#Rapid Tone Pills

[luveline]

Okay, I would love to see an Aaron Hotchner x anemic bombshell!reader (lmao) who gets randomly faint and Aaron freaks <3

“This is oh so difficult,” you say under your breath, a sing-song tone to your voice. You often talk in juxtapositions, unhappy words in silk, cheerful worrying. “This is… stressful.” 

“You don't look stressed,” Spencer says. 

You elbow at him affectionately. “Do I ever? Sweetheart, there's nothing ever so stressful as to wear it on your face. Now come here, you have a pen smudge on your cheek.” 

Hotch could pinch the back of your shirt to stop you, but Spencer holds out a hand to brace you away from him like a disgruntled younger sibling while you laugh and reach for him. 

“Cut it out,” Gideon says. 

“Yes, boss.” 

Hotch turns away from you both to hide his smile. The case is long (as always), difficult (as always), and getting more and more serious as days pass. There hasn't been much time to pause and take stock, and so your playfulness comes at a great time —you need moments of fun like this to stop the weight of the inevitable dragging you down hard.

Your playfulness is unfailing. “So,” you say, quieter now to avoid Gideon’s attention while you lean into Hotch's personal bubble, “what will you make me for dinner?” 

“The same thing I've made you for the last four days.” 

“Ah. Nothing, then.” You tip your head to one side. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just feeling kinda weird. I really am hungry, handsome, and you aren't very gentlemanly in letting me starve.” You share a smile. You say everything so particularly, it only serves to endear you to him more and more. It's like… you're just sure of yourself, and in love with the world, and at least a little in love with him. Having you here with him makes the job easier. 

“You're hungry?” he asks, standing up. He expects no answer, nor for you to stand, but you clamber onto your feet quick as anything with wide eyes. 

“I was only–” You pause. 

Hotch can see the moment you lose sight of where you are, that far away gloss to your eyes, the rapid blinking that follows, and your hand thrown out to his too quickly. You grab at his arm roughly and he's crueller in his reaction, grabbing you under the arms with a startled, “Hey.” 

“Is she alright?” Spencer asks, his chair smacking the desk as he stands. 

Your lips pull down into a frown, eyes squeezed closed. He's startled —Hotch didn't even know you could frown outside of a joke. You're feeling that heavy, sudden wrongness that comes with being faint, he'd guess. 

He rides it out with you, holding you tight. After a few moments your eyes peel open, a spark of upset about you that quickly lends to sheepishness. “Oh, sorry,” you say softly. 

“Don't be.” 

You gather your bearings. Hotch moves his hands to a more amicable place on your arms, more to comfort than to hold, while Spencer stands and offers you his bottle of water. 

“She good?” Gideon asks Hotch. 

That perks you up. “I'm always good, sir,” you say, sending a smile at your boss from over your shoulder. “Just flirting with Agent Hotchner.” 

“Did you take your medication?” Hotch asks, cutting the fat of the conversation clean off. 

“Yeah, I never miss it.” 

He is admittedly more concerned about you than one coworker would be for another after a dizzy spell, but you aren't just a coworker. Hotch cups your cheek quickly in his hand to gauge your temperature and deduces from there that it isn't a sickness. 

“You weren't exaggerating about being starved,” he decides. Your iron pills do so much, and you have to do the rest. “Reid, what foods help with anaemia?” 

“Anything rich in iron. Red meat, pork, poultry, dark greens, especially spinach. All kinds of beans,” Spencer reels off. 

“Any of that sounds good to you?” Hotch asks, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. 

You meet his lowbrow with softer eyes, nodding your appreciation. Your lips part to answer him, but you're cut off. “Be quick about it,” Gideon says, glasses slipping down his nose as he turns back to his case file, “we have a lot to do.” 

Hotch buys you a burrito for the iron and a smoothie because you deserve it. You kiss his cheek, and apparently he deserves that for being ‘such a sweetheart’. He doesn't bother pretending he doesn't want it, or the second or third kiss that comes after.

[ghost-proofbaby]

FLASHES OF THE BATTLE COME BACK TO ME IN A BLUR. ALL THAT BLOODSHED, CRIMSON CLOVER - SWEET DREAM WAS OVER. MY HAND WAS THE ONE YOU REACHED FOR.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, i cannot emphasize the angst warning enough - it's a sad one for our boy, sugar is spoken of inappropriately by roadies with sexual undertones, mentions of drug use beyond just weed (specifically sleeping pills as well as allusion to heavier drugs being acquired), minors dni

☆ WC: 6.7K+

☆ AN: i'm not even sorry at this point. let's get into it, shall we? or should i say - let's fight.

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“Alright. Let’s fight.”

There was a certain point in Eddie Munson’s life, approximately one year ago, in which he had come to the acceptance that sometimes harsh words exchanged were better than silence. 

It had taken a lot out of him, that night – another drink tossed down his throat, another hit from his sour joint, another sigh passing his lips that was the closest he could come to communicating all that nostalgia and guilt building up within his chest. He had been terribly far gone, and he swears, at some point he had heard your voice call out his name. 

And for a second there, he had believed you really were there.

It wasn’t because you had called out his name so sweetly, it wasn’t because there had been some sort of longing in your tone that echoed in his ears. No, he had heard your voice, and you had been angry. Furious, venomous in the way you had spit out his name. Each echo of it in that empty hotel room had felt like a residual punch to the gut, and for a second, he truly believed you were there with him. You were there, and you were angry, and all he could feel in his inebriated state was sheer happiness at the thought of seeing you again. He didn’t care if you screamed in his face. He didn’t care if you shot nothing but insults his way. It would be enough if you were there. He just wanted you to be there. 

It had been a sore disappointment when he’d sat straight up in the bed that wasn’t his, in a room he wouldn’t see again after the night passed, and found himself to still be entirely and utterly alone. 

He had wished you were there. He had wished that he could fight with you rather than drown out his sorrows. 

And the Universe is funny in granting wishes, because now, he’s getting exactly what he had yearned for that night. 

Your eyes are wide, pupils blown out, chest heaving with rapid breaths are you both simply stare. He doesn’t know where to start – but he remembers where it had ended the last time. 

“You stopped saying you loved me.”

It’s already an unfair fight, uneven playing ground. Because how does he explain that? How does he explain how even if the words stopped leaving his lips, the feeling never paused its growth in his bones? You were rooted too deeply within him, even once your presence had been replaced with your absence, and he can’t imagine a day coming where he doesn’t love you. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, “Would you like-”

“It was more than the physical leaving,” you interrupt him, “It was the… emotional leaving. That’s where we left off before Matt came into the studio.”

Straight to the point then, so it seems. 

You stopped saying you loved me.

He did, didn’t he? He couldn’t fight against facts. 

I never needed elaborate metaphors or pretty words, Eddie.

And he had been well aware of that. Perhaps that’s exactly why he’d gone and overdone it with the songs, with the lyrics, with the poetry. He gave you everything he had left, everything he knew you wouldn’t need. 

I just needed to know you still fucking loved me.

And what is crueler than finally telling you how he knew that? That at the time, he had been so well aware that’s exactly what you had needed to hear, and perhaps that was exactly why he stopped saying it. 

Keep you at an arm’s distance. Keep you safe and sound, miles away from the disaster of impending doom. 

Miles away from him.

I can explain, he nearly says, but he doesn’t want to lie to you. His explanation is hardly palpable, and surely not something you would be able to stomach. He can hardly stomach it. 

Instead, he tries to stand his ground, as if he could ever stand a chance against you, “What else was I supposed to do?” 

Wrong choice of words.

“What else?” you parrot back in disbelief, finally looking less sad, less broken. This could work, he thinks. To see you fiery and alive, even in all your anger against him, rather than some broken thing, “Would you like to me to list out all of the fucking options you had?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, but when he doesn’t respond, you decide to answer the obvious. 

“You could have taken ten extra seconds on the phone to say love you, babe. You could have texted me the damn words. You could have- just- you could have just told me if you were getting sick of me!” 

He doesn’t know which is a bloodier catastrophe – the shaking in your voice as you yell out the last part, or the twist of his stomach at hearing it. 

