin’ on your door”

A/N: remember that meme I posted earlier about how this was supposed to just be a silly little smut fic? Yeahhh about that..🥴

~word count: 6.3k~

Pairing | dark!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel goes a little berserk after he doesn’t see you for almost an entire day.

Warnings: SA (not by Joel, not described in detail) implied prostitution, abuse of power/abuse by law enforcement, (FEDRA) unhealthy trauma response, degrading language, mentions of guns, threats, injures from punching a door, mentions of blood, removing splinters, dark!joel, mean!joel, protective!joel, is shit at communicating his feelings!joel, asshole!joel, FEDRA SUCKS, no smut, denial of feelings, stalking, possession, morally gray relationship to the reader, (they’re kinda toxic but it’s complicated) hurt feelings, angst, some fluff, age gap, (Joel is in his 40’s reader is in her late 20’s) reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

Joel Miller cracked under the pressure when almost an entire day went by without a lick of your presence. Cracking under the pressure was..a severe misjudgment. All rationale was thrown out the door; he had gone completely balls to the wall insane.

It started in the morning when you didn’t show up to your ‘job’ where you and Joel would spend grueling hours dumping deceased infected. Of course, everyone around him could give less of a shit about your absence. And why should they care? It was a dog eat dog world in the QZ. Every man for himself. To Joel? This was a real problem. A thorn in his side because, well, frankly? You might have meant more to him than just a vice to fill a void. Or a warm body to stick his dick in. Maybe he had reluctantly grown to care for you in his own Joel way.

So, when he found himself in line for his ration cards, his eyes zoned in on the FEDRA officer you fucked out of spite. The same one who did business at Joel’s table while Joel’s fingers fucked you to ruin. He had to start somewhere, right?

“Y’got a minute?” Joel asked casually as he shoved his ration cards into the pocket of his jeans.

“Shoot.” Benjamin, better known as Benji, what the fuck kinda name is that.

“Y’seen Angel around this mornin?’ She’s usually out here with me. Didn’t show up.”

“Nope.” Benji responded smoothly.

Joel’s brow raised as he studied the other man’s face intently. He was looking for any clues, any indication that maybe this Benji fellow had something to do with your bizarre absence.

“Right. Well, if ya see her, tell ‘er Joel’s lookin’ for her.” He shoved his hands deep into his jean pockets.

If Benji was good for anything, it was ratting QZ folks out. So, maybe he did know where you were. He had no viable reason to tell Joel shit. In fact, he was the main reason for your absence. Not only did he catch you out past curfew, but with a handful of contraband that could have easily gotten you a week in lockup. He showed you just a smidge of mercy simply for the fact that you offered him a blowjob just to keep your ass off the line, and only in lockup for one single day.

Joel had no business knowing that, of course.

“Well, well, well. Whad’we have here?” Benji stepped out from the shadows of the darkly lit alleyway as a FEDRA patrol vehicle drove by.

“One hour past curfew, Angel. That’s a deduction of cards, and a night in lockup.” He tsked.

Your face scrunched inwards, as if you had tasted something pungent and sour. “Benji? Fuck. C’mon, man. Just let me pass on through. It’ll be like I was never here.” You thought you were being fairly reasonable especially since he did a lot of business with Joel. You thought that maybe you could get yourself off the hook easily.

“Can’t do that, Angel.” He sighed.

“My name is not Angel. And yes, you can. Just pretend that you never saw me.”

“Oh.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for his concealed handgun. “So, I guess buddy boy can call you Angel, but I can’t?”

For fuck sakes.

“Christ, is that what this is about? Who has the bigger dick? What, are you jealous or somethin?’” You egged him on as you reached for your own concealed gun before an unpleasant chill ran down your spine from the familiar clicking sound of the revolver.

“Jealous? Now, why would I be jealous, Angel? Ain’t you just a common street whore? You’ll let anyone stick their dick in ya if they pay well. Ah, but you got that Joel Miller wrapped around your pretty little finger. Everyone ‘round here knows he’s your guard dog. Where is he now, hm?” He cocked his head to the side.

“Look, Benji, you’re a good lookin’ guy and all that, but I fucked you out of spite. I’ll stroke your ego or whatever, but can I please just fuckin’ go home now?” You were exhausted from the grueling day. Your feet ached, your whole body felt like a bunch of pins and needles were stabbing it all at once. All you wanted was to go home, pour yourself a stiff glass, and have a smoke. Was it really too much to ask?

“Turn around. Hands against the wall. No sudden movements.” He ignored every word that left your mouth as if it meant nothing as if you truly were just a whore. For the first time in a long time, you felt dirty. Like something that was disposable. A toy that was no longer shiny and new, but dull and tattered. It made your blood boil.

“Benji—is that really necessary?” You tried to reason with him, but your attempts were fruitless.

“I said turn the fuck around and put your hands against the goddamn wall. Don’t make me ask you a third time, Angel. I ain’t have all night.” His jaw ticked impatiently.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t have to ask me again.” You reluctantly turned around with your hands above your head before placing your palms flat against the brick wall. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, slicing the skin open from the pressure as you tasted copper along your tongue when he yanked you back by the hips as if he owned them.

“That’s right. Because that Joel Miller sure turned you into an obedient little cockslut, didn’t he?” Benji chuckled deeply against the shell of your ear. His hot breath on your skin sent a wave of nausea crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, Benji.” You hissed through your gritted teeth as he began to forcefully pat you down. You thought about trying to escape, but decided that would have been fucking reckless to even try.

“Oh, now what do we have here?” He said rather gleefully as he pulled out a baggy of pills. The same baggy of pills that Joel gave to you the night before to deliver to a client.

“Those aren’t mine.” Well, that was dumb.

“No? Hmm. You’re not good at this whole lyin’ game, Angel. Let’s see what else we got here.” He pulled out your gun from the belt loop of your jeans along with tinfoil wrapped cigarettes; fresh ones that Joel had rolled you.

“Well, my dear, you’re lookin’ at about a week in lockup just from this alone. Unless..” he trailed off knowing exactly what you’d offer him in return.

“You’re sick, y’know that?” You scoffed under your breath. Men really did only ever think with their dicks.

“Jus’ doin’ my job, Angel. So, what’re you gonna offer me, hmm? Make it good and I’ll only throw you in there for a day. Sounds fair?”

“Right. Your job at bein’ a fuckin’ rat? I’ll give you a blowie, right here, right now. I think that seems pretty fair, don’t you?” The sooner this is over, the sooner I get to go home.

“Hm.” He pondered it for a moment, as if he really had to think hard on your offer. “Deal. But I want you to act enthusiastic this time, and take your tits out. I’m gonna paint them and your face in my come, and you’re gonna sit there and fuckin’ take it, and if you don’t?” He flipped you around swiftly, caging you against the wall as he brought the barrel of the gun right against your temple, “I’ll spray your brains out right against this fuckin’ wall.”

This wasn’t the first time you had been threatened by a man in the QZ, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but the all too real gun being pressed against your forehead was alarming, and your brain went into compliance mode in an instant. Truthfully, you didn’t want to die, and certainly not in a manner such as this.

All you could think about as you slowly sank down to your knees, and as the pavement nipped at your exposed skin, was that Joel would never do something like this to you.

“Sure, you’ll be the first to know if I’ve seen her, Miller.” He nodded.

Something about Benji, and his stupid face, sent Joel’s hackles rising. But before he could even mutter a reply, Benji was walking away towards the other FEDRA officers.

Joel shook his head while he flipped through his ration cards for the day. He was doing his best to block out all the possible scenarios of your disappearance, but he failed miserably when he realized there was a high possibility that you were either dead, or infected. It happened more often than people would think.

The real start of his manhunt began after he confided in Tess in the utmost Joel fashion. He found himself pacing the length of his apartment while all she could do was watch from the entryway in the kitchen. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she leaned back against the countertop. Her eyes trailed after his frantic movements.

“Look, before you go thinkin’ about doin’ somethin’ reckless, did you ever stop to think that maybe she’s just in her apartment? She could have slept in—”

He cut her off sharply with a quick shake of his head. “Sleepin’ in? Really, is that all Y’got for me, Tess? I knew she should have just fuckin’ spent the night. She’s so goddamn stubborn. I would have even slept on the couch and she could have taken the bed if it was such a big deal. She’s so hot’n cold!” He growled frustratingly. His hands moved upwards towards his head as his fingers tangled through his hair, yanking at the roots till he was feeling a splice of pain. “Or, better yet, I should have just walked her home myself!”

“Texas, you’re actin’ fuckin’ insane right now! Pacin’ the goddamn apartment like a dog. Ripping your hair out?!” Just calm the fuck down for a second. Take some deep breaths, have a smoke or somethin’ and then let’s both think rationally.” She tried to reason with him. All this got her in return was a narrowed glare, a scoff and an eye roll.

“She could be fuckin’ dead, Tess! What if somethin’ happened between her leavin’ here last night and walkin’ back to her place?”

“I highly doubt she’s dead. And if she was, we would have heard about it by now, Joel. Do you want me to help you look for her? Cause I can start askin’ around.” She pushed herself off the side of the counter just as his pacing came to a complete standstill.

“Sure, yeah. Go ahead and ask around. But, before you do that, I need ya to tell me where Angel lives. I’m aware that you know, and that she doesn’t want me to know, but you’re gonna tell me either way.” He stated as a matter of factly.

“Joel, she doesn’t want you knowing where she lives for obvious reasons. How about you stay here, and I’ll go to her apartment. Like I said, I’m sure she’s just fine.”

“Yeah? Well, those reasons are irrelevant as of right now. So, quit your little girl code you got goin’ on with her or whatever, and tell me where the fuck her apartment is.”

Tess didn’t even bother to argue. She knew Joel long enough to know that he wasn’t going to stop until he found that you were safe. Otherwise, the unknown and the ‘what ifs’ would eat him alive, literally.

“You’re fuckin’ relentless, Texas. Y’know that?” She pulled out her own personal map of the QZ before laying it out on the worn down kitchen table. She pointed to your exact apartment building. “She’s on the third floor at the very end of the hall.”

“Yep. You damn right I am, Tess. You know me too well.” He merely glanced down at the spot on the map where Tess was pointing at before he snatched up the parchment, folding it neatly and tucked it into his back pocket.

“I’ll be needing that back, Texas.” Tess reminded him.

“And I’ll be bringin’ it right back as soon as I find her.” Joel responded smoothly, dripping in confidence to mask his true nature. Just like those women he used to sleep with, he could put up a facade with just a snap of his fingers.

“Yeah, well, you’re losin’ daylight. Better go find that Angel of yours.”

“Better me than anyone else.” Joel added with a curt nod. He left the apartment in a rush, skipping a few steps down the stairs. He never handled change of any kind all that well. Especially when you had become a constant in his life while living in this shit hole place. If something had happened to you, Joel would force himself to take all the blame. He felt responsible for you in some capacity.

“Swear to god when I find this girl..” he muttered to himself, shaking his head while slipping past the front door of the apartment building. Evening was steadfast on the horizon; he needed to move fast.

Was it something I said last night?

Was it because I asked her to stay?

Was it the goddamn strap on??

Is she avoiding me on purpose?

Is she dead?

Did she fuckin’ get infected?

Did..she find someone else?

These thoughts and more were swirling through his frantic brain. He fucking hated the fear of the unknown. Absolutely despised the whole entire notion of its existence. He’d much prefer when things were yanked off like a bandaid. Quick and mostly painless.

He triple checked Tess’s map the entire trek to your apartment building. He had no time to fuck this up, and to the passerby he probably looked like a crazed man; which would be an accurate statement given the circumstances.

Your apartment building was nearly an exact replica of his own. Same shitty staircase, peeling wallpaper, the occasional cry of an infant, or scream of a child. Just the day-to-day sounds of the QZ that we’re all white noise to Joel.

When he found himself standing outside your door, he scoffed at the faded “Welcome :)” mat outside of your door beneath his boots. The smiley face had nearly rubbed off entirely, and he wondered if the mat had been there by your doing, or the previous inhabitants.

Focus, Joel.

He pressed the side of his head against the outside of the door, falling silent as he listened with his good ear for any movements on the other side.

Nothing.

“Angel? Y’in there, doll?” He asked through the thin wood.

Silence.

“Look, I’m sorry if I said somethin’ to upset you last night, but I haven’t seen you all fuckin’ day, and I’m real worried that somethin’ bad happened to ya. So, if you’re in there, can you please say something?”

Nothing.

“Okay. Okay, so maybe I do deserve the silent treatment after I made you hold my cock in your mouth like a cum bucket whore, but it was uh—out of affection? And if you’re upset that I asked ya to stay the night, then I’m sorry. It was just late and I wanted to—”

This is fucking stupid.

“Can you fuckin’ answer me, please? Just fuckin’ say something!” He growled, throwing his fists against the door once for good measure. “I’m about five seconds away from lookin’ like a complete and utter psychopath if you don’t open this goddamn door!” His frustration was on the cusp of boiling over, like a kettle on the stove.

“Okay, so we’re gonna play the silent game, huh?! I swear to god, Angel. If you’re behind this goddamn door and you’re ignoring me on purpose?! Good god, girl. You got another thing comin’ for ya!” He laughed, one of those unfriendly, chills down the spine, oh shit! I’m fucked kinda laughs.

Joel Miller had completely lost all remaining shreds of rationale.

“I’m gonna give you to the count of five to open this fuckin’ door, y’hear me?!” He snarled threateningly.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

He didn’t even get to two before his fists absolutely began to rain down on your doorframe. The cord had snapped and he was fully spiraling without giving a damn of who could see or hear him.

With adrenaline, rage, and fear pumping through his veins, he couldn’t even feel the skin along his knuckles being absolutely torn to shreds from how hard he was laying his fists into the wood.

It's like he had completely blacked out and all he could see was red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

Benji was ‘generous’ enough to let you out of being in lockup early and sent you right back out onto the streets. Ridden with exhaustion, you practically dragged yourself back to your apartment with only the thought of a stiff drink and your bed bringing you some form of motivation to keep going.

Your keys jingled in your grasp while you trudged up the stairs. You were oh so close to just plopping down in the hallway, but your apartment was only just down the hall. You could make it.

You passed by one of your neighbors on your way. And when you went to wave, they completely avoided making eye contact with you at all costs. Somehow you just knew that Joel was involved in this behavior, but how the hell did he know where you lived?

Then, you heard the sounds of banshee yelling intensifying the closer you drew to your door.

Jesus fucking Christ. Can’t a girl catch a break?

When you turned the corner, you were met with a grizzly bear of a man. Joel Miller had nearly beaten your door in with just his bare fists. You weren’t even all that shocked to see him outside of your apartment, but, nonetheless, you were pissed.

You leaned against the corner of the hallway, arms crossed against your chest and a displeased, yet mildly amused look plastered on your face.

“Joel?”

He whipped around in an instant at the familiar sound of your voice. His eyes were wide, nostrils flared, blood dripping down between the ridges of his knuckles, staining the already faded carpet crimson beneath his boots.

He looked crazy.

“Where in the fuck have you been? Do you know how fuckin’ worried I’ve been all goddamn day?! Huh, sweet girl? Do you have any idea—”

“You’re bleeding, sweet boy.” You mumble softly. You had hoped that you could advert his attention, but he was already stalking towards you, something indescribable flashes in his eyes when you call him, ‘sweet boy.’

“Yeah, baby.” He huffs out a raspy laugh. “I’ve got splinters in my knuckles bangin’ on your door. Tore ‘em all up.”

He’s so close now that you can taste his breath and see that flicker of fear in his eyes. His hands encaged around your face. Soft, wet from the blood, but gentle.

Droplets of blood trail down your neck and down the clavicle between your covered breasts. You shouldn’t be turned on—but that cunt of yours has a mind of her own, sometimes.

“Joel, you didn’t have to show up here like a crazy man and nearly go and break down my door.”

He glares, bloodstained thumb swiping across your lower lip. “Don’t tell me what I did and didn’t have to do, Angel. Haven’t seen you all day. Thought you were fuckin’ dead or somethin.’”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dead. I’m right here. Why the hell did you even care in the first place, huh? Can’t even go one day without losing your cool?” It’s your turn to challenge him now. You place your palms flat on his chest, giving him a firm shove.

He glared, eyes narrowing into slits. His head cocked to the side in a condescending manner. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He dropped his hands from your face only to then encage your wrists above your head. He used his sheer mass to press your back directly against the hallway wall. He loomed over you to appear more menacing, like a predator going in for the kill. “Who said anythin’ about me caring, huh? Is that why you think I’m here, Angel? Cus’ I care?” He questioned, pushing you further into the wall. His chest was pressed right against yours, leaving you no room to escape, let alone breathe.

“Why would I give a damn where my whore on stilts wandered off to? Y’think you mean anythin’ to me other than a hole to fuck? Don’t be so naive.” He scoffed.

“You have got to be the worst fuckin’ liar, Joel. Right. You don’t care. You just happened to track down where I live, proceeded to bust down my door, just because I’m a hole for you to fuck? Right. Keep on telling yourself that, buddy boy. Keep livin’ in your delusions. See how far that gets ya.” You held in your laugh from slipping past. Could he not see that you were exhausted? You had been beaten down enough as it was, you didn’t need Joel fucking Miller pushing you down further.

“That’s it? That’s all y’can say to me? No bite back? No fuck you Joel? What the hell happened to you, huh?” He pressed further, tightening his hold around your wrists. “What happened after you left my place last night, Angel?” His tone was much softer now, gentle, laced with concern.

You couldn’t keep up with his mood swings if you tried. Joel Miller was one hot and cold man.

“No. We are not about to do this again. Not when in one breath you’re a complete asshole, and the next?!” You laughed bitterly. “Joel, I’m fuckin’ exhausted, okay? I had a shit night, and I just want to go and have a stiff drink. If you want to join, then be my guest, but I won’t take another minute of your bitching. Y’got that?”

Joel found himself studying your face. He thought that maybe he could read between the lines and figure out exactly why you were so exhausted, but you weren’t budging, not even for him. What was that bit about him fucking hating the fear of the unknown? Oh, yeah.

“Angel, look..I’m—”

“Oh, fuck no. You are not about to apologize for that. No. You meant every word, Joel. You don’t get to take that back.” You shook your head in disappointment, breaking your wrists free from his gradually loosening grip before you pulled away entirely.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

You didn’t even wait to see if he would follow you, you could care less if he did, or didn’t. With your keys in hand you unlocked your door, muttering about how it probably wouldn’t lock properly anymore from the damage Joel inflicted on it.

Joel’s fingers twitched at his side. He was silently debating his options. It was pointly obvious that something had happened to you, but he had no right to pry. His footsteps followed yours like a shadow.

“You should probably get your knuckles patched up.” You muttered under your breath while carelessly tossing your keys onto the kitchen counter.

“They’ll be alright. Nothin’ I can’t handle.” He replied smoothly and shoved his hands into the deep caverns of the pockets on the front of his worn jeans.

“I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.” You stated plainly. Your back was facing him behind the counter while you grabbed your stashed bottle of whiskey, and two glasses.

He was observing you with a careful eye when you turned around to face him. “Are you offering to patch up my self-inflicted wounds, baby?” He asked in a crackling rasp, like logs on a fire.

“Sure. If that’s how you want to phrase it.” You shrugged before popping the cap off the bottle with your teeth. You poured a generous splash of the amber colored liquor into both glasses. You opted to take a quick swig from the bottle, needing that little bit of relief to kick in sooner, rather than later.

“Why?” He questioned. He reached for the glass, guiding it towards him before he snatched it up in his hand. He took a hefty sip, letting the warmth from the liquor spread through his system like a warm hug.

“Are you really that fuckin’ stupid, Joel?” You wanted to laugh, but it came out more like a strained scoff if anything.

“‘Fraid so, my Angel.” He smirked over the rim of the cloudy glass.

“Guess the apocalypse shrunk men’s already pea sized brains even more.” You muttered with a shake of your head before downing the liquor from your glass in one swift gulp. Your hand wrapped around his thick wrist, and before he could protest, you were dragging him to your bathroom.

“Sit” you commanded with a gesture to the closed toilet seat.

“Look, you really don’t have to do all this, it’s justa—”

You interjected swiftly, giving him a stern glare before grabbing the first aid kit from behind the cabinet door that was barely holding on by the hinges. “Okay, so then leave, Joel.”

His brows furrowed at your response, and his lips pursed tightly. He ultimately decided to plop down on the toilet seat with a huff. “Are you going to tell me where the hell you’ve been all day? Or are you just gonna keep avoidin’ my question?”

“If you’re good, then I’ll tell you. Cause frankly, right now? I’m sick of your shit, Joel. But somehow, some way, my cold cold heart has a shred of kindness left for you.”

He scoffed, resting his head back against the peeling wallpaper. “You’re sick of my shit?”

“Yes. Because you’re a fuckin’ asshole, Joel. How many times am I going to repeat myself? Normal people don’t stalk someone, attempt to break down their door, and then demand to know where they’ve been all day!”

“Oh boy, we’re still on that topic?” He placed his bloodstained hands on his knees and shook his head before he sat back. “So, what would you rather me have done, hmm? Sweetheart, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he gestured with his hands, “it wasn’t like I could fuckin’ call you up! Do you see a phone in sight anywhere? No? Wow, I wonder why! It’s almost like we’re in a fuckin’ apocalypse!” He said with sarcasm dripping with every breath.

And then you threw Joel Miller for a loop when you whipped out a fucking spray bottle and sprayed his snarky ass right in the face!

It didn’t even matter where the hell you found the damn spray bottle in the first place, it was the fact that you had the balls to spray him in the face, not once, but twice when he went to open his mouth. You swore you could see the steam rising from the water droplets on his skin. Like he was an animated bull from those old animated movies. Nostrils flaring red hot flames, smoke billowing from his ears. The tea kettle had reached its boiling point.

On the opposite end of the spray bottle, you saw that very bull with steam spewing. He was flabbergasted, bewildered at your rash decision. “Did you just fuckin’ spray me like I’m a goddamn cat or somethin?!’” His voice boomed like an overhead crack of thunder unleashing its rage in a crescendo.

“I did.”

“And why the hell did you think that you could jus—go’n spray me in the face like that?!”

“You say an awful lot of stupid and hurtful shit to me, Joel Miller. You hurt my feelings, pissed me off, and I’ve just about had it. So, everytime you open that big fuckin’ mouth of yours and say somethin’ mean and stupid, I’m gonna spray you in the face with this.” You waved the spray bottle around for a moment to get your point across.

Displeased, drenched like a damn cat, Joel sent daggers your way with one harsh glare. “Oh, I didn’t realize we were throwin’ a fuckin’ pity party ontop of all of this.” He scoffed.

“Did you not—” you laughed incredulously, “hear a goddamn word I just said? Fine. Well, let me remind you what happens when you’re fuckin’ stupid!” You sprayed him again.

This time he shut up..for now.

“Refreshing.” He mumbled very much like a dog with its tail between its legs.

You set the spray bottle down along the edge of the counter where it was in arm's reach, before you sank down between his spread knees with the first aid kit tucked under your armpit. “Let me see just what kinda damage you’ve done to your beautiful hands, Joel.” Your voice was much softer now compared to moments earlier. At least now you had him tamed and compliant.

“I didn’t break ‘em. Although, if you hadn’t shown up, I probably would have. And they ain’t beautiful, Angel. They’re ugly.” He gruffed out.

“They’re beautiful to me, Joel.” You reached for his hands once they were presented in front of you. The blood had already begun to congeal and dry in some places. “Yeah, you definitely have some splinters in there that are gonna have to come out.”

“Fuck no. Just leave ‘em.” He shook his head.

For the first time in over 24 hours, you smiled. It was really just a slight tug of your lips, but it was there. “Are you afraid of tweezers or somethin?’” You mused.

He scowled at your question and picked a spot on the wall to stare at so he didn’t have to make eye contact. “No.” He grumbled, jaw ticking under the dangling bathroom light.

“You sure about that?” You asked while placing the first aid kit alongside you on the floor. You popped it open, rifling through the different aids before pulling out disinfectant spray and tweezers.