Sick of you. You had thought he was sick of you. 

“I wasn’t sick of you,” it comes out snappier than intended, but all that his tongue seems to care about is that the words are out there – no care in the fragility of tone. “I was- it was just a lot. It was our biggest tour yet, and-”

“Oh!” you laugh out, and his blood is beginning to go cold. All the warmth is leaking out, and all he can think about is twenty four hours ago. How warm it had been beneath his covers, your body curled against his, not a worry in the world. “Oh, I’m sorry. It was a lot? I’m so glad, in that case, that I took the stress of our relationship off your plate,” your voice is still cracking with every syllable. All he can think about is how it had sounded breathing out against his ear, “I just- Jesus, you ask me why I left? That’s why. Forget the bullshit about loving me. Maybe I just felt like a burden. Have you considered that?”

Sweet memories of the night before snaps away like elastic, back out of reach, your words yanking him back down to reality abruptly. 

You, of all people, felt like a burden. To him. 

The person he saw a future with – the person he wanted a future with. The only one he had wanted to see at the end of each wearing day on tour, tears clogging his throat up to the point where he pretended to be asleep so he could avoid having to try and chat with his bandmates. The only one who could have soothed whatever ferocious ache that had materialized deep within him while on the road, that he had foolishly tried to replace with a million different things that only ended up leaving him more empty. The only cure to a homesickness that had ruined him in the end. 

You had never been a burden. But he was fucking it all up, and he was watching the weight of that belief fall down upon your shoulders again. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that!” he’s desperate now, struggling to find ways to fix this. There was a fine line when it came to the fight, a dance between seeing you alive and willing to put up your fists for whatever was left of the two of you versus seeing you broken and unwilling to help him fix it, and he’s sure he’s crossed it. Irreversible damage is being done, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, “It wasn’t- You weren’t- The problem was never…. Never….”

Fix it, fix it, fix it. 

“Don’t say that the problem wasn’t me,” you huff out, almost laughing, looking right at him. Dead in the eyes, but still putting up the fight, “If I weren’t the problem, you wouldn’t have pushed me away. You would have- I don’t know, just let me in. We were supposed to be a team.”

He can’t deny a single word falling from your mouth. You’re right – he knows you’re right, sure as he knows the sun sets in the West, and he knows there’s nothing to be said that can fix this. 

He chose to break this. This wasn’t some terrible accident; Eddie had gripped the wheel with both hands, shaking white knuckles in control, and had driven the two of you straight off the road. 

—

He can’t breathe. 

It’s all he could think about the moment he saw your contact light up the screen of his phone, as he swiped to answer, as he said his pitiful hello. Your voice doesn’t unlatch the tightness from around his lungs, your sweet words do nothing to lighten the load upon his chest. If anything, he almost swears you’re making it worse.

He can’t breathe, because he can’t handle you making it worse. 

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He wasn’t supposed to dread the phone calls. He wasn’t supposed to come up with lies about how his day has gone. He’s not supposed to be jumping through hoops to guarantee you can’t find out the truth.

Whenever he’d imagined these calls amidst his daydreams for this very life, give or take, he’d always assumed they’d be boiling over with the truth. That spilling out the mundane details of his day would come naturally, that he’d probably make you laugh by making sure you knew exactly which pair of mismatched socks he’d thrown on for the day. He thought he’d be honest; he’d be happy, and he’d be honest.

At the end of the day, he supposes he’d always thought the truth would have been something different. 

He’s staring at the bottle of pills recently prescribed to him through whatever low-profile doctor his manager had found for him, meant to help him sleep these days after he’d had an entire private breakdown over his restlessness and a proper scolding for his ever-growing use of plain pot, and your voice prattling on about something is entirely lost on him.

When did that happen? When did he zone out when you, of all people, spoke to him?

You’re mid sentence when he cuts you off, “Hey, baby.” 

A pause that feels like eternity to him, but probably goes unnoticed by you. He’s gotten good at that – he’s gotten good at churning out little infinities for himself amongst the seconds for others. Time to ruminate, time to rot, time to decay. A coping mechanism since privacy has become a foreign thing. 

“I’m sorry, but they need me for soundcheck,” he says the lie so easily, it scares him. His palms shake at the realization that it was so simple, so second nature to him now. 

Lying to you. He was lying to you. A realization that twists his gut painfully as it settles deep within him. 

Soundcheck had finished over an hour ago. Showtime wasn’t for another two. He had the time for you – he had specifically made sure to have the time for you after dancing around your texts and calls the last week. 

Why was he making up an excuse to end the call? He’d made the time. Why?

“Oh.” 

He can’t fucking breathe. He can hear the disappointment, and he can’t fucking breathe.

One little word. Two insignificant letters. They ruin him in too many ways to formulate. 

“Oh, that’s fine!” your desperate attempt at a recovery doesn’t fool him for a second, but maybe you had sensed his mind being so far away. Maybe you had assumed he’d fall for the nauseatingly fake mask of joy, “Go, they need you.” 

Do they, though? Do they truly, genuinely need him? 

It had been a question keeping him up lately. The very question that was meant to be quieted by the Zolpidem that he continues to burn holes through the bottle of with his heavy eyes. 

Lately, it had felt a lot less like they needed him, and more like everyone around him needed the idea of him. They needed the rockstar, the frontman. They needed the man who would get on stage every night and sing his heart out, who would smirk at a crowd of adoring fans and wink at them in order to send their hearts racing. The charming trickster who could produce honey words both over a record and over interviews, luring in new fans at every corner. 

They needed his hands, only so that they may write words across pages and play instruments across tracking. 

They needed his vocal chords, to sing the lyrics to market, and to smooth talk the early morning show host. 

They needed his heart, so they could tear it apart and devour it right in front of him, uncaring that they would leave him with nothing but a bloody mess by the end of it. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and he knows you won’t be able to taste the dryness of it. His entire tone has been flat – the laugh is no different. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?” 

He hates rockstar duties. He hates it all. 

He hates the lights that are always too warm while he’s up on stage, gasping with every breath to try and find the joy once more in his tired bones. He hates the tight schedule, and the way he can’t even have enough free time to leave his hotel room to see half the cities he’s visited. He hates the flashing phones across the crowd, all vying for a photo more than they are a connection.

He’s being drained dry. He has nothing left to give – by the time he’s meant to come home to you, he will have less than nothing. 

“Of course. Go give ‘em Hell.” 

His fingers can’t work fast enough. Your soft oh had broken him, but this shatters him. 

Because that’s what they want, isn’t it? They want him to give them Hell, packaged in the euphoria of a false Heaven. And yet, at the end of the day, the only one receiving the fires of the Hell is him. The loneliness, the demanding weight of the world, the bottom of a parched well. Everyone else lives in a dream from what he can give them, but Eddie? 

Eddie is left with nothing. 

He hangs up just in time for the first sob to leave him. Dry as he felt, dry as his laughter. He couldn’t even choke out a pathetic love you. And his ears are ringing, and somewhere in the buzz, he tries to decipher out the last time he had said those words to you. He knows the sound of your sweet tongue awarding him the affection – you say it at every chance you get – but he can’t recall when he’d last offered you that piece of his soul. 

Did he still love you? 

Yes, the violent thing in him sobs as he lets out another croak, doubling over and tossing his phone away blindly, I do. And that’s the issue. 

He was a ticking time bomb now. He knew there was an inevitable end coming for him, and he was terrified he wouldn’t survive this tour. 

And you – his darling light, the one he was supposed to race home to and was supposed to hold close to his heart as motivation to make it through so that this tour would not be the end – wouldn’t survive it either. The blast radius, the implosion. You were something too soft, too gentle to handle that. He couldn’t do that to you. 

He couldn’t ruin you. And so he was pushing you away. 

Somewhere through the gasping breaths and shake of his shoulders, he reaches to find his phone again. His eyes burn, but no tears come as he stares down at a now cracked screen. He’s hyperventilating – he can’t catch his breath, no matter how wide his chest and lungs try to expand. It’s been stolen from him.

All of it has been stolen from him. His happiness, his dreams, you. 