“Crystal.” He confirmed.

“Ookay.” You did your best to hide your little grin while you held the disinfectant spray a few inches above his hands. “This might sting a little.” You softly warned him.

He barely flinched when he felt the sudden coolness from the spray adhering to his open wounds. His nose did twitch the slightest when the stinging sensation settled in.

“You’re being an excellent patient for me, Mr. Miller. Maybe if you’re a good boy for the next part, I’ll reward you with a lollipop.”

He finally looked at you, tearing his gaze from the wallpaper to meet your eyes. His lips curved upwards into a small smirk. “Sounds wonderful, Doctor. Do you promise to be gentle?” He played along.

“Always, Joel.” You replied.

His eyes stayed locked on your own for what felt like hours, neither of you quite ready to break the contact just yet. He cleared his throat, shifting along the closed toilet seat. “Uh, will..you hold my hand? I lied about the tweezer thing. Splinters hurt like a bitch, and uh—yeah.” He muttered under his breath while the heat began to rise rapidly to his cheeks. Even the tips of his ears turned beet red.

“If it’ll make you feel more comfortable, Joel.” You nodded reassuringly. Your left hand reached for his own when he had pulled back slightly in a jerking movement. You could sense his palpable hesitation radiating off of him before he finally relaxed.

“This is stupid.” He said suddenly, feeling more bashful as the seconds ticked by.

“It’s not stupid at all, Joel. Splinters are no fun at all.”

I mean, This. Me and you. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be blushing like a schoolgirl right now. And over what? Holding hands? He thought to himself.

He’s kinda sweet..in his own Joel way. You thought silently to yourself.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Sweet. Sweet. Sweet.

“Get on with it, please.” He nearly whispered when his left hand finally reached towards your own. He was the one to thread his fingers through yours and let your entwined hands rest along his left thigh comfortably.

It took all of twenty minutes for you to successfully remove every splinter from his hands. Some fragmented pieces of wood were a bit deeper than others. He was a real champ, and you surprised him with a kiss. A soft reward that he felt he was undeserving of.

“I think you should let them breathe a bit longer and then we’ll bandage up.” You said while moving to stand back up. Your left hand was still engulfed in his own when he stopped you from standing up.

“Aren’t you gonna kiss them all better, doctor?” He asked with a tilt of his head. He looked like a puppy with his tousled, wild hair, and big brown eyes staring at you.

You found your lips kissing his broken skin before you even had a chance to respond. A kiss was pressed to each knuckle in an affectionate manner.

He broke the silence when your hand departed from his and you busied yourself with putting away the first aid kit.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to you out there, or are we gonna keep dancin’ around the subject?” He asked rather softly. Almost as if he was concerned.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Joel.”

Please don’t ask me again.

“Angel..”

“Let’s go finish our drinks.” You interjected with a hidden fake smile.

His eyes follow your silhouette when you swiftly remove yourself from the small bathroom. He shakes his head with a sigh before he finally stands up. He eyes the spray bottle still resting along the bathroom counter, and in an extremely cat-like fashion, he swiftly knocks it over into the trash bin below.

Good riddance.

When Joel left your bathroom, he soon found you with your feet tucked under your thighs on the far end of the couch. You appeared to be staring off into space while you nursed your glass of whiskey in silence. He really wasn’t quite sure what to think of your behavior, let alone how he should approach you.

Nonetheless he grabbed his own glass and joined you on the couch. Your eyes stayed focused on the wall even when you felt the old cushions dip down from Joel’s weight pressing down on them gradually.

He swirled the contents around in his glass absentmindedly before he took a small sip. You could feel his eyes along the side of your head when he moved the glass to rest between his knees.

“I really wish you would jus’..talk to me, sweetheart.” He rasped softly while he twiddled with his fingers that weren’t wrapped around the glass. He was never really good at having these types of conversations, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try one last time.

You shifted uncomfortably from his words. You didn’t want to tell him what happened to you in that disgusting alley. Or the way that Benji’s touch made you feel nauseous. You didn’t want to tell Joel that you were made to feel like literal human trash. Pond scum, gum beneath men’s shoes. You didn’t want to confess that you spent a night in lockup, crying against the cold concrete till your body could no longer produce tears while Benji, and a few of his FEDRA friends proceeded to violate you further, stripping you of your autonomy and dignity with grime stained fingernails, and cruel laughter. Nothin’ but a common street whore, that one. Make her gag on it. I wanna see tears streaming down those pretty fuckin’ cheeks, boys. Miller ain’t here to save you now, Angel. You belong to us.

You didn’t want Joel to believe that you were this broken, damaged person. You didn’t want him to take pity on you. That was quite literally the last thing you wanted from him. But, you were only human, after all, and pain had a sneaky way of revealing itself even when you had done everything possible to cloak it.

He watched as you drained the contents of your glass wordlessly before you slipped down from the couch, falling to your knees between his thighs.

She loves it, don’t be fooled boys. She loves to be fucked like a dirty little whore. Ain’t that right, Angel? Joel Miller got her all obedient, just for us. She’ll do anythin’ you ask of her.

“Angel.” He started, words lodging in his throat. Something about this felt wrong.

You ignored him, reaching for his belt with trembling fingers as you worked it open.

Cus’ a whore is all you’ll ever be, sweetheart. The best pussy in all of the fuckin’ QZ. Bet he’ll smell me all over ya, Angel. I hope he does. I hope that guard dog can fuckin’ taste my come inside of ya next time he takes you.

Joel finds himself frozen in time when he sees the way your fingers tremble. He’s stunned and unsure what he should do in this situation. He’s never seen you like this before. He’s used to your brashness. Your confidence. Your swift, snarky, sarcastic remarks. The woman on her knees between his thighs is not you. He knows then that he has to stop this. He has to say something.

“Angel, baby. I don’t think we—” he struggles to find the right words to say. To be delicate, but firm. This had nothing to do with his own feelings, and had everything to do with yours. “This doesn’t feel right, sweetheart.”

Your heart sinks to the pits. He knows. He fucking knows. He knows, and thinks you to be worthless, just like the rest of them.

You sink back along your thighs, tears pooling in your eyes. “You don’t..want me anymore, Joel?” You ask above a whisper, holding on by a mangled thread.

He shakes his head slowly, his heart breaking in the process.

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[fictionalreads]

Do You Feel The Way My Past Aches? Part 1

A/N: Hey y'all! I know I said I would have this out a while ago but....clearly that didn't happen. NOT FOR LACK OF TRYING THOUGH! This just didn't want to be written. Not gonna lie it's pretty heavy on info dumping but when I tried to take some of it out, it didn't flow right. So this is just a little intro to set up the story, give you some background. Hope you guys like it!

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Armando Aretas x Original Female Character

Fandom: Bad Boys Movies

Summary: Armando Aretas was 13 when he found out a life altering family secret. His discovery led him down a different path than he expected, changing the course of his life. Now a famous boxer, he searches for the truth that was hidden from him, the family he was denied.

Armando was thirteen when he found out the man who had been raising him wasn’t his father. Benitos Aretas, his mother’s husband, was lying in a hospital bed. Machines hooked up to him at various points of his body. His mother was in the cafeteria grabbing a small bite to eat after being in this hospital room all day as they had been for the past week.

Armando himself was sitting in a corner, working on his homework when the man spoke to him. “Armando, come here.” Armando, not wanting to invoke the man’s temper, stood immediately and sat in the chair next to the bed that his mother had occupied all week. He was unsure what the man could possibly want from him. He had done his best to stay out of the way and anything he wanted, he would get from the nurses and not Armando.

“I won’t be here much longer and I think it’s time you knew the truth.” This piqued his interest, turning his faux interest into genuine curiosity. As far as he knew, his parents had been forthcoming with him his entire life. “I’m not your father. I can’t have kids. Your mother thinks I’m stupid enough to believe her nonsense about it being a miracle from the gods but I know she whored herself out to her not so secret lover.”

Normally Armando would lash out against the man’s name calling, but his mind was reeling. He couldn’t say the feeling coursing through him was surprise. It was closer to relief and understanding. Understanding of why the man he had believed to be his father had always been so hard on him and disapproving of everything he’d done. He had been raising his wife’s kid she had with her lover. Relief because it meant he wasn’t necessarily doomed to have a father that hated him, he could have one that actually liked him.

And didn’t that make him feel guilty when the man who fed and clothed him, kept him safe and made sure he was taken care of, died not even eight hours later.

After that, he’d hinted at the fact that he knew Aretas wasn’t his father only once around his mother. She’d pretended not to hear him, but he’d seen the way her shoulders tensed. It was clear she wouldn’t tell him anything about his real father, she’d probably take the secret to her grave. He had taken his frustration to a local gym, pounding his anger out on a punching bag. It was there that a boxing coach took notice of him.

Alejandro “Jandro” Martinez was the owner of Pinchazo, a recreational boxing gym. Jandro had been a low-level runner for the cartel but his family connections to it had led to him knowing more than someone in his position should know. Which meant when he was picked up for a drug charge at nineteen and some overzealous cop trying to make a name for himself tried to make him give up information, he had to keep his mouth shut or end up dead. His loyalty to the cartel cost him ten years of his life but it earned him respect, respect he used to decline the cartel’s offer of a higher position and instead ask a favor. After spending time in lockup he decided he was done with that life and wanted to give others the chance to stay away from it. So he opened his gym and in exchange for turning a blind eye when certain people needed to use it after hours, any kid that associated with his gym was left alone.

It’s for that reason he was concerned when he saw Armando Aretas walk in his gym for the first time.

Aretas was the son of a man who had a sizable drug empire that would no doubt be passed on to him when he was ready now that the man had died. For a week, he simply watched to see what the boy was doing in his gym. He had a sloppy form but he held potential, his hits fueled by anger. What caught his attention though, was the lack of recruiting. He had assumed the boy would be trying to get new faces to join his operations, but he only ever punched a bag and left, never talking to anyone.

After that initial week, Jandro was too curious to let it go on. He approached him, “Your back foot needs to be raised.”

“What?”

“Your back foot. Raise it to be on your toes. It should twist as you throw the punch.”

The boy followed the advice and noticed the difference in his punch. “Thanks.”

“Why are you here?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have to know this gym is off limits to the cartel. Your old man was the first one to agree to my terms. So why are you here?”

“I am not my father’s son.” Jandro didn’t know just how true that statement was at the time but he could feel the genuine hatred rolling off the boy in waves.

He took a chance and coached the boy whenever he came in. Initially it was just to help him with his form, maybe redirect some of that anger, but as they worked Jandro saw the raw talent Armando held. He offered him a set training time, real coaching and local fights in the boxing world with the agreement that he’d stay away from his family business and never bring it to the gym.

Armando was intrigued by the possibilities. When he first went into the gym he’d just been trying to blow off some steam, but when Jandro started giving him pointers and spending time working with him he began to really love the sport. He spent all his free time either in the gym or studying old matches to improve his own technique. He had never imagined it could lead to this and he quickly agreed to Jandro’s terms.

His mother wasn’t so enthusiastic.

She told him he wasn’t allowed to continue and needed to focus on getting ready to take over his father’s empire. She wanted him to start listening in on meetings and understanding their business. When he pointed out Benito Aretas hadn’t actually been his father and therefore he had no empire to take over, she quietly fumed. He clearly knew the truth and denying it would only make her look foolish, something she vowed to never allow again. Acknowledging the truth wasn’t an option either as she would then open herself to questions from him about his biological father.

So she said nothing and he continued training with Jandro.

She never stopped him from going to the gym, knowing it would only push him further away, but she never supported it either. She never came to any of his matches, never celebrated his wins, not even when he got a sponsorship from a local brewery the day he turned 18. Maybe she figured he would grow out of it or that he’d eventually turn to the family business but unfortunately for her, his love for the sport only grew and soon he was making waves in the sport. 

Which led him to where he is now.

At twenty-six years old he was a big name in the boxing world, making enough money to live comfortably and then some. It was a point of pride for him as his mother had made it clear he would not be living off her money if he continued to refuse the work she did. When he first started making money from his matches, he started saving as much as he could. It wasn’t much and he’d had to live on Jandro’s couch for about a year, but he’d made it through. He had turned his back on his mother’s drug regime a long time ago and he’d refused to go crawling back to her.