A month back, he had to change his lockscreen from his favorite photo of you. It had been at a party, and one of the sleazes dressed in leather and cigarette smoke had thrown his arm around Eddie just in time to get a peek at his lockscreen. 

‘Take a load of that,’ the stranger had commented with a low whistle, whiskey on his breath suffocating. 

Eddie had tried to not judge him the entire night. Sometimes, when he was looking at him, he saw the reflection of himself these days. 

‘What?’ Eddie had tried to laugh off, looking more properly through his drunkenness at that vibrant photo of you. His girl, the one he wanted to go home to. All big smiles and aching cheeks, laughing probably at something stupid he had done. 

He could see your bare thighs brushing the sheets of your shared bed back home – it started a hollow ache of longing to feel them wrap him up again. The sheets, your thighs, your arms. 

The small bunks on the bus and the hotel rooms didn’t compare to sleeping next to you. He thought if you had been there, if you had been with him, maybe this all would have been easier. 

‘That fine piece of meat on your screen, man,’ the guy motioned vaguely with a deep chuckle. ‘Fuck, is that what’s waiting for you back home?’

The sinking feeling had started then. The urge to flip his phone over and hide you away began to accumulate, his hand twitching with it. 

‘Yeah, that’s my girlfriend,’ he had said. Choked the words out. Tried to brush off his worry.

That’s just how the guys on the road had spoken. It was fine. It would be fine. 

‘Shoulda brought her on the road,’ the man had sighed. ‘Then we all could have gone a few rounds with her.’

Eddie had never leapt up from a couch quicker. He had also never vomited up more of his guts in a stranger’s plants than he did immediately upon running out the back door. 

Your photo had been exchanged for a stock image the next day. 

The memory still makes him sick. 

He swipes right over that very stock image, one he never cared enough to change because the only photo worth replacing it with was one he could no longer share with this world, to unlock his screen to find his texts with you already open. 

His thumbs are shaking, alien, almost unwilling as he commands them to type a message. 

Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be pushing you away. He shouldn’t be sinking deeper into this crowd of uncaring faces, of people who only want him for what he can give them. 

Maybe he should come crawling back to the one who wants him for his hands, and the way you could hold them out in your lap as you traced the softest of patterns over sensitive skin, a secret message of adoration poured from your own fingertips. 

Maybe he should confide more in the one who wants him for his vocal chords, and for the conversations that could be had in the middle of the night, upholding his opinions on anything and everything with the most importance. And in the shield of the night, sometimes even the day, he couldn’t possibly say the wrong thing – not with you. 

Maybe he should remember to love the one who wanted his heart, simply to handle it with care instead of devourment. 

The simple message of I love you is typed out. His thumb hovers over the small send button. 

Maybe he should let you back in. Maybe he could survive this. 

His thumb diverts suddenly, backing out of the conversation, back into the rows of texts awaiting to be opened and read. Left to smolder just like all his missed calls, missed birthdays, missed holidays. Friends from back when everything felt real, and more sleazes in leather and cigarette smoke. People who devour. People who want what he gives, never what he is. 

Wayne, somewhere amongst the missed connections, just asking if Eddie is alive. If his boy is okay. 

He goes ignored, just as you had as of late, and for all the same reasons. Same lump stuck in Eddie’s throat, same weight on his chest. 

The thumb finds its way to a text chain with someone who can’t fill the hole in Eddie’s chest, but he certainly had offered something at one of those after parties that might be a good place to start. 

Maybe Eddie should just get more of that, more sweet releases without a prescription, something to send his mind swirling until he forgets that you, that Wayne, that even he exists. Yes, that might be the best idea he’s had all week – he types out a message and hits send without hesitation this time to a stranger with his worst interests in mind, asking if he might have any more of that snow in the dead of July he’d been offered at the party. 

His text to you, unfortunately, is never sent.

—

“You want me to let you in?” Eddie suddenly says as he snaps back into his body, into his current mind and current situation. 

He can’t change the past. He’d give anything – God, he’d give everything – to go back to that night and make different choices, better choices, but he can’t. 

All he really has is the here and now. This version of him, and this version of you. The current you, who hates him and absolutely should. The current him, who’s six weeks sober yet has finally seen the light. 

The past doesn’t matter, and yet the past is the entire reason for this. 

“Yes,” you laugh as dryly as he had that night during that final call, throwing your head back in your own desperation, “Jesus Christ, yes. That’s all I ever wanted, all I fucking asked f-” 

He cuts you off by suddenly storming off, but it’s not away from the situation. Not this time. 

Down the hallway, through the door only himself and you have ever passed through. Across the carpeted floors and straight for the stack of notebooks scattered beside the couch. 

Somewhere in the mess, he finds the notebook he’s looking for, right on top of his laptop he needs. 

You trail in behind him, seemingly stunned by his rash actions – except they’re not that rash. He may be moving fast, erratically even, but this is the most sane he’s ever felt with how he’s handling the situation that has become the two of you. 

“You want me to let you in?” he repeats, and you stare with confused eyes, mouth barely agape, entirely lost for a moment, “Fine. I’ll let you in.”

He throws the notebook your way, and your reflexes are your savior as you catch the flutter conglomeration of paper between your palms. The laptop, however, he’s smarter about. 

“Clearly, you’ve already seen my notebook of lyrics,” he says as he huffs, setting the laptop up on the coffee table, rummaging for a pair of headphones he knows he’s left somewhere in this mess, “Why not take it a step further, yeah? I have the demos right here, on my laptop. I’ve been recording them for ages, and having copies of any we try out in the studio sent over to me. I want you to listen to them, because obviously, just reading everything I wanted to say to you doesn’t wo-”

You nearly fling the notebook right back at him, slamming it down against the side of your thigh, “I don’t want songs!” 

He pauses, looks up at you, nearly deranged. “No? You just asked me to let you in, and this is me letting you in.” 

“That’s not- this isn’t-” you stutter over your words and he can see your eyes begin to sparkle with tears as you approach him, just as frustrated as he was now. “I want you to speak to me, Eddie! I’m tired of listening to second-hand accounts and I’m tired of all the versions of you, of this fight, in my head! Use your words,” you make your way between him and the table, the laptop, falling to your knees slowly, the notebook being tossed away for a moment as both your palms come to grip his knees. He can’t tell if you’re trying to ground him, or yourself, “I am here. Right fucking here, right in front of you. And after all this time, you still can’t talk to me.”

He feels the way you shake with those gentle palms on his bruised knees. He’s terrified – the rough fabric of his jeans isn’t thick enough to keep you away. There’s not enough layers of any fabric on this planet that could ever be thick enough to keep you from feeling that rot. And you must feel it – you must feel all those holes that have whittled away at the man you once knew. 

The man you once loved. 

He doesn’t think he can ever be that man again. They did more than break his spirit over the years, or crush his childhood dreams. 

Something snapped in the foundation of him. 

“I…”A lump he’s felt as though he’s lived a lifetime without finally returns. The same one from that terrible night in which he made every wrong choice possible. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Your face falls, ever so slightly. “It’s not about what I want-” 

“Yes,” he stops you, hands coming down to press over yours. Your skin is warmer than his, and he fights the urge to flip your palms up. Press the softest of your skin against the roughest of his, intertwining unworthy fingers between slots unmeant for him, “It is. It absolutely is.”

Just how silently can a heart break? 

You don’t pull back from his touch, and it almost feels like progress. Silent shattering can almost be mended with the way you only let your left palm weakly squeeze at his knee once, twice. 

He waits for the third squeeze, but it never comes. 

“Then there’s where we start,” you whisper, looking down at where his hands hover over yours.

“Start with what?”

“Fixing things.” 

You finally pull your hand away, a slow drag that sends shivers up his spine. He has half the mind to try and capture your hand in his to prevent it; one last desperate attempt to cling to you and all the ways you could heal him. All the ways you could love him. A world of possibility, another time in the Universe where you adore him and he’s never hurt you. Where his shelves are filled with photos of the two of you, together. Where he doesn’t fold you out of the frame, and where his walls are just a little less cold. 

A time, a world, where home feels like home again. 