Jandro’s hand on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts. “Estas listo para esto?”

Armando nodded, feigning more confidence than he felt. He grabbed his bag from the jet they had flown on and began to make his way to the front to deboard when Jandro grabbed his arm again. 

“Oye, pase lo que pase, siempre estaré de tu lado.” Jandro said the words clearly, making sure to maintain eye contact.

If there was one thing Armando was sure of, it was that Jandro would be there for him. The man had been acting as his father figure practically since they met. He supported his dreams, pushed him to reach them, held him when it got to be too much and celebrated his wins with him. He’d taken care of him when his mother was too angry at his refusal to join the drug game. He trusted the man more than anyone else in his life, and he knew if things went sideways, he would still have Jandro there.

And everything crashing around him was a definite possibility because after years of searching, he’d found his biological father. 

At least he hoped. There were no official records, only hearsay he had managed to piece together once he’d found his mother’s biological family, which had been another thing she’d lied about. She’d told him she was an orphan with no family left when she met Benitos Aretas, but the truth was that she left her family because they weren’t interested in a life of crime. He had three aunts that welcomed him into their fold with zero hesitation. When he mentioned wanting to find his biological father, they told him stories of a man his mother had been involved with at the same time that Aretas was courting her. They didn’t know much, just that he was American, black and handsome. For a while they thought he might convince her to leave Aretas, but one day he’d disappeared and she refused to speak about him anymore. Next thing they knew she was married and no longer speaking to them.

His Tia Arianna had found a picture of his parents together and had given it to him. He made a couple copies of the picture and used them to try and track the man down. It hadn’t been easy but he’d finally gotten a name. Mike Lowery, a decorated detective from Miami. It didn’t match with the name his tias had given him, but he couldn’t deny the file he’d been given by a private investigator. It was definitely him. He had a feeling he knew what the name difference was about but he’d wait to get the story from the man himself. His first order of business was to find the man and find out if he knew about him or not.

Armando took a deep breath to calm the million thoughts and scenarios racing through his mind. “I know,” he finally responded to Jandro. He put his shades on, grabbed his bag and made his way off the plane. “Hagámoslo.”

A/N: What do we think? I love hearing your feedback on my stories. Drop a comment, like or reblog💙 If you wanna be tagged just let me know.

Translations:

Estas listo para esto- You ready for this?

Oye, pase lo que pase, siempre estaré de tu lado. - Hey, no matter what I’m always in your corner.

Hagámoslo - Let’s do it

Taglist: @yeahnohoneybye @d4rno @nelo0wesker @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @bootlegroach

[cchapsticck]

dick & jane & the witness protection program cw: impending character death, medical trauma

It’s. Weird. To hear Steve talk about Eddie Munson like he’s dead. Or like he didn’t know him. It’s not untrue, really. Eddie died. Eddie and Steve weren’t friends. But, it’s weird, because it’s not true either. 

Robert Jones was born in DeWitt, Michigan in 1965. He is 40 years old. His dad went MIA in Vietnam about 4 months before he was born, and he was put up for adoption about 4 months after he got dropped out the chute. Birth records sealed. Had a couple foster families, troubled youth and all, had a hard time settling down. Eventually got emancipated, fucked around on his own for a while. In 1986 he got rear ended on his motorcycle at 50 miles per hour and skid across open freeway for 900 yards. Has skin grafts over about 40% of his body. He likes heavy metal and shitty horror movies and greasy diner food and tourist traps. He did a mandatory minimum in State prison for some drug charges when he was 24. Got his GED in lockup. Worked a lot of minimum wage whatever jobs, wherever, for a while. Got his CNA cert in 1998, after Steve’s third seizure, the one that had shit coming out of one of his ears. Steve got hit on the head a lot - before he knew him - hard. Needed a live-in caretaker after a point but didn’t want a stranger touching his shit. Steve’s so fucking weird. It's only partially the brain damage, honestly. 

He’s been fucking Steve Harrington since the mid 90s. Which is probably against some code of ethics but, whatever  - since before Steve’s divorce in ’96. And then louder after. He met Steve- ah fuck. This is the hard part. The wheels kind of fall off at this part. Because you don’t start fucking your caretaker right off the bat, and what are the odds some guy you picked up at a bar also is like, qualified to administer palliative care? There’s no solid explanation for this part, they usually avoid it. It's usually easy to avoid. He met Steve in high school. Steve’s high school. In Indiana, where Robert Jones has never lived, nor grew up. But Eddie Munson did. But Eddie Munson is dead, but in Indiana in 1986, Robert Jones was built out of his bones.  

Weird’s not the right word. Karmic? Cruel, maybe? Who knows. Weird’s not right, though. 

Most people they know that still want to be found have amputated That part of their lives from the rest of them, but Steve hasn’t. For some reason. It's not hospice, they’re not calling it hospice. But it's hospice. Steve’s got a couple hematomas and some bruising on his white matter that’ll probably get him in his sleep one of these days, but in the meantime sometimes Steve gets confused, loses time, gets frustrated and lashes out, sleeps too long, doesn’t sleep at all - and he just. Talks about Hawkins to anyone who wants to ask. He never tells the whole truth, doesn’t offer anything he’s not asked about, meets anyone at any story they bring to him and fits in the parts of the truth into the half assembled jigsaw puzzle presented to him.

Some people get way closer to the truth than they have any right to. But most don’t.

Most of them don’t even ask about Eddie Munson. Of all the shit that happened in Hawkins that’s public knowledge (and even out all of the shit that's conspiratorial knowledge) and the kind of people who seek Steve out, a circumstantial, long cold, multiple murder case that happened seconds before some once in a lifetime insanity hardly blips the radar. But Eddie still comes up sometimes with Steve's would-be truth-tellers and investigators. Steve’s gotten real good at not looking at him when people talk about Eddie over the years. Used to be a bit of a struggle, like he was going to appeal to Bobby about his or their guest's opinions about Eddie, or like, apologize for what he was about to say, but he doesn’t anymore. Eddie’s dead, after all. Eddie’s dead and probably killed 3 people and Eddie and Steve weren’t friends, back in high school. Bobby doesn’t talk about any of it, because Bobby wasn’t there. Bobby doesn’t really know what Steve’s talking about beyond whatever he’s talked about before to other people asking the same sorts of questions.

Steve’s gotten really good at killing Eddie Munson.

Bobby Jones isn’t as good at it, weirdly. Bobby Jones never knew Eddie Munson. Robert Jones barely knows who Eddie Munson even is, beyond whatever anecdotal shit that gets brought into Steve’s house by strangers. But he wants to protect him from. Something. At the risk of sounding, like, all folksy wisdom about some bullshit that will literally happen to no one else ever again; the thing no one tells you about dying and then going on living anyway is that you don’t get to control what happens to the dead. 

There are all kinds of stories about Eddie. Sure, there are people who come in sympathetic and skeptical to the legal narrative surrounding one Edward Anthony Munson. How satanic panic was alive and well in the evangelical Rust Belt and it was all too easy to paint some kid with an abrasive taste in music as the literal anti-Christ, in a town where the US Government had already taken responsibility for loss of life in suburban homes under equally circumstantial circumstances. Stories about how it seems all too easy to pin the Fed’s known and established crimes on some nobody kid on food stamps that lived in a trailer park, because that means something specific to the middlest of Americans, and to look to Eddie for justice is to just let the government keep getting away with what they do to normal people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those stories, at least, are easy to hear. They’re like the stories Bobby wants to believe about Eddie, when Steve's having them told to him. 

But there are other stories about how Eddie was a killer, a real wannabe cult leader and sex pervert. How he wanted to be everything everyone said about him and what he did, how he planned it, how he sought it out. How he fucking loved it. Stories about how Eddie idolized men like Richard Ramirez and Jeffrey Dahmer, how he wanted to do it better. Do it worse. There are stories about him from people who elevate him as the champion of the freaks, the patron saint of the willingly disturbed, the martyr of the unfucked and sexless and staking a claim over the space their rotten brains think they deserve in the world. And there’s people who condemn him for it, and there are people who celebrate him for it and he doesn’t know which one is worse.  

And all of these kinds of people come to Steve’s house and talk to him about it. All come to Steve’s house and talk about whatever version of Eddie Munson they like or despise best. All of these kinds of people creep out of the woodwork in places on the internet that he somehow manages to find because Eddie Munson is a scab Robert Jones won’t stop picking, and the open wound of him never heals right. 

And he’s thought about leaving. God he’s thought about leaving so often. Just pack his shit and dip because Steve’s got to excise his demons while he’s still got the time to do it and Eddie Munson just so happens to be one of them. Get out of the only place Eddie Munson is invoked and summoned, wouldn’t have to keep doing this. Keep having to hear Steve lie by omission and agree by omission about who Eddie was and what he did and just let it lie. He could just leave and never have to think or hear about Eddie Munson, someone he. does. not. know. ever again in his life. 

Because they don’t talk about Eddie. Not ever. Not anymore. They used to. It used to be a bit of a joke, like haha aren’t these stories wild what a load of shit? Like, it used to be kind of fun. Then it wasn’t. Because if they’re talking about Bobby like he’s Eddie like, like they all know the secret and the secret is a joke, where do they keep the line? Where does Robert get to make the clean break like he’s supposed to have? Bobby got to make himself from the ground up, got to make a whole man out of nothing at all, got the redo of ultimate fucking redos - he could be anything and the only thing that would be true is that Robert Jones has never heard of Eddie Munson in his life, not be a peripheral accessory of what are, surely, the most regularly occuring conversations that still happen about him. Like Robert Jones is not, under any circumstance, doing this like he’s supposed to. He can’t even laugh about Eddie anymore because it just hurts him now, to think about Eddie, so he thinks about leaving. Just fucking running. 

Eddie’s realest legacy, really. Running. 

But if that hard line between Eddie and Bobby has been structurally unsound from the start, then Bobby gets to know from Eddie what running does. He gets to know what the fallout looks like in the rear view. And fuck him to death if Steve hasn’t run once, if Steve isn’t the very picture and example of what Not Running looks like, and how hard it is to not run. Steve’s never run, Steve’s not running now and it’s going to kill him. It is going to kill him. It has killed him. And Steve’s not guilting him, never guilted him into staying. If he left, Steve would let him go but Christ on the cross isn’t it a dick fucking move to just leave the man who loves you, who’s suffering, who’s continuing to suffer for- not just saving not-you but a lot of other people too- who just keeps suffering after it could be all over like-

So it’s not a punishment to stay. But it is a little bit of a punishment to not leave. 

[hd-junglebook]

Edge of Exile

part 1

Following episode 9 Unity Day of the 100

You were escorted from your cell. The guard fixing you with a stern look as you both walk the all-too-familiar route away from maximum security.

"Don't cause any more trouble," he warns. you simply nod, too overwhelmed with anticipation to respond.

You were led through the halls to Mecha Station. The guard ushering you toward a small but cozy room. "Home sweet home," he says gruffly before departing.

You step inside the new room, making faces at his back as he walks away. This room was so different from your drafty, sterile cell in Prison Station. This space feels lived in. The desk was the same, your photos and colorful blankets placed neatly inside the room already.

The medium sized window that adorned one of the walls adding some natural scenery, just missing your drawings and paintings, each one a reflection of your innermost thoughts and emotions.

…

Your first week of freedom went better than you would have imagined.

At first, you were skeptical of his offer. Everyone knew how Jaha led - with an iron fist. You had witnessed his disregard for human life firsthand when he floated most of your friends. But his deal was your only chance to get out of that cell.

The work itself felt good. Kept your hands and mind busy, and finally able to use the skills that had been useless in your cell. The engineers even valued your input, unlike the guards who had tossed you in confinement.

These full, simple days of freedom were all anyone could wish for after surviving isolation. Every morning you reminded yourself to be thankful for this second chance, even if you didn't fully trust the man who had granted it.

Kane had only visited twice your release. Your stubbornness kept you from speaking, a trait you most definitely adopted from being around him so long. But no matter how much you tried pretending he didn’t exist anymore, he had always tried to be by your side.