“We need to stop saying what we think the other person wants to hear,” you croak out as you stand up, almost ashamed. As if realization has finally washed over you of just what you had done – gotten down on your knees and begged him, pleaded with him. “If this is going to work, that…. It has to stop.” 

We need to stop being what we think the other needs. We don’t know what the other needs. 

The unspoken truth you don’t need to say to him. He gets it, he really does. 

This entire relationship, this entire situation the two of you have stumbled into headfirst, needs to be a fresh start. As far as either of you should be concerned, you need to be strangers. No history, no marks, no dust. 

It’s a challenge Eddie would have balked at a mere six weeks ago, but that he faces head-on now. The thought of forgetting you, untangling your soul from his, in order to make new knots doesn’t scare him as much as he should. It’s his chance to start over; his chance to start fresh and new, a clean slate he’d begged for every night amidst every new mistake he had made in your absence. 

He could do this. And by the look on your face, you could also do this. 

“Agreed,” he finally stands up from the couch, nodding more to himself than to you, “Start new. Start fresh. Some inspirational quote from those fucking Facebook moms I hate.” 

A smile nearly cracks on your face, “You hate Facebook moms?” 

“Oh, I loathe them,” he leans in a bit closer, as though he might be letting you in on a secret. Really, he’s just trying to distract you from his wound – that terrible gash in his chest this fight had opened back up, a slice from the past he’ll need the night to stitch back together, “It’s okay, though. The feeling’s mutual.”

Your laugh is weak, and it’s proof enough that it isn’t forced. “Figured as much. I guess the Satanic panic wasn’t just a Hawkins’ thing, huh?” 

Hawkins. God, he hadn’t spoken about Hawkins with anyone, any single soul, in so long that the name of the town almost felt foreign. 

“Guess not,” he quirks his mouth, tilting his head at you, trying to chase away the reeling you’re sending him on. If he thinks too hard about Hawkins, he’ll think too hard about more names he hasn’t uttered in a year. More people left behind, more memories left to burn, “So… Now what?” 

He needs to change the topic, to run away one last time. There’s other nights ahead for the two of you to open those wounds of his. Tonight is not the night. 

You shrug, looking around the room, “I mean… we have a contract to fulfill.” 

“I’m sure my people will get in touch with your people.” 

“I also have work tomorrow.” 

“I’m sure I could call a cab for you in the morning.” 

“Eddie.” 

A selfish part of him had hoped if he’d given in and fought, you might stay another night. That maybe the fight would give him everything he had wanted, and then some. 

Another night. Another clean slate. Another chance to prove himself. 

But by the break in your voice as you say his name, he knows he was clearly delusional. 

“Or I could call you one tonight,” he secedes softly, failing at hiding most of his disappointment. It doesn’t matter – it doesn’t change a thing. “You’ll probably need your beauty sleep. No need for some aggravating rockstar to interrupt all your rest with his lousy guitar playing.” 

“Stop that,” you insist, face falling a bit too serious for his liking. He had been trying to joke around, “I- Your guitar playing is not lousy. We both know that.”

“Lousy or legendary, it still keeps you up.” 

He watches the contort of your face, and his chest constricts. He wants to be able to read your mind, look past that sudden stoic wall that falls over your eyes and flat lips. Chip past the marble facade to understand why those words seemingly sucked all the air out of the room just now. 

“Yeah,” you say, but you sound miles away, looking over his shoulder, breaths a bit unsteady. “Yeah… You’re, uh, you’re right. I don’t mind calling my cab-”

“I insist,” he rushes out, still scanning your face, still grasping for straws to get a glimpse inside your brain. 

What did he do wrong? What had he said? 

“You really don’t-” 

“Consider it done.” 

His phone is already in hand, and the number already half dialed into it isn’t just the city’s taxi service. It’s his driver’s.

His personal driver. Is that what had made you uncomfortable? Had you realized that before he’d even called for one of those SUVs to be your ride home? 

Was he coming on too strong for all this talk of a fresh start? 

You pick your battles, and just as he had lost the war to have you stay, you let him dial the number. Wander to the corner of the room as he talks to the man only he’s familiar with over his cell phone, fingers tracing over the few instruments littering the space. He wonders if you take note of which ones you pull away from with a smudge of dust on the pad of your finger, and if you can see the desperate wear worn into others from late nights like the night before. If you can see the scratch marks covering guitars from violent strumming, or rough circles over the keys of a keyboard he’s propped against the wall after it had stopped emitting noise due to being kicked off its stand after a particularly rough session. 

He wonders if tears can stain, and if you could see any of his panic and regret at that burst of violence. It was the night he swore off vodka. 

With confirmation of the SUV being on its way, he turns all his attention back on you, “See anything you like?”

You’d been staring at one specific acoustic guitar, one that had gathered more dust than any other instrument in the room. A stunning guitar polished to perfection, to the point of still being able to see your reflection in the onyx abyss of it below the layer of neglect. 

He knows exactly where your eyes have caught. A perfect carving of his initials, deeply cut into the rosewood right below the strings at the top of the neck. Dust had covered up the deep red painted into the hand-carved letters. 

“What?” you look over suddenly, almost as though you wanted to pretend you hadn’t seen it. But he knows you did, and he knows you had a good guess, an accurate guess, as to where that guitar came from. “I- No- I mean, yes! Sorry, I just… A lot of instruments, I guess?” 

You’re biting your lip, clearly nervous, as he forces a smile, “Yeah. Always swore I’d have a room like this when we- I had a place of my own someday.”

He knows the blood has drained from his face at his slip up. Feels the cold creep into his cheeks, as he clears his throat awkwardly. 

“You did,” you grant him the grace of ignoring it. Save him the embarrassment, and move right along, “What kind of guitar is that one?” you pause, turning back to the guitar you’d locked your sights on and jut your chin in it’s direction, “A… Yamaha, right?” 

“Yamaha F335,” he confirms, walking up behind you, looking at the dark beauty, “Nothing extravagant, but…”

“You always said Yamaha never felt cheap,” you murmur under your breath, smiling as if lost in a memory, “Under two hundred bucks, and you still sounded like Kirk Hammett when you hammered out those solos over Master of Puppets.” 

He wishes you wouldn’t do this. Not now, not when you aren’t spending the night. Not when a car is coming to take you away, and not when he knows your knees are still raw from falling to them and begging him of all people to just talk to you. 

“It was a crime,” he chokes out in a tight tone, having to cough a little to loosen up his words before continuing, “Playing such a metal album on an acoustic. Always sounded better on Sweetheart.” 

You continue to tear him open, rib by rib, as you softly say, “Yeah, but Wayne always seemed to like that music a little better when you played it that way instead.”

It feels as though it’s finally his turn to fall to his knees. 

You don’t even notice the unraveling, reaching up to caress over the strings covering the simple cursive EM on the neck. Almost out of reach from where the guitar sways on the wall mount. 

“Does she have a name?” 

He has to gather himself before he can reply, “What?” 

“The guitar,” you glance over your shoulder, eyes shining just a bit. He thinks he knows why you wouldn’t face him now. Why you’d kept your back to him, “You always named your guitar. Don’t tell me you grew out of that, Munson.”

This smile isn’t quite as forced, but it quivers all the same on his lips and cheeks, “Never. His name’s Nelson.”

Your face scrunches a bit, “Nelson? His name’s Nelson?”

“Yep.” 

He can’t help the way the word comes out so short, so quipped. You’re both treading in very dangerous territory now. 

“That’s…” you nod, deep in thought as you trail off, and he wonders if you caught on, “Odd. But I like it. What was the inspiration?” 

He has to lie. He can’t admit it to you. There is only so much blood left in his body to bleed out tonight, and he simply cannot give you the full truth now. 

“A bit of a nod to the person who gifted it to me,” he offers as much of the truth he can, but if you ask him for any more specifics, he simply can’t.

You look between him and the guitar, a small smile growing, and it breaks his heart, “Oh? And who- I mean… may I ask who gifted it?” 

His entire body aches as he forces out, “An old friend.”