You found it so hard to hate him. Even now when you think about it. They had placed you in indefinite lockup instead of death, if it were anyone else you would have been floated with the rest.

….

A soft knock sounded from your door, vibrating through the thin walls, waking you from your deep sleep. Bleary-eyed, you approached the door to find your grandmother standing there in the dimly lit corridor.

"Vera? What are you doing here so late?” you state, head lolling to the side.

She stepped inside, a small smile appearing on her lips. "I'm sorry to wake you, y/n. I couldn’t sleep but there’s something I wanted to ask you."

A look of confusion spreads across your face as you extend your hand, gesturing for her to sit at the small table as you shook off sleep. "What is it?"

"It's about your uncle, Kane."

You sighed, "What about him?" your voice came out harsher than intended as you crossed your arms, unwilling to yield. "You don't know what he put me through."

"You're right, I don't," she conceded softly. "But I know you. And I know holding onto bitterness will destroy the bright, brave girl I love."

“I won’t be alive for long. He's still family. His burden is heavy too. Will you at least try, for your old Grandma's sake?”

You let out a long breath, feeling your heart crack open despite yourself. You nodded reluctantly. Where Kane and you would end up, only time would tell.

Sadness filled her eyes. "Resentment will only poison your spirit, child. What's done is done. But you still have a choice - let go of the anger, or let it define you."

…

It was Unity Day, and the entire Ark was celebrating, minus you and the few engineers working to get the last three stations fixed up.

You had gotten to work the moment you woke up, Vera’s words still circling your mind. Sinclair had been first to join you, meeting in the remnants of flint station, helping you figure out the repairs for the damage.

Together, you both had spent hours poring over the manual, checking, and rechecking each step to make sure everything was done correctly.

Both of you taking turns going on breaks and grabbing snacks you had stolen from the eating hall, but for the most part, you were both fully focused on the task at hand.

The temperature in the room rose as well, making your work even more challenging. The air conditioning had been broken for weeks in flint station as if the mounting pressure of work wasn't enough.

You and Sinclair had pushed through it, determined to see this done.

The heat was stifling as you both crawled through the tight utility space, searching for the wiring short that was causing power fluctuations in Mecha Station. Rivulets of sweat dripped down your back.

"Phew, it's boiling in here," you complained, pushing past another bundle of wires. "Couldn't they have put in some AC?"

Sinclair chuckled. "Unfortunately for you y/n, the Ark wasn't built with comfort in mind. But don't worry, we're almost there."

You grumbled good-naturedly as he shuffled forward. your toolkit banging against the metal walls, the sound echoing in the tight space.

"Watch out for that junction box," Sinclair warned over his shoulder. You looked to the side and saw the hazard just in time and pivoted awkwardly around it.

"Thanks for the heads up. Wouldn't want to get zapped in here."

You reached the problem spot - a bundle of fraying wires with melted insulation. Sinclair gave a satisfied nod. "Just needs some fresh wraps and it'll be good as new."

As you both worked, Sinclair made quiet small talk, telling stories about past repairs and close calls he had with a coworker of his, Raven Reyes.

His calm expertise putting you at ease.

After another 30 minutes, all your hard, sweaty work paid off as you finally heard the hum of the machines coming back to life.

Packing up the tools, Sinclair nervously smiled at you. "You did great work today. With some more training, you'll make an excellent mechanic."

Pride swelled in your chest at the praise as you fanned yourself off from the heat. "Does this mean I get to do the fun zero-G jobs next?" you said jokingly.

He laughed heartily. "Maybe not just yet. But you've got a bright future ahead. Now let's get out of this sauna."

Grinning, you followed him out, grateful for his patience. Both of you let out a sigh of relief as you collapsed into a chair, exhausted, still drenched in sweat, sharing a fist bump before you stood and headed to the hallway to catch your breath, the sound of music and chatter filled the air.

The hallways decorated in banners and streamers recycled from the previous Unity Day adorned the walls.

Your thoughts were interrupted as you remembered that you needed to find Kane and your grandma before getting back to work.

"fuck," you whispered to yourself, speed walking down the hall.

you turned a corner, eyes on the floor glancing at the confetti when you were jolted out of your thoughts as a blonde lady bumped into you, causing you to stumble backwards.

"Oof!" you gasped.

Quickly regaining your balance as you looked up to see who had collided with you. It was Diana Sydney.

Diana looked at you with a mix of surprise and annoyance, her mouth pinched into a thin line before quickly brushing past you and disappearing down the hall.

"Excuse me!" You called after her, irritation flaring. "You just ran right into me!"

She paused and half-turned, eyes scanning right through you with her dark eyes. "Did I?" she murmured dreamily before whisking away again.

You stood there rubbing your left shoulder where she had hit you, stunned by her complete lack of courtesy. "Unbelievable," you muttered under your breath.

You couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about her reaction.

You had never met her before, but you had heard all the stories from your uncle about their shared time on the council.

You quickly made your way through the rest of the halls, passing by Jaha speaking to the citizens on the Ark and the delinquents on the ground through a broadcast.

His voice was firm as he spoke, pausing every so often to look at the faces in the crowd, stating that the ark would be sending down reinforcements within the next 3 days.

Just when you were about to give up your search, you spotted both Kane and your grandma off to the side of the room in the middle of a conversation.

Kane brushing off his mother’s request, about to walk away leaving Vera to stand alone to watch the unity speech.

Your heart ached at the sight, you couldn't understand why Kane would leave her like that.

You walked faster, almost in front of them when all of a sudden your thoughts were drowned out by a deafening boom as an enormous explosion rocked the station.

Your body lifted off the ground, a flying piece of metal stabbing your leg as you crashed to the floor. You felt a jolt of pain as your head smacked onto the surface, and everything went black.

...

When you came to, a groan escaped your lips, your whole body aching in pain from the fall. You look around to find yourself lying on the cold, hard surface of the floor. The footsteps vibrating on your face and muffled voices nearby.

You tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through your head and you fell back down. Adrenaline coursed through your veins as you struggled to move, your ears ringing and your vision blurry.

The feeling of wetness pooled on your thigh, a gasp escaping your lips when you looked down to examine your leg.

A gash stretched across the area above your knee. Your nose wrinkling in disgust at the sight of your thigh jaggedly cut open.

With trembling hands you ripped off your sleeves to tie around your leg. Pain shot through your body in ripples the tighter you made the knot.

Shouts and screams all around you, the smell of smoke and burning filling your nostrils, panic set in as you frantically looked around, trying to make sense of your surroundings.

It took a second for you to even understand how you ended up in this situation, how did this happen.

The chaos around you seemed to intensify as you looked around, noticing the number of people panicking, some of them injured and bleeding. The ground was littered with debris and shattered glass, and the walls were crumbling from the force of the explosion.

You spotted your grandmother lying on the floor impaled by a jagged piece of metal, your heart began to race, eyes widening at the sight of her blood pooling beneath her. The sight of Kane leaning over her, his voice trembling as he recited the Travelers Blessing.

"In peace, may you leave the shore. In love, may you find the next,” he whispered, his eyes filled with tears. “Safe passage on your travels until our final journey to the ground. May we meet again," Kane said, spending his mother’s last moment comforting her.

Pushing down the swirling panic in your stomach, you focused only on putting one foot in front of the other. You couldn’t look at her anymore. The adrenaline dulling the pain coming from your gash slightly.

You limped forward slowly, the bodies of council members greeting you as they lay motionless on the ground. There were four of them, all of them unconscious.

Jaha approached from your side, concern etched on his face.

"Y/n! Are you alright?" he asked urgently.

"I - I think so," you stammered back, disoriented.

Kane stood from his place on the ground, closing vera’s eyes and coming over to where you stood with Jaha.

“You need to get out of here, they tried to kill you,” Kane said to him, voice shaking with fear and adrenaline.

“Do you realize it was Diana who tried to kill you, she’s the only one not here.” Jaha looked at you with a grave expression.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, looking to both you and Kane with urgency, “First priority is getting survivors to safety. Then we stop them before they cause any more harm” he said. “We have to lock down the ark.”

“Kane find Diana.”

….

The adrenaline was pumping through your veins as you and Kane walked down the dimly lit hallways, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the metal walls. The air was thick with smoke, making it difficult to see and breathe.

Four skilled ark guards following in the rear behind Jaha, their weapons at the ready. Diana’s followers were not to be underestimated, they were fighting for their cause and would do anything to escape.

After what felt like an eternity, you reached the end of the hallway where the exodus ship was docked.

The doors were sealed shut, the guards and Kane charged towards the door, using all their strength to break it down. To no avail, the door didn’t budge. Jaha begged Diana not to do this.

You spotted a long metal pry bar lying nearby and snatched it up.

"Use this!" You called, passing the bar to the nearest guard. He wedged it into the seam between the doors, the muscles in his arms bulging as he heaved with all his strength.  They worked together, pushing with everything they had but it wasn’t enough.

Jaha persisted attempting to talk Diana down, “Diana, please! You don't want to be remembered like this!” The desperation clear in his voice.

“I won't be because you brought this on yourself, Jaha. You promised the people truth, and all you gave them were lies!”

Jaha paled in response, “You had me shot! You detonated a bomb in a public meeting, killing six innocent people, and now you want to kill everyone on this space station to satisfy your ego?”

Diana smirked, looking back to her followers “He is still lying to your face. There aren't enough dropships to get everyone to the ground.”

The men shared a look, Red deciding to break the ranks and save himself and sprinted forward, before anyone could react. Just out of your grasp, he had slipped through the open doors and seized the controls.

With a grinding screech, the massive doors began sliding closed, causing the dropship to begin its launch.

Sinclair began pleading with Jaha, his breathing heavy. “ Sir, we have to go right now! Everybody out! Get back behind the containment doors. Go, go, go! Please, sir.”

….

The ship was pitch black and the air was thick and heavy, causing sweat to bead on your skin despite the cool air lightly blowing around the halls. In the distance, a shuffling noise came from behind you.

Your heart rate quickened as you turned around, but there was no one there. But then, you heard it again, this time, it was closer. You strained your eyes, trying to make out any movement in the shadows.

The sound of footsteps bounced off the walls, slow and deliberate, as if whoever was making them was trying to be quiet. You tried to tell yourself that it was just your imagination, but the footsteps grew louder and closer.

Just as you were about to scream, a hand landed on your shoulder. You jumped and let out a gasp, as a familiar voice started to speak. “It's just me, Kane,” he said, his voice low and calm.

You let out a sigh of relief and turned to face him, thankful to see he was okay. In the faint light, you could see his tall figure looming over you on the floor.

“Can you stand up?' Kane asked, concern written on his face, the blood from your soaking the white fabric of your sleeves. You nodded yes and grabbed Kane's hand to stand up.

“We should look for everyone else,” he said, breaking the eerie silence. “We have to find Jaha.”

You nodded in agreement, relieved to have a goal in this unknown darkness.

…

Kane kept a steady hand under your arm while you slowly made your way down the hallway, leg throbbing with every step you took.

You both rounded a corner, stopping in the middle of the hallway as you stifled a groan when a spike of pain shot through your leg. Kane paused, his brow creased in concern. "Just a little farther," he encouraged.

You nodded, biting your lip as he continued walking you forward. The hall was eerily silent, a sudden clanging rang out, followed by a loud curse. You jumped abruptly, exchanging startled glances with Kane, heading forward to investigate the noise.

There on the floor was Wick, his arm caught in a doorway, tools scattered at his feet. He looked up at you in dismay. He was in a state of panic, his eyes wild with fear as he struggled to free himself.

"A little help here?" Wick pleaded, still trying in vain to free himself.

Kane sighed and moved to examine Wick's predicament. "What happened?"

"I was trying to override the door panel when it decided to eat my arm!" Wick explained in exasperation.

"What the hell happened, anyway?" wick said distracting himself while you and Kane use an axe to try and open the door.

Kane had a somber look on his face when he replied, "We were betrayed. Councilor Sydney... she took the Exodus ship by force. The damage to the Ark was catastrophic."

Wicks face turned in disgust, "What a bitch! You know, my mom voted for her."

You bit back an amused smile at the absurd situation despite the pain you were in. Only Wick could get into such a mess.