Eddie Munson hates himself. More than he ever believed possible, to the point of a stomach churning with sheer sickness as you nod at the oddly quiet answer, finally taking the hint. 

He hates himself. He hates what he has become. He hates what he has destroyed. 

“Sounds-” you’re cut off by the ringing of his phone, incessant chiming from his driver to announce his arrival. 

The conversation ends there. Eddie informs you your ride is here, and he trails after you slowly as you gather your things. He feels the apartment drop colder and colder as each article of you is snatched up, no malicious intent but painful all the same, until he’s finally walking you to the elevator with his hands shoved in his pockets. 

“So,” you nearly stumble over your own two feet as you try to face him in the final few steps, clumsy and nervous as ever. Even if the fight has cleared some of the air, offered some clean slate, some things never change, “I guess your people will call my people?” 

He only nods, discreetly tucking his hand back away that had shot out, ready to catch you. 

“Okay,” you nod, eyeing him as though you have more to say. A million words, a million questions, a million topics to avoid. He really wishes you would spend the night. “Well, then…. See you around, I guess?” 

Bruised knees, avoidant eyes, tight throats. The two of you are such a mess, it’s no longer funny. 

“See you around, Sugar.” 

The elevator dings with its arrival, and Eddie doesn’t let you get another word in before he’s motioning you in. Away from him, away from the damage, away from the impending explosion. 

He almost wonders if you had the same look on your face the final day you’d left your shared apartment with him as he watches the two doors slide shut. 

He doesn’t linger, though. The moment you’re locked away from him, he’s rushing back to his apartment. The only one on the entire floor, entirely secluded in his tower, cursed to solitude as a private punishment. Whenever anyone had asked in the past, it had always been the excuse of privacy – but he knows better. 

Eddie Munson had torn himself limb by limb, cutting every lifeline ever tied to him, long before he’d moved into this chilling penthouse. 

He avoids the urge to run to one of his panoramic windows, trying to remind himself he won’t be able to see thirteen floors down to the street where you’re surely rushing into that familiar black SUV. He takes a sharp turn down his hallway, feeling almost robotic, returning back to that cursed room the two of you had just broken each other inside moments before. 

Straight to the back wall, and straight to the black Yamaha guitar. Straight to Nelson.

His hands shake as he pulls the instrument away from the wall just enough to see a note that barely clings to hand-polished wood, tape aged and paper crumbled. Yet the ink is still visible. The scar, it seems, is not quite healed as he reads over the messy scrawl. 

For my boy. Give them Hell, kid. And maybe give your old man a call. 

Love, Wayne.

[blue-sadie]

Chained

Jake Sully x Human Reader x Tonowari

Summary: you are theirs so they get to decide when you've had enough.

Warning: restraints, forced orgasms, fisting, jerking off, double penetration, squirting, fainting

Yn/3rd person pov

My body shook and shivered with pleasure as they ripped yet another orgasm from me my arms and legs struggling against the restraints.

"That's is, that's it" jake growled as he thrusted his fist in and out at a rapid pace while tonowari sat at the end of the bed stroking his cock as he watched us.

"N-no can't" I struggled trying to pill away from him but I couldn't jake laughed at my attempt using his free hand to wrap around my body locking me in place.

"Nah uh ah" he chuckled curling his fingers sending me over the edge for a 5th time but this time after I calmed down he finally pulled out.

I sighed in relief that I could finally rest but I was so wrong "get ready for me baby" he muttered as he slipped off his loincloth letting his cock spring loose.

I cried trying to get away "no please jake" I cried my voice starting to become horse he shook his head as he entered my back arching at the stretch.

"Your ours today baby so we decide when its enough" he groaned as he started thrusting roughly.

Tonowari growled out as he cam he sat watching us before finally coming to join us "aww look who decided to join the party" jake laughed.

Tonowari rolled his eyes as they moved me over so I was sandwiched between them "please" I begged I didn't know what for, for them to stop or carry on.

My vision was starting to weaken as they both thrusted in my moans becoming so loud they had to cover my mouth.

"We got you baby we got you" jake huffed as he started rubbing my clit and tonowaris lips were attached to my neck.

My breathing started becoming more shallow and with each second I feel myself becoming more tired.

"Fuck your clenching" tonowari yelled out as him and jake cam inside me and I screamed out myself.

I watched in horror as I squirted my juices spraying onto jake as he bit his lip "fuck baby" he groaned and as they started to praise me their voices started lowering down till they were just a whisper.

My vision turning completely black as I feel limp against him, tonowari started freaking out but all jake did was put a hand on his chest and said in the most calming tone.

"She can handle it"

Tag.List

@greekgods15

@sweetirilly

[yourdarkcherry]

The Ballad of the Lost and the Living

Ch.1

Summary: It’s the end of the fucking world. Infected humans roam the earth, trying to tear each other apart, and survival is all that matters. For the past year, you've learned the hard way not to trust anyone. People are more dangerous than the infected. But then you meet Peter Parker. The kind, persistent, and somehow still hopeful despite the chaos Peter Parker. When you run into him while scavenging for supplies, your instincts scream to push him away. But something about him makes you take a leap of faith. He tells you about a sanctuary that his group found, a place where maybe, just maybe, you can rebuild what’s been lost.

Warnings: zombie apocalypse, rape/noncon, reader has parental issues, violence, reader is black, explicit sexual content.

You used to have preferences for water. Apparently, you couldn’t drink just any kind of water. It had to be cold, with condensation running down the tall glass. It must be bottled water, not tap, because that was just disgusting. It had to be slightly alkaline—you didn’t even know how you could tell the difference, but you believed whatever the water company told you.

But now, you don’t really give a fuck.

It was the end of the world. Any kind of water was good enough, as long as it was clean. Obviously, you had to boil it first before drinking it. But in your current state, you couldn’t even manage that. Not when you were standing on one good leg, with a fever making you feel hot and cold at the same time.

The bit of water in a bottle on the cashier counter of the pharmacy looked good enough to you, so you downed it along with an antibiotic pill.

Why the fuck were antibiotic pills so goddamn big?

Allegedly, before the world ended you were crowned the nickname of “Picky Princess” you almost want to laugh at that name as you rip off a bit of beef jerky with your teeth.

The world ended about a bit over a year ago, you were with a group. It consisted of your college friends and a few strangers that decided to join you. Then one of you suggested entering an abandoned mall. It was a small one, but surely there were gonna be some supplies begging to be scavanged.

A stupid mistake—one careless noise—and suddenly there were too many of them. You could still hear the screams, still see the way the blood splattered across the shiny tile floors.

You were the only one who made it out.

That was three months ago. Since then, you haven’t spoken to another human being. You haven’t heard your own voice in so long, it felt foreign to you now.

You were doing fine on your own. Until a rapid dog chased you, and you scraped your leg with metal wiring in your escape. You slept two days with the wound after covering it and washing it with water. But it grew irritated by the third day and made walking difficult for you.

It’s why you wound up in this pharmacy in a small town just south of New York. You want to sit down on the filthy floor, your legs unable to handle your weight any longer.

You capped the empty water bottle and slid it back onto the counter like it mattered to leave things tidy. That’s when you heard it: the faint sound of shuffling feet and something metallic clinking nearby.

You froze.

“Hey,” a voice called softly, startling you.

You whipped around, your knife already in hand, aiming at the figure standing in the aisle. A guy—tall, lean but still has some muscle to him, with big innocent brown eyes. His hands were up, palms out in a gesture of surrender.

“Whoa, easy,” he said, his voice calm but a little shaky. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

You didn’t lower your knife, not really buying his words.

“Get the fuck away from me,” you growled, “or I’ll stab the fuck out of you.”

He hesitated but didn’t move closer. His eyes flicked to your leg, the blood-stained bandage, and then back to your face. “I don’t think you’re in any condition to do that,” he said, a hint of nervous humor in his tone.

His attempt at dissociating the tension didn’t work. So, he cleared his throat and then you noticed his lack of supplies. He didn’t have a backpack, just a gun on a holster and perhaps a small pocket knife hidden in that big buckle of his belt.

Did he have companions? Did he leave his supplies with them?