Once freed, Wick shook our hands gratefully. "I owe you both. Let’s look for everyone else."

With your leg burning in pain, you decided to separate and venture back to the med bay, you knew that they would be able to handle themselves and you were useless until you patched up your leg.

You could feel the warmth of the dark blood soaking through your pants, and you knew that you needed to find a safe place to tend to your wounds.

You hobbled through the wreckage of the ship, pushing the doors to the infirmary open.

….

[kybercrystals94]

They All Fall Down

Read there on AO3!

Febuwhump 2024 | Day 8 | Prompt 8: “Why won’t it stop?”

Rated: G | Words: 1572 | Summary: Stuck in their barracks on Kamino, the cadet Batch try to survive the slow, painful death of boredom. [Character Focus: Cadet Batch]

ADVISEMENT: All training simulations have been canceled for the day, and training rooms are closed. All cadets are ordered to stay in their designated living quarters until further notice. Any and all disturbances during this mandated down time will be dealt with swiftly and with the utmost severity.

Tech reads through the message for the dozenth time, searching for any loophole that he and his brothers might be able to wiggle through to get out of their barracks. They are only scheduled to be cadets for one more standard week. It seemed unfair that they would be held to the same limitations as cadets freshly released from their tubes.

However, the mandate still stands, and Tech’s messages for further clarification have been ignored. It seems they are trapped.

“Hunter,” Wrecker whines, drawing out the last syllable in Hunter’s name to a ridiculous length. “Crosshair won’t stop staring at me.”

Having managed to develop a migraine within the first hour of their imprisonment, Hunter says something from under the pillow he’s sequestered himself to, but his words are suffocated into senseless mumbling.

Crosshair sighs lazily from where he is laying sideways on his bunk, head dropped over the side so that he is looking out at the room upside down. “Stop being such a tubie, Wrecker.”

“I don’t like you staring at me.”

“I’m not staring at you. I’m staring straight ahead.”

“Yeah! Which is at me!”

“If you are sitting in my line of sight, then yes, I’m staring at you. If it bothers you, move.”

“You move! I was sitting here first!”

“No.”

“If you won’t move yourself, I’ll help you,” Wrecker decides, standing up threateningly.

Crosshair smiles. “You just try. Let’s see what happens.”

“May I remind you that disturbances during this time will probably result in lockup,” says Tech.

“Lockup would be better than being stuck in here with him,” Wrecker says, jabbing a finger in Crosshair’s direction.

“Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you.”

“That’s it!” Wrecker yells.

“Hey!” Hunter barks, sitting up and throwing his pillow at Wrecker. His squinting against the light of the room effectively makes him look angrier. “Knock it off, or I’ll turn you both in myself to get some peace and quiet.”

Crosshair huffs and rolls his eyes while Wrecker has the decency to look properly chastised.

Wrecker picks up the weaponized pillow. “Want this back?” he asks Hunter meekly.

Hunter glares at him for several long moments. “No,” he growls before falling back on his bunk and pulling the covers over his head.

A laden hush follows the outburst for approximately five standard minutes.

“You’re still staring at me.”

Tech jumps up and courageously puts himself between his feuding brothers. “We should do a quiet, group activity.”

“Like what?” Crosshair asks dubiously, rolling over and pushing himself up.

“We could play sabaac!” Wrecker suggests excitedly.

Tech casts a weary glance at Hunter’s bunk. “I don’t believe that game would qualify as quiet,” he says.

“What then?” Crosshair stands up and stretches his limbs.

Tech goes and gets the deck of cards. “I’ve been researching some other card games that are more appropriate to quiet environments. Allow me to teach you.”

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“Tech, do you have any twos?”

“No. Go fish.”

Wrecker groans and picks up a card from the draw pile. He looks at the card and grins wildly. “Ha! This is the card I wanted. Take that, Tech!” He puts down the set of twos in front of him triumphantly.

“While we are playing individually, I am not actively seeking your demise, Wrecker. If I’d had a two, you would have received it with no argument,” Tech mutters.

Crosshair chuckles. “That’s not how I’ve been playing.”

Tech throws the nearly graduated sniper a look. “Yes, I know that you’ve been actively cheating. Despite the simplicity of the game.”

“It’s not cheating, it’s house rules,” Crosshair says.

“They can only be house rules if the whole house agrees, which Wrecker and I have not.”

“Yeah, Cross! Play right or we’ll kick you out of the game,” Wrecker scolds far too loudly, then claps a hand over his mouth.

The three cadets look apprehensively over at Hunter’s bunk and breathe a sigh of relief when the lump that is their sleeping brother doesn’t move.

Crosshair hisses, “Fine. I’ll play by the dumb rules.”

“Thank you, and your opinion is noted.”

They play three more rounds of the game before they become bored. Wrecker suggests some house rules to change up the game; however, his idea is immediately shot down when Tech and Crosshair realize he is basically describing sabaac.

“If you didn’t get so loud whenever we played, maybe Tech wouldn’t have banned it,” Crosshair says irritably.

“I did not ban it, I just recommend we not play it…” Cutting a glance to Hunter’s bunk, Tech lowers his voice to add, “under the circumstances.”

Wrecker fusses with the cards. “How much longer will we be stuck in our barracks?”

“I’m estimating until late meal,” says Tech.

“That’s not for hours!”

“Shh!”

Hunter shifts and sighs, but seems to remain asleep.

“Maker, Wrecker, why do you have to be so loud all the time?” Crosshair mutters.

Wrecker frowns. “I’m being as quiet as I can.”

“I believe that is accurate,” Tech agrees. “He has been several decibels quieter than his average levels.”

“See?” Wrecker crows.

Crosshair rolls his eyes. “We’re so proud of you.”

“What should we do now?” Wrecker asks. He takes two of the cards and leans them against each other, making a triangular structure.

Tech watches with interest, then smiles. “I have an idea.”

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hunter wakes to the soft chirp of a notification on his data pad. He blinks his eyes open, surprised by the quiet in the barracks. It is never this quiet unless his brothers are gone. Maybe he had slept through the mandatory lockdown, and they had gone to late meal without him. He wouldn’t put it past them, especially after threatening to send them to lockup. Not his finest moment of leadership.

He sits up, rolling his shoulders back to alleviate the stiffness. His migraine is mostly gone, just a lingering ache behind his left eye. He can live with that. Turning to swing his legs over the side of the bunk, Hunter freezes when he sees it: a tower of cards.

And he’s not alone after all.

Crosshair is sitting on Wrecker’s shoulders, reaching up with a card in each hand, poised to place them at the very top of the card palace that nearly reaches the ceiling. It is intricate in its design, with levels and pillars. Hunter is impressed.

“Just a little to the left, Wrecker,” Crosshair says, almost under his breath.

“Carefully,” Tech adds from where he stands across the table from them.

Wrecker shuffles to the left.

“There, good,” Crosshair whispers.

Hunter finds himself holding his breath as Crosshair reaches out and places the cards with the delicate care of an artist.

Hunter grins, reaching for his data pad and taking a holopic. This will be evidence the next time his brothers claim they can’t figure out how to play nice long enough to get anything done.

“That’s it, we did it,” Tech says, “We’ve used every card in our possession to make this structure.”

“We should take a holopic of it,” Wrecker says, almost softly.

“I did,” Hunter says.

He honestly didn’t mean to startle them. He thought that the trained soldiers had seen him sitting up, known they were being observed – even if they hadn’t acknowledged him. He supposes, in hindsight, he shouldn’t have made any such assumptions.

Wrecker nearly jumps out of his skin, which sends Crosshair, still perched on the giant’s shoulders, flailing to keep his balance. Tech whirls around to face Hunter, eyes wide. And all the sudden, combined, swift movements are the house of cards’ demise.

They all watch in devastated anguish as the cards tumble and flutter in soundless destruction. The silence continues long after the last card lands.

Hunter has never felt so small in his entire life.

Tech recovers first. “We knew it was a short-lived endeavor when we undertook the challenge,” he says bravely, but the assurance is thin.

“Would’ve been nice if it lasted longer than two seconds after we finished it though,” Crosshair grumbles, finally slipping down from Wrecker’s shoulders to loom over the carnage.

“I am so sorry,” Hunter says, standing up. “I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

Three sets of eyes look at him, conflicting emotions dancing across their faces.

“We weren’t scared!” Wrecker protests.

Tech averts his gaze. “Correct. We just thought we had inadvertently woken you. We were…surprised.”

Crosshair folds his arms over his chest. “I knew you were awake.”

“Right,” Hunter says, shifting uncomfortably. He holds up the data pad. “I really did get a holopic though.” He looks down at the screen, a notification symbol in the corner. He clicks on it. “And hey, the mandate has been lifted! We can leave the barracks now!”

“Yes, it was lifted two hours ago,” Tech says dismissively, kneeling to begin picking up the scattered remains of what might as well have been their hopes and dreams.

Hunter puts his data pad aside and begins to help gather the cards. “Maybe we can build another one?”

His brothers sigh in unison.

“It will simply not be the same,” Tech verbalizes.

END

✨Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!✨

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A/N: If you squint, you can see where I sprinkled the whump in this story XD If you need specifics, I'll just say this: migraine & devastation over lost card tower.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jonathan Ben-Menachem for Zeteo News (04.23.2024):

“Reprehensible and dangerous.” “Terrorist sympathizers.” “It’s not 1938 Berlin. It’s 2024, Columbia University, NYC.” The White House, Congressional Republicans, and cable news talking heads would have you believe that the Columbia University campus has devolved into a hotbed of antisemitic violence – but the reality on the ground is very different. As a Jewish student at Columbia, it depresses me that I have to correct the record and explain what the real risk to our safety looks like. I still can't quite believe how the events on campus over the past few days have been so cynically and hysterically misrepresented by the media and by our elected representatives. 

Last week, the Columbia University Apartheid Divest (CUAD) coalition, representing more than 100 student organizations, including Jewish groups, organized the Gaza Solidarity Encampment, a peaceful campus protest in solidarity with Palestine. CUAD was reactivated after the university suspended Students for Justice in Palestine and Jewish Voice for Peace in the fall. On Wednesday morning, hundreds of students camped out on Columbia’s South Lawn. They vowed to stay put until the university divests from companies that profit from their ties to Israel. Protesters prayed, chanted, ate pizza, and condemned the university’s complicity in Israel’s attacks on Gaza. Though counter-protesters waved Israeli flags near the encampment, the campus remained largely calm from my vantage point.

Columbia responded by imposing a miniature police state. Just over a day after the encampment was formed, university President Minouche Shafik asked and authorized the New York Police Department to clear the lawn and load 108 students – including a number of Jewish students – onto Department of Corrections buses to be held at NYPD headquarters at 1 Police Plaza. One Jewish student told me that she and her fellow protesters were restrained in zip-tie handcuffs for eight hours and held in cells where they shared a toilet without privacy. The NYPD chief of patrol John Chell later told the Columbia Spectator that “the students that were arrested were peaceful, offered no resistance whatsoever, and were saying what they wanted to say in a peaceful manner.”  Since then, dozens of undergraduates have been locked out of their dorms without notice. Barnard College, an affiliate of Columbia, notably gave students just 15 minutes to retrieve their belongings after returning from lockup and finding themselves evicted. Suspended students cannot return to campus and are struggling to access food or medical care. Students who keep Shabbat, and do not use electronics on the Sabbath, were forced to rely on technology in order to secure food and emergency housing. This crackdown was the most violence inflicted on our student body in decades. I implore you, as our Jewish Voice for Peace chapter does, to consider whether arresting Jewish students keeps us and Columbia safe.

Smears from the press and pro-Israel influencers, who have levied charges of antisemitism and violence against Jewish students, are a dangerous distraction from real threats to our safety. I saw politicians compare student organizers to neo-Nazis and call for a National Guard deployment, apparently ignorant of the lives lost at Kent State and in Charlottesville, and with very little pushback from national media. This is a repulsive form of self-aggrandizement that I can only assume is intended to preserve relationships with influential donors. Calls to more heavily police our campus actively endanger Jewish students, and threaten the regular operations of the university far more gravely than peaceful protests.  [...]