You don’t trust him for even one second. The current state of the world takes away your trust in humans, and in men even more.

Men are more cruel than the infected. At least with the infected they would eat you up and not leave you to suffer.

"Miss, look…” He took a step closer, his hands still raised. But you weren’t buying it. “I got separated from my group about two days ago. I don’t have any supplies. I haven’t eaten anything since then. Will you be so kind as to share that?” He said then pointed at your right hand, that one that had the beef jerky.

His eyes were wide now, something in his face giving away the desperation creeping through. You could see it—the faint quiver of his lips, the sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the chill air around you.

You stared at him, eyes narrowing, the knife still loosely in your left hand, and for a moment, you considered just walking away. Leaving him to fend for himself, like everyone else you’d come across. It wouldn’t make a difference, would it?

Humans were as dangerous as the infected. That much you were sure of.

But then, you felt it. The gnawing hunger in your gut, the fever that made your head spin. You had barely enough for yourself, and the pain in your leg wasn’t making it easier. The antibiotic pill you’d just swallowed felt like a joke—useless unless you could properly rest and get more nourishing food.

You don’t know what it is about this man. You decide to blame it on his innocent brown eyes. With that, you take a leap of faith and sigh as you unzip your backpack and take out a can of beans. You place it on the floor, and kick it to him with your good leg.

He froze for a moment, staring at the can as though it were some kind of treasure. Then his gaze snapped up to meet yours, uncertainty still written across his face.

He didn’t waste any more time. He crouched down quickly, hands trembling as he grabbed the can.

“Thank you,” he said.

You nodded once, but that was all. No more words. It felt wrong, somehow, to let him think this was something more than survival. You weren’t in the business of making friends anymore.

Glancing back at the exit of the pharmacy, you made sure no one was coming in. The faint sound of the wind rattling the door was the only thing you could hear.

“I’ll get out of your hair now.” He says, then takes the empty water bottle you just downed from the counter. “Just so you know, there’s a herd coming. Less than ten minutes away. If you want to survive, you should leave. Now.”

With that, he turns around and heads towards the glass double doors. Before he pulls one open and leaves he looks at you. “Thank you.” He says, lifting the can. Before you can utter a word back, not that you know what to tell him in response anyway, he leaves.

You couldn’t help but feel the weight of his words—the warning about the herd. Less than ten minutes. Your heart thudded harder in your chest, but it wasn’t fear. It was that strange, gnawing sense of urgency.

You needed to move. You needed to find shelter before it was too late.

The door had barely closed behind him, and you already heard the distant groan of the infected. You didn’t waste a second in picking up the makeshift cane, and leaving from the back door—just in case he was lying to you and he did have companions with him who were possibly cannibalists, or even worse, rapists.

But as you stepped into the cold air outside, you weren’t expecting the herd to be coming from the back door. The sickening shuffle of their dragging feet. You spun around, and faced the back alley as your pulse spiked with the world tilted on its axis.

Panic rushed through you. The sounds of the herd grew louder, closer. Your instincts screamed for you to run.

You moved quickly, forcing your injured leg to carry you, but the pain surged through your body, threatening to pull you down at any moment. You stumbled forward, adrenaline flooding your veins. You had to keep moving.

But the uneven ground, the weight of exhaustion, and the gnawing pain in your leg all took their toll. You didn’t even see the big rock until your foot caught on it.

Your body lurched forward, your hands hitting the ground, and you barely managed to catch yourself before the impact. The world spun, and you tried to scramble back up, but your leg gave up on you.

You looked down and saw the blood seeping from a newly opened wound on your knee, gushing out and soaking into your jeans. Not with your good leg being injured as well too.

You knew you couldn’t escape like this. You’d never make it.

And with all honesty, you didn’t want to anymore.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you laid back, staring up at the sky, feeling the weight of your body sink into the cold ground.

Death wasn’t something you feared. After everything, it felt like a relief. You were tired. Your life had never been kind to you.

Despite growing up with a golden spoon in your mouth, you had the worst kind of upbringing. The kind that left scars deeper than any physical wound. You didn’t relate to the term “the angry man in the house” because you didn’t have one angry man. You had two angry people in your home. Two people who never once looked at you like you were worth anything more than a mistake and a waste of space.

So, you let go. You welcomed the darkness, the peace that came with knowing you weren’t going to fight anymore.

And then you heard it. The groan. The unmistakable sound of an infected drawing closer. The first one, its face twisted in hunger, crouched down near your bloody leg. Its mouth opened wide, ready to feast.

For a moment, you thought you’d be nothing more than their dinner. You only hope they would attack your vital points so you don’t have to suffer through it.

But then a loud gunshot pierces the air. The infected falls on the floor, unmoving. You barely registered what happened as you tried to blink through your blurred vision.

“Hang on!”

You felt strong arms grab you, pulling you up against someone’s chest. It was him. The man from the pharmacy.

You felt his breath on your ear, his body steadying yours, his arms pushing you upright as he whispered, “You’re not dying today. Stay with me.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you could believe him.

Your vision was still swimming, the world spinning as you barely managed to keep your head upright. He wasn’t giving you time to question it. He was keeping you alive. As much as you wanted to lift your weight, you couldn’t whatsoever.

Not short after, your vision dotted with black and the last thing you remember was your body once again hitting the floor.

[hunterscabin]

Fever

Request: Hi! I love your writing :). Could you write one where the reader has a really high fever, increased heart rate (like Sam in the one episode) and the brothers have to bring it down and take care of her. - Anonymous

Pairings: Dean x Reader; Sam x Reader

Warnings: Sick reader; hurt/comfort; fluff; the tiniest pinch of angsty Sam 

Word Count: 1.8k

"Is she getting ready for a hunt or a date?" Dean paced in front of the Impala while fiddling with his gun. "These werewolves aren't gonna kill themselves."

Sam let out a soft chuckle. Dean wasn't a patient man, but he had a particularly hard time waiting on you. "I'll go see what's taking her so long."

"Y/N?" Sam called for you down the hallway. "Dean's getting antsy." He reached your room and knocked loudly. "Normally I'd enjoy watching him squirm, but we've got a head start on this pack. We should really get going."

When you didn't respond, Sam checked to see if the door was locked. It wasn't, so he nudged his way in to find you buried under your covers. "Y/N! What are you still doing in bed?"

You turned your head toward the door with a groan. Sam's tone softened when he saw your complexion.  

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, walking toward your bed.

"I think it's the flu." The simple act of rolling over had the room spinning, and you squeezed your eyes shut to quell the nausea.

Sam moved his hand to your forehead and was surprised by how warm you felt. "You're burning up."

"I don't think I'm going to be much help today."

Sam knelt down to see his own puppy dog eyes looking back at him. He rubbed his thumb across your forehead and gave you a sympathetic smile. "I'll be right back."

Sam returned with a glass of water and some cold medicine. He helped you sit up and handed you two small pills. You took them quickly and set the glass of water on your nightstand.

"Dean's gonna be pissed," you remarked nervously, as you nestled back into your mountain of pillows.

"Don't worry about Dean," he assured, tucking you in. "I’ll take care of him.”

You watched through hazy eyes as Sam disappeared into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. He came back, crouching next to the bed, and placed the cool towel on your forehead. You sighed at the small relief it provided.   

“We should be back in a few hours.” Sam picked up your phone from the nightstand and gave it a wave before placing it next to your pillow. “Call if you need anything"

You responded with a weak smile. Sam switched off your lamp and stood to leave. He turned back as s he closed your bedroom door and saw that you were already sleeping. 

"I'm gonna get cleaned up and then check on Y/N." Sam dropped his muddy boots by the door.

"Tell her she missed a good one." Both men were covered in the evidence of their successful hunt. “Let me know if I can get her anything.” Dean gave his brother a hearty clap on the shoulder and turned to his bedroom. 

A quick shower and a clean pair of clothes later, Sam was outside your room. Not bothering to knock, he pushed the door open and leaned against the frame.

"Feeling any better, Y/N/N?" Sam whispered. When you didn't say anything, he tried again, raising his voice. "Y/N/N?" 

Growing concerned at your silence, Sam moved into your room, his long legs closing the distance between you in three easy strides. When he reached the bedside table, he turned on the lamp. In the light, he could see a thin layer of sweat covering your face and neck. 

"Y/N." Sam lifted his hand to your forehead and was alarmed to find that your fever had worsened. When you didn't so much as stir at his touch, Sam started to vigorously rub your arm. "Y/N/N!"

Sam placed his fingers on your neck. Your heart rate was rapid, and in checking your pulse, he noticed your breathing was shallow. He tried to rouse you once more and when you still didn’t respond, panic rolled through him in waves.

“Dean!”

Dean had just shrugged a clean flannel over his shoulders when he heard Sam yell his name from the other side of the bunker. He immediately took off, haphazardly fastening buttons as he ran down the hallway. Dean heard his name a second time and followed his brother’s voice to your room. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of Sam hovered over you, trying to shake you into consciousness.

"She won't wake up." Sam's voice lilted in fear. 

Dean marched toward the bed, moving Sam aside. He cupped your cheek and winced at the heat radiating off of you.

"Y/N!" Dean shouted gruffly. He knew his attempt was in vain, but he was still heartbroken when you didn't respond.   

"Sammy, we have to get her fever down." Dean pressed two fingers to your neck, confirming what Sam already knew. "Her heart rate is way too high."

Dean ran through their limited options before instructing Sam to run a bath. Sam darted toward your bathroom without question.

"Not too hot, not too cold." Dean instructed at the sound of running water. 

"I've got it, Dean." Sam’s tone was strained and agitated. 

Dean pulled off your covers. The cool air hitting your damp skin was enough to stir you into a state of semi-consciousness. You let out a long moan. 

“Y/N?” Dean held your face in his hands, willing your eyes to open. 

You leaned into his touch but could only respond with another whimper. Dean sighed in defeat. 

“I’m right here, Y/N/N.” Dean soothed, gathering you in his arms. “I’ve got you.”

When Dean entered the bathroom, Sam quirked his head in apology. Dean nodded knowingly; whenever you were hurt or in pain, they were both on edge.  

You let out another groan and Sam immediately stood to check you. 

"Is she awake?"

"Barely." Dean shifted you in his arms and motioned for Sam to take you. 

Not wanting to embarrass or expose you, the brothers kept you in the tank top and sleep shorts you were wearing. Dean cuffed his jeans and straddled the side of the bathtub, one foot submerged in the water and the other securely planted on the tile floor. Once his brother was positioned, Sam gently lowered you into the tub. Dean leaned forward to help support you.

As soon as your body made contact with the water, your teeth began chattering and your intermittent whimpers became a steady cry. Both brothers could feel your body tense, and they grew concerned about your already racing heart. 

“You’re okay, Y/N/N.” Sam palmed your cheek. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

It felt like someone had replaced your eyelids with steel doors, and the energy it took to try and open them made you nauseous. When your Y/E/C eyes finally appeared, they were met with Sam’s relieved face.

“Hi, baby girl.” Keeping his eyes on you, Sam took his hand from your cheek and grabbed a washcloth. He dipped it in the lukewarm water before wringing it out with both hands.

You were becoming more alert with each passing moment, and seeing Sam at the other end of the bathtub made you realize that he wasn’t the one keeping you upright. In any other instance you would have immediately assumed Dean was behind you, but the fever had made you incoherent, and your normal instincts were inaccessible. Anxiety swept through you at the thought of being held by a stranger in your vulnerable state, and you began to fight against Dean.

Sam saw you crane your neck to see who was behind you and understood your confusion.

“Y/N,” he dropped the washcloth and grabbed your hands, “Y/N/N, look at me. You’re okay. It’s Dean.” 

“It’s me, sweetheart.” Dean shifted so that you could see him. “It’s just me.”

It took you a moment to register Dean’s face, but once you knew it was him, you let out a shaky breath and relaxed into his arms. 

“That’s my girl.” Dean leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, relieved to feel that your feverish skin was cooling. “I’ve got you.”

Sam grabbed the floating washcloth and ran it over your face and arms. He stopped momentarily to check your pulse. The steady beat of your heart on his fingertips reassured him, and he nodded to Dean that the bath was helping. 

Once he was satisfied with your temperature, Dean lifted you out of the tub and placed you in his brother’s arms. Sam wrapped you in a warm towel and held you close before sitting you on the stool in front of your vanity. 

"Y/N?" Your tired eyes met his. "Do you think you can get yourself out of these wet clothes?"

You mumbled incoherently but found the strength to pull yourself to your feet. You gripped the counter top, and Sam helped steady you while you found your balance. 

"I'm going to hang your robe on the door." Sam closed the door and stood vigilant on the other side, ready to charge back in at the first sign of any distress. 

Gravity’s hold prayed on your weakened state, and every step, every reach was painfully exhausting. Time felt as languid as your movement, but after much effort, your wet clothes laid in a heap on the floor, and you had almost successfully wrapped yourself in your robe.

Thinking you had been quiet for too long, Sam knocked on the bathroom door, and you gave a small hum, letting him know he could enter. He opened the door to find you fumbling with the terry cloth belt.  

"Let me help, Y/N/N." His voice was soft and comforting. Once he secured the knot, he lifted you in his arms and carried you back into your room. 

Your head lolled to find Dean tucking clean sheets under the mattress. He smiled at the sight of you in Sam's arms, snuggled in your fluffy robe. 

"Thank you, Dean." you murmured. 

"Anytime." Dean winked as he pulled back the comforter, and Sam sat you on the edge of the bed. Dean handed Sam two small pills and a fresh glass of water. You took the medicine from Sam's hand, and he brought the water to your lips. 

A shiver ran through your body, and Sam lifted the collar of your robe before easing you onto your pillow and pulling the covers over you.

“Sammy?” Sam smiled, thankful that you’d regained enough strength to speak. “Stay, please.”

“Of course.” Sam brushed the hair away from your face and dropped a kiss on the top of your head before moving to sit in your reading chair.

“You too, De.”

“I’m right here, sweetheart.” Dean sat down on the trunk at the end of your bed and reached up to rub your leg.  

Their comforting presence allowed you to relax, and you quickly surrendered to sleep. No illness could compete with the love of Sam and Dean Winchester.

Masterlist

[nopainnowhump]

Cracks in the Glass Pt.5

(TW): forced medication, food control and refusal, power dynamics, manipulation, physical restraint, gaslighting, feeding tubes, and emotional distress.

“Do you want something else? Because if you have a preference, I’m sure I can find something else.”

I look at the tray and then at Thomas through the glass. He’s taking a seat after bringing me a dinner tray. I’m not hungry. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m starving, but I won’t eat. I can’t. How dare he? How dare he come here and act like he didn’t just hold me down and force pills down my throat?

I crawl over to the tray and roughly shove it back through the slot in the door, causing the contents to spill on the floor. Thomas takes a deep breath and sighs, keeping his composure as he moves closer to the glass.

"I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry we had to do that, but I need you to understand that we have your best interests at heart. I know it doesn’t seem like it, and I haven’t done anything to earn your trust, but I’m here to help you."

I scoff. I hate this game. What does he want? I turn my back to him and walk toward the bed. Hunger rolls through my stomach.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I don’t know why you’re getting so upset with us," Kyle sneers, his voice thick with mockery. "You should be upset with yourself for not doing what I told you. Three fucking days, I told you for three days that If you didn't eat you were gonna get tubed."

Strong arms lift me off the floor, and I’m too weak to fight back. The sedative is already dulling my senses, leaving my limbs sluggish and unresponsive. My shirt is soaked with tears and snot as I gasp in shallow, rapid breaths. Even as they drag me down the hall, I feebly try to kick at the floor, my movements pathetic and futile.

Kyle leads the way, his smug grin only making me feel smaller. "I gotta say, you’re my favorite patient," he taunts. "You always make my shift more exciting. A little bit of chaos to break up the monotony."

We pass through the double doors of a sterile bed bay. Without ceremony, the guards shove me into a chair, their hands like vices on my arms. I try to slide off, desperation giving me one last burst of energy, but it’s useless. Thick straps tighten across my arms and legs, pinning me down.

My stomach churns violently, but not from fear. The nausea has been unrelenting for days, a cruel aftermath of the experiments. Every bite of food twists in my gut, forcing me to relive the humiliation of throwing up in front of them, helpless and exposed. The mere thought of eating again makes bile rise in my throat.

I let out a weak yelp as Kyle approaches, a feeding tube in his hand. The sight of it makes my nausea worse, and I instinctively turn my head away.

"Now, now," he says mockingly, his voice dripping with condescension. He grabs my jaw roughly, his fingers digging into my skin like claws. I try to pull away, shaking my head weakly, but he holds firm.

"Stay still and be a good girl," he says, his tone turning dark. "Or maybe I’ll let my friends in security have some fun with you. Actually..." He leans in close, his breath hot and sour against my face, his sick grin spreading wider. "I might let them have you anyway, just for making my job harder."

Tears stream down my face as I glare at him, my body trembling. The nausea rises again, my stomach twisting painfully, but I’m too terrified to move.

The grin disappears from his face, replaced by cold fury. His hand cracks across my cheek with a resounding slap, the force jerking my head to the side.

"AGH!" I cry out, my cheek stinging and burning.

"Don’t. Fucking. Move," he growls, his voice icy and full of venom.

He roughly forces the tube down my hitting the back of my throat forcing me to gag. Bile rises at the throat nausea rolling through me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I hear the faint scrape of something against the floor—the tray. I don’t look up, but the soft clinks and rustles tell me he’s cleaning up the mess I made. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t lecture, just quietly gathers the spilled food. Then his footsteps retreat, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

Good. Let him leave.

Time drags on, the hunger gnawing at me, sharp and insistent. It’s been days. My stomach twists painfully, but I shove the feeling down, clutching the one shred of control I still have. I won’t eat. I can’t.

The door opens again. I stiffen, curling tighter on the bed. This time, there’s no tray. No demands. Just the faint rustle of fabric as he sits down outside the glass, followed by the rhythmic clatter of keys.

Curiosity pulls at me, and I glance over my shoulder. Thomas is sitting with his back against the wall, legs stretched out, his laptop balanced on his knees. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak. He’s just…there. The silence between us stretches, punctuated only by the soft tapping of his keyboard.

Then I hear it—a sharp, crisp crunch that snaps through the quiet. My head turns automatically, catching sight of him mid-bite. He’s eating something, sliding a thin, golden shape from a crinkly bag and popping it into his mouth. Each crunch is loud, almost exaggerated, as he chews.

I narrow my eyes at the bag. I don’t know what it is, but the thought of food, of eating, tightens something in my chest. Not out of hunger—though the ache in my stomach hasn’t gone away—but because of what it means.

If I don’t eat, they’ll force me.

The memory of being strapped down, Kyle’s cruel grin as he shoved the feeding tube in, flashes behind my eyes. My breath quickens, and I shake my head, trying to banish the image. I can’t go through that again.

Thomas notices me watching. He pauses, holding the bag up slightly, as if offering it to me. "You want one?"

I hesitate, staring at him through the glass. My pride screams at me to ignore him, but the pounding of my heart is louder. If I eat—if I prove I’m capable—they won’t have an excuse to strap me down.

Slowly, I crawl toward the slot in the door, my body tense and uncertain. I don’t trust him, but the alternative looms too large in my mind.

Thomas pulls one of the golden shapes from the bag and slides it through the slot. I stare at it for a moment, suspicious and wary, before finally picking it up. It’s thin and rough against my fingers, unlike anything I’ve eaten before.

I glance at him through the glass. He doesn’t move, doesn’t push. He just watches, his expression unreadable.

I bite down cautiously, the loud crunch surprising me. Then the taste hits—salty, rich, and completely unexpected. My eyes widen involuntarily as I chew. I swallow, and the hollow ache in my stomach shifts slightly, the smallest hint of relief breaking through. But it’s not enough.

I slam my fist against the glass, a sharp bang that reverberates through the room. My eyes lock onto the bag in his hand, my demand clear.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "You want another?"

I pound the glass again, harder this time. A growl escapes my throat, low and frustrated.

"Okay, okay," he says, sliding another chip through the slot.

I snatch it immediately, shoving it into my mouth without hesitation. I barely finish chewing before I slam my fists against the glass again, harder, more insistent.

"Alright, alright!" Thomas raises his hands in surrender, grabbing another chip and passing it through.

The cycle repeats—chip after chip—my demands growing more aggressive each time. I pound the glass with both fists now, my anger and hunger merging into a single, desperate need.

"Easy," he says softly, sliding another chip through. His voice is calm, steady, but his eyes watch me closely, gauging my every move.

Then the bag finally crinkles empty, I let out a scream of frustration, slamming my fists one last time against the glass. Thomas holds up the empty bag, shaking it lightly.

"That’s all I’ve got," he says, his tone light, almost teasing.

My breathing is ragged, my body trembling from the outburst. Frustration boils over, and I collapse onto the floor, screaming and kicking, my fists pounding against the cold concrete.

He doesn’t react right away, just sits back against the wall, watching me with that same infuriating calm. Then, after a moment, he speaks. "Hey, I’ve got an idea." His voice cuts through my screams, steady but not pushy.

I stop kicking for a moment, glaring at him through tear-streaked eyes.

"How about this," he continues. "When I bring you breakfast tomorrow morning, if you eat a couple of bites, I’ll bring you your own bag of chips at lunch."

I freeze, my chest heaving as I process his words. He could be lying. They’ve lied to me before, after all. But…what if he’s not? My gaze flickers toward the empty bag in his hand. The chips were good. Really good. And if he does lie, I’ll just refuse to eat again.

I sniff, wiping my nose roughly on my sleeve, and glance at him. He meets my eyes, his expression open, almost challenging.

"Deal?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I hesitate for a long moment before rolling away from him, turning my back to the glass. "Fine," I mutter, my voice muffled.

I hear the faint snap of his laptop closing, followed by the soft rustle of him standing. "It’s been a pleasure doing business with you," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I don’t respond, but I hear him knock lightly on the glass. "I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, okay?"

The sound of his footsteps fades as he walks away, leaving me alone in the silence. I curl up tighter, still unsure if I’ve made the right choice.

I wipe my face. I am kinda tired. I crawl into bed and pull the covers up. The room is quiet now, and my body feels heavy with exhaustion. As I close my eyes, the faint taste of salt still lingers on my tongue.

Chips: the universal peacemaker. Who knew the crunch could be so persuasive? Stay tuned for more!

Pt. 6

[penguinbuttcheeks]

going to a rave with the 141 boys

A/N: can u tell im excited for my upcoming rave bender? the next few weekends are gonna be intense and i’m here for it

cw: alcohol, casual drug use

ghost

- let’s be real, he would never actually agree to go to a rave with you. the closest you’ll ever get to taking him out to something similar is a bar, and it’s going to be the usual dingy one near base. he rarely even goes to that one unless it’s for celebrations or he wants to brood solo with some liquid luck by his side

- in the highly unlikely instance you do manage to bring him, he surprisingly fits in - visually at least

- his balaclava and simple compression shirt that he’s worn seems to be the vibe of everyone else, just very toned down. maybe he’s a casual raver, not too keen on dressing up like everyone else is what passer-by’s think

- not that anyone’s really paying attention, they’re all either tripping balls, high off their faces on MD or too busy feeling the music to care

- ghost is definitely feeling out of his element

- so many shirtless, sweaty men doing ‘ridiculous’ dances and women in skimpy outfits that flash all sorts of bright colours

- you’ve definitely dressed up for the occasion.

- ghost is absolutely floored when he sees what you’re wearing for the first time

- “what the fuck are you wearing”

- definitely acts more like a body guard than a rave buddy. everyone is so intoxicated. he’s on high alert the whole time, keeping a keen eye on you while you lose yourself to the sensations of the music rumbling deep in your bones and the feeling of bodies brushing up against you by the stage where the dj continues to do their thing

- you’re probably not even close to the stage, you’re further back where there’s less people and simon actually