On Monday, I joined hundreds of my fellow student workers for a walk-out in solidarity with the encampment; we listened respectfully as a similarly sizable group of Columbia faculty held a rally on the library steps. Frankly, it didn’t feel much different from the environment during my union’s most recent strike on campus – I felt inspired again by my colleagues’ commitment to making Columbia a safer and better place to work and study.  Later that night, a Passover Seder service was held at the encampment. Would an antisemitic student movement welcome Jews in this way? I think not.  [...] Here’s what you’re not being told: The most pressing threats to our safety as Jewish students do not come from tents on campus. Instead, they come from the Columbia administration inviting police onto campus, certain faculty members, and third-party organizations that dox undergraduates. Frankly, I regret the fact that writing to confirm the safety of Jewish Ivy League students feels justified in the first place. I have not seen many pundits hand-wringing over the safety of my Palestinian colleagues mourning the deaths of family members, or the destruction of Gaza’s cherished universities. 

I am wary of a hysterical campus discourse – gleefully amplified by many of the same charlatans who have turned “DEI” into a slur – that draws attention away from the ongoing slaughter in the Gaza Strip and settler violence in the occupied West Bank. We should be focusing on the material reality of war: the munitions our government is sending to Israel, which kill Palestinians by the thousands, and the Americans participating in the violence. Forget the fringe folks and outside agitators: the CUAD organizers behind the campus protests have rightfully insisted on divestment as their most important demand of the Columbia administration, and on sustained attention to the situation in Palestine. And we are not alone. College campuses across the United States have followed Columbia’s lead. 

Jewish Columbia University student Jonathan Ben-Menachem wrote in Zeteo debunking the false "antisemitic" smears used to attack protests against the oppression of Palestinians on campuses.

[totally-not-deacon]

~*~WIP Wednesday~*~

Tagged by... myself. But for once I have writing to share - so Imma post before I promptly forget. Again.

Got in in my head to throw Mar into Turbo Hell (read: Vigilant-based fic), but I guess things gotta start relatively normal before I ruin her life. :)

No content warnings... This time. It will not remain that way.

“Three hundred gold? That’s it? Well-rewarded my ass!” she barked the moment the doors to the Jarl’s longhouse swung shut. The nuisance giant they’d been sent after lay in a pool of its own blood, stark against the ice just south of town. All in a day’s work. But this? They trekked all the way out to, “godsdamned Dawnstar for this? I should feed that steward his own tee–”

“Bail’s coming out of your drinking money, not mine,” said Nebarra. Marasa glared over her shoulder at him, retort ready to fire back when she took pause. By now they’d attracted the attention of more than a few guards, and jail wasn’t exactly a place she was fond of finding herself in. Again. Fine then, he could pay for the carriage fee out of this dump. She stomped ahead with a huff.

They knocked the snow from their boots before stepping into the inn. The scant few hours of sunlight winter afforded were waning, and a stiff wind was picking up off the Sea of Ghosts, meaning it was the perfect time to settle in and spend the pocket change they’d received. That had to be the only reason anyone lived out here – the Jarl paid so little no one could afford to leave! At least they’d taken care of that whole daedric nightmare fiasco last year, so hopefully they could get a decent night’s sleep before huddling for warmth in the back of an uncovered wagon for the next gods knew how long.

Marasa tugged her helmet off as she approached the bar, stray hair pulling free of the loose bun underneath. It felt as if they’d seen every bed of every inn Skyrim had more than their own. Dawnstar, unfortunately, was no exception. They were practically on a first name basis with half the city guard, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the three days she spent driving them mad in lockup after someone wasn’t watching his coinpurse back in Riften and couldn’t bail her out. Yes, it was her that broke that guy’s nose – did you hear what he said about my ears? And yes, it was her that sent a chair flying through the inn’s only window. But still! She’d have been out in a few hours after he’d gotten a change to sell some of their loot, but of course that was when the general shop owner decided to take a damned fishing trip. Doesn’t she just have the best of luck? It wasn’t so bad, though. The whole Dragonborn thing turned out to be pretty useful when it came to weaseling into some special treatment, she had to admit. Honestly, by the time he’d returned with the money, she was fairly sure the guards would’ve paid him to get her out of their hair.

She wasn’t allowed to pick fights at the inn now. Milk drinkers.

She met Nebarra back at their usual table, dropping down next to him with a tired grunt. At least the bard wasn’t singing tonight. “How long’s it been since we killed a dragon?” she asked. Marasa flicked her bottle’s cork between her fingers before rolling it across the table, too slow to catch it before it dropped over the opposite edge and out of sight. Oops.

Nebarra paused feeding a reed into his helm, ridiculous as it always was. She rolled her eyes. “A month, maybe two. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to keep track of that?” Had it really been that long? Sure, there was a finite amount of them, she knew that, but it had only been what, three years since taking down Alduin? Must’ve thinned the herd more than she thought. “Remind me – why are we still in the province?”

“Because these Jarls make the East Empire look like a charity with how tight they hold their purse strings,” she mumbled with a petulant pout. Some thanks she gets for saving the world.

“And you dri–”

“And we drink it all away.” Marasa looked pointedly at his rapidly draining bottle, ignoring the fact that her own was in much the same state. She sighed, picking at a splintered bit of tabletop. “Where would we even go, though? High Rock’s not so bad, I guess. Still, can’t stand the all the politics.”

[howlinchickhowl]

Returning for some penpal action for @gallavichthings a.u.gust. This one is a scooch NSFW, hehehehe.

Picasso Baby fifteen - penpals

Every day in the joint is a lot like the one before, and the one before that. Woken unwillingly by the aggressive flash of the strip lights coming on, cold shower, sloppy eggs on stale toast, and then the laundry. Six hours of steam and starch and stains that don’t come out even after being boiled. Every day follows the same relentless pattern, with one exception. One bright spot in the drudgery of Mickey’s days. Every day after work, during their allocated free time, the mail gets delivered, and every week, on Thursdays, Mickey gets a letter.

He’d been skeptical at first. His rehabilitation advisor, because that’s a thing they had at this prison, had been keen for him to join one of the programs they offered, said it showed willingness to make a change, would look good on his record for when his parole came up. There were a few different options, book club, drama therapy, all of them sounded like shit that was more likely to get Mickey into more trouble than out of it, so he’d picked this. Fucking penpal scheme, get paired up with some do-gooder on the outside to write letters with.

Mickey’s guy, Ian, he was kind of a lot at first, overly formal, way too fuckin’ enthusiastic. He had this irritatingly positive way of writing, always trying to see the bright side of shit. Took Mickey a couple months of getting rubbed up the wrong way every Thursday to finally blow his top and let the guy know it don’t matter how hard he tries, there’s no fuckin’ bright side when you’re looking at the uphill stretch of a five year bit, and Mickey would appreciate it if he’d give up and just talk normal.

After that he got less irritating. Stopped trying to tell Mickey how to feel about shit and started asking him more about himself, started sharing a bit more of himself with Mickey. He was an EMT, training to be a paramedic. He had a bunch of brothers and sisters, a dead mom and a bum dad, and some sort of brain disorder that Mickey had to look up in the prison Library and still doesn’t understand a lot about.

He’s an interesting guy, a little too fond of puns to be considered really funny, but Mickey likes him, likes hearing from him, doesn’t mind answering his nosy questions and telling him all the shit that’s going on in the lockup each week, the stuff that goes through his head sometimes in his darker moments. There’s something, now they know each other a little better, about Ian that makes Mickey feel calmer, more relaxed. Happier. Or something.

It was Ian who had persuaded him to start drawing again, said Mickey needed an outlet or some shit, sent him a fancy sketchbook and some pencils, and Mickey had sat running his fingers over that sketchbook every night for a whole week before he’d even dared to put something down in it. And then, he didn’t know what to draw.

When he used to draw as a kid it was always whatever was around, guns and spliffs and bleeding fists, black eyes and swastikas and girls with massive tits. He started sketching out a glock, used to be his favorite thing to draw, and just ran out of steam. Didn’t want to start this blank white page with relics of his old life.

When he’d told Ian about it, in his next letter, he’d felt stupid. It was just a fucking drawing of a gun, it shouldn’t bother him this much. But Ian’s reply had been so full of understanding, of sympathy, and he had made Mickey feel like it was ok. Like it was totally reasonable to not want to fill his new book with shit that was violent and hollow and fuckin’ evil. And he gave Mickey a few ideas of things he could draw instead.

He started to send pictures, visual references for Mickey to work from, an L platform at dawn, a hand holding a hotdog. Ian’s hand. And hadn’t that been a shock to the system.

It was. Big. That hand. Long freckled fingers wrapped around a jumbo dog, a glob of mustard on a massive thumb. Mickey had spent a lot longer than he had ever intended to staring at that hand and wondering how big it was compared to his own. Compared to other parts of him. He drew the hand, over and over, holding the hotdog, holding a cup of coffee, holding someone’s throat, holding a throbbing hard cock right on the verge of blowing its load. He got kind of obsessed with the hand, desperate to know what the other parts of Ian looked like.

Was the rest of him as big as his hand implied? Where did that hand lead? What was his face like? His chest? His cock? On impulse he had shoved one of his tamer compositions into his next letter to Ian and implied, heavily, that he was thinking about doing more life drawing and could use some further references to draw from.

And in his very next missive Ian had come through in a big fucking way. Mickey must have stared at the pictures he sent for hours before he could even bring himself to put pencil to paper. And for hours since, studying the lines of his absurdly handsome face, tracing the outline of his shoulder in his white tanktop, touching his fingertips to Ian’s lips, spread wide in a glorious smile directed at the stupid bright pink flower he’s holding in his perfect massive hand.

He’d sent back a drawing, his interpretation of Ian holding the flower, and written something about wanting to help him with his studies of musculature, not able to help himself, not even sure if Ian would read anything into it. But hoping all the same that he would.

And Ian, Ian had fucking delivered. He’d sent Mickey a silly shirtless picture of himself doing a strongman pose, and Mickey had worn a whole pencil down to the nub doing different studies of his chest, his biceps, his fucking throat. He’d sent a couple of them by return and from there their correspondence had devolved into a spiraling series of near pornographic exchanges with increasingly flirtatious letters all leading upto what Mickey is expecting in his delivery today.

An actual picture of Ian’s actual cock. Hard. Potentially with fluids. They’ve been building up to it for a while, and Mickey can hardly catch his breath every time he so much as thinks about it. He’s sat on his bunk, breathing shallow and trying not to think about it too hard when Jensen comes by with the mail. He passes the letter to Mickey like it’s nothing, just another day, just another letter from Mickey’s state assigned penpal, just another tick in Mickey’s column on the rehab officer’s form. He couldn’t be more wrong.

Mickey waits until just before bedtime to open it, doesn’t want to risk his bunkmate seeing anything he shouldn’t, luckily he’s got the top bunk so there’s no chance of having his shoulder looked over. He clambers up and shoves his legs under the cover, shimmying down until he’s only half upright and carefully opens the envelope, he doesn’t want to tear it completely in case he needs to cover up something incriminating.

And fucking hell. Incriminating is fucking right. It’s all right there. Ian’s huge fucking hand holding onto his, fucking hell, proportionate fucking cock. Hard as a ramrod and flushed pink and fucking. Glistening. With lube, or with pre-come, or sweat, or Christ with spit. Endless possibilities for Mickey to ponder on, play with in his mind. The tip is beaded with a perfect drop of clear liquid that makes Mickey’s mouth water, he can practically taste it.

Ian’s letter is long, like usual, guy has a lot to say, and Mickey will read it properly tomorrow at breakfast when his head isn’t so clouded with bedtime thoughts. But there is a short note attached to the photograph that puts a devilish smile across Mickey’s lips as he reaches down into his shorts to grab ahold of himself.

Send me a drawing of you in return. Any part you like ;)

[into-crazy]

More to the Madness Pt. 13

Ledger!Joker x Female Reader series

Summary: Joker is arrested and thrown in a holding cell at the MCU. You carry out your own mission to be there for when he breaks out.

Warnings- Mature language, violence, crime, mentions of murder, incorporated elements from TDK, ages 18+

You can find the other parts RIGHT HERE and through the "More to the Madness" tag lovelies💞💞

It's only been a few hours since Joker's been captured and taken to the Major Crimes Unit. He had surrendered easily without so much as a fight. Jim Gordon, who was presumed to he dead, was the one responsible for arresting him. Out of all the possible scenarios that could have turned out, it went the way it was anticipated. J wanted to get caught.

He had to get inside and retrieve Lau, who's locked up in there good and tight. Joker had made a deal with the Mob that he'd get them Lau, since he is the one that knows where all of their money is being kept. The only way to do that was to get inside the MCU, where Lau was held and protected at.

You figure J's currently working on his plan of escape, and he has until a certain time. As of right now, both Harvey Dent and his "squeeze" Rachel Dawes are tied up at two separate locations. They are in rooms filled with oil drums that are rigged to explode through a timer. Joker has to take the attention away from him so he can easily escape with Lau. That was his getaway plan, but also a twisted game to play on Batman. And now, you have to do your part and be there when J breaks out.

The clock's ticking. There's no room for any breaks or errors. You are moving as quickly and accurately as you can with the limited amount of time that you have.

There are a handful of police officers and detectives over at the MCU that could easily be bribed. With a solid arrangement, they'll do just about anything for a large sum of money. Luckily, J's goons already had a customer lined up for you. Derek Turner, a police officer on the verge of losing his house due to gambling debts. Turner was desperate so he immediately took the bait.

It's late into the night, and you are on your way to meet up with Turner now. You're on your own for this one, but that's not going to be a problem. Slung over your shoulder is a medium sized duffel bag- filled with fifty thousand dollars in cash. The agreement is set for officer Turner to arrest you and bring you into the building, in addition to prividing you with explicit details about the situation of Joker's lockup. At least.. that is how the officer thought it was going to go down. The real plan is you're going to knock him unconscious and hijack his police cruiser. Then you're going to use it to discreetly pick up J and Lau at the station. The police scanner will also serve as a useful tool in signaling when you should move.

Deep in between the alley of two apartment buildings is where you're set to meet. When you arrive at the location, you carefully enter the alleyway. Trying not to be heard or seen just yet. First, you have to find a spot where you can set up your device that would distract officer Turner.

As you come up on a corner, you stealthily peek around it to see if you can spot him. Sure enough, you find him waiting. A few yards away, perched on the hood of his cruiser while smoking a cigarette. You retract from the junction and look for a place to set your gadget. There's a large dumpster bin against the wall close to the edge of that corner. Figuring that's a suitable spot, you pull out the device from the duffle bag, which is a little plastic kitchen timer. It may not seen like much, but it'll ring loud enough to grab the officer's attention in case you need it to. You crouch down slightly by the bin, turn the dial to eight minutes, and set it on the lid of the dumpster. If you can't find an opening of your own to knock him unconscious within that timespan, then this timer will give you that chance.

You take a deep breath, then turn the corner. Walking with heavy steps to get his attention. He notices your arrival and flicks the cig onto the dirty floor.

"It's about time!" Turner huffs in annoyance. "You're alone, right?"

You walk near him and stop when you're a couple meters from him. "Mhm, just me."

He waves his hands at your attire. "You are not what I was expecting to show up. It's a bit much. But whatever, fuck it. You got the money?"

"Right here." You pat the duffle bag before slinging it from your shoulder and tossing it in his direction.

He catches it, opening it up to confirm that there's cash inside. Rummaging through the stacks of bills. "It all here?"

"It's all there," you affirm. "Now are you all set for your end?"

The officer sucks air through his teeth. "Yeah.. about that. You see, the stakes are really high right now. So I'm gonna need a little more than this before I go through with it."

His demand for more money makes you scoff. This man is obviously very greedy.. and stupid. You roll your eyes at him. "The deal was fifty. You can't alter it."

Turner's eyes scan your body and he sucks his tongue before speaking. "Another fifty. Or I'll walk, sweetheart."

What an asshole. It takes everything in you to hold back from launching your throwing knives at his smug fucking face. Instead, you pretend to ponder on his ridiculous demand. "Look, I don't have time for this. Now you can either accept what we agreed upon and carry out your end, or you can walk away and lose your house. So what's is going to be?"

Turner scoffs at you, "it's like that, huh? Well how about I just shoot you and take the money anyway?"

Oh, he threatened you. You ball your fists and glare angrily at him. He had to threaten you. If he wants to play this game with you, then fine. You smirk at him, "alright sure, you can go ahead and do that. But you should probably consider your family, officer Turner. You'd have to worry about some of the Joker's other- not so nice- henchmen paying them a visit. And believe me when I tell you that you wouldn't want that to happen. So yeah, it's like that."

"Fucking bitch! What are yo-" He spits sharply at you before being cut off.

"2450 Acadia Street, right?" You state apathetically.

His eyes widen, and he nearly croaks at the abrupt mention of his home address.

It's true that you and a select few of J's crew knew personal details about this officer. But it wouldn't be your call to actually bring any kind of harm to this man's family. You only want him to think that. The thing is, you have to find a way to get this cop to let his guard down. Because he's been on high alert since you've got here. Keeping his hand in close reach of his firearm in case he feels the need to use it. So like it or not, you need to be patient and wait for the opportunity to make your move. No matter how badly you want to just get it over with right now, you don't want to give him a reason to start shooting at you first.

After thinking it through to himself, Turner sighs. "Shit. Alright then.. alright. I'll do it."

"Hm, smart choice." You couldn't help but think you sounded like J in that moment. He must be rubbing off on you. "Well then, everything good to go?"

He quickly zips up the duffle bag and throws it over his shoulder. "All set."

"Good. Hide the bag and let's move."

You make your way over as he pops the truck of the police cruiser, watching him stash the money in a hidden spot. He tells you that you'll need to remove all of your weapons before he takes you in. You nod in agreement and begin withdrawing your weapons. The entire time, you're thinking about how the timer should be going off soon. You toss both of your throwing knives into the truck and go for your gun.

At that moment, the timer finally goes off in the distance. The noise is loud as is rattles against the dumpster lid, the ringing echoing throughout the alley. It instantly catches the officer's attention and he turns his head to look in that direction.

He's distracted, now's your chance!

Flipping your gun over, you pistol whip the officer. Effectively knocking him out.

"Crooked cops." You mutter to yourself, recollecting your knives and placing them back in their slots.

After making sure the officer was going to be out for a while, you take his handcuffs and cuff his hands together. You drag his unconscious body towards the building, placing him against the wall. He was never going to get any of the money, you figured he'd probably blow through it gambling again anyways. You then hurriedly make it back to the police cruiser. Slamming the trunk before getting into the car and driving away.

~~

It's been almost an hour since you've sat here waiting. You are sitting in the police cruiser, parked about two blocks away from the MCU. So far, you've just been listening to the police scanner. Waiting for the signal to start moving. The longer you sit here, the more you think about how much farther you should've parked from the establishment. You worry that you might be too close to it. There's cops surrounding that place. You were smart enough to hide in a parking garage rather than parking on the street in plain sight. But still, you would very much like not getting caught.

Finally, you hear sirens going off in the distance. It sounds like a lot of them, too. You turn up the volume on the scanner and listen closely. Someone starts talking through the channel, you can easily make out that it's Jim Gordon's voice.

"All available units, converge at 250 52nd Street!"

That's your signal to move. Quickly, you turn on the car and exit the garage.

As you get closer to the MCU, you notice that there are no cops outside. Not in front of the building at least. There aren't any other police cruisers either, good thing you snagged this one. Most of the officers must have left with Gordon. Which works out wonderfully in your favor. You park directly across the street, then you duck your head and wait. If Joker is successful, then you know exactly what's going to come next.

Sure enough, a few moments later.. BOOM!

A massive explosion goes off inside the structure, bursting through all of the windows. You look up to see smoke and dust coming out from the broken windows.

"Oh shit!" You exclaim to yourself.

J did that. He really did that.

You pull the car up right in front of the building. That way, it's easier for J to see you when he comes out. If he does. You nervously tap your fingers on the steering wheel. That was a big explosion, you hope that J didn't get hurt by it. There is no movement that you can see inside. Your fingers continue tapping.

He is fine. He's smart and found cover.

A moment goes by, and there is still nothing. Meanwhile you are scanning all of your surroundings. You are making sure you're not spotted, and searching for any sign or sight of J. Then, you see a movement at the entrance of the building and let out a sigh of relief.

J emerges from the destruction. It's hot seeing him stide away from aftermath of the damage he's caused. He's got his usual attire on, though his trench coat is slung over his arm. His hair's wilder than usual and half of his greasepaint had come off. He also has a dusty police hat on his head which you find rather amusing. You were so focused on J, that you didn't even notice the other man with him. It's Lau, walking defeatedly with his hands cuffed behind his back.

You honk the horn and roll the window down to get J's attention. His eyes shoot towards your direction and a smile stretches across his face. He's got this look in his eyes which you would describe as proud. Of you or himself, that you are unsure. But something inside of you tells you that it's meant for you. So you grin back and wave him over. He harshly nudges Lau in your direction. The Chinese man looks beyond terrified, stumbling all the way over to the vehicle.

"Hey good looking, you need a ride?" You ask in a flirtatious manner.

J licks at his scars. "As a matter a fact, I do. Me and the squealer here." He pats Lau on the back, who visibly tenses at the touch.

You motion towards the backseat. "Well hop in. I'll give you a lift."

"My, what a doll."

J opens the backseat door and shoves Lau inside. He then takes the hat from his head, and carelessly flings it towards the building. A final touch to the devastation he's just caused. Much like how an artist adds the finishing touch to their creation. In this case, J is the artist and the shattered structure is one of his masterpieces. Talented is he in the craft of total chaos and destruction.

It's something you shouldn't admire about him, yet you do. You admire all of it.

"Scoot." He shoos Lau over to the otherside so he can get in. The man slides across the seat reluctantly, his eyes going wide as he watches J. He's clearly dreading the thought of being trapped in such a tight space with this dangerous man. J tosses the coat onto the middle seat and climbs inside. Once the door is shut, he signals for you to go. You throw the car in drive and floor it out of the area.

Joker sat in the back, listening attentively to the police scanner for an update on the Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes situation. Once he heard that Dent was the only one to make it out alive, he cackled in triumph. If that was the outcome, then things went precisely how he'd expected. He knew that Batman was going to go after Rachel. But J still has big plans for Dent. So he had intentionally switched their locations when he told Batman where to find them. The vigilante never stand a chance against the Joker's cruel game.

You peek at him through the rear view mirror. "Went as you wanted, J?"

"Went as expected." He states rather plainly. "That Batman's got a good right hook."

"He hit you?" The question came out of your lips quick and concerned. However, J just laughs it off as nothing.

"Sure did." He stretches his limbs to the best of his ability in the space he's in. "Now, I've been cooped up in that place for a while. How about I tell ya all the juicy details later?"

"Sounds good." You reply smoothly.

A satisfied hum leaves his lips. "Great. So let's get this party going, huh. I want ya to drive this car like ya stole it. Because you did."

You give a jaunty nod in response. "Yes sir."

A surge of adrenaline rushes through your body as you pick up a higher speed. You even turn the siren on to let all the other drivers know to stay out of your way. Because you were definitely blowing past stop lights and swerving around cars. J seemed to be enjoying himself, while Lau sat back there looking scared for his life.

The smell of the explosion was heavy on them both. Smoke and gunpowder. It began to permeate the inside of the car. J has you roll both of the back windows down to air it out. But of course, being the unpredictable man that he is, J stuck his entire upper half out of the window! Initially it startled you, because he just did it without a warning.

You view him through the side mirror. Watching his hair blowing wildly in the wind, the way he licks at his lips and how his bare forearm tenses as he grips onto the car. Now that's the look of a guy who'd just escaped police custody. Damn does he makes it look so good. J shakes his head around like a dog, and in that moment you have to force yourself to focus on the road before you end up crashing the car. That'd be a real mood killer.

End of Part 13.

[inmate62763]

"Inmate, the rules state that prisoners housed in the SHU are only permitted one hour's outdoor exercise and recreation each day. Your outdoor recreation time is over and you will now be taken back to your cell for lockup for the rest of the day. Now on your feet and move it!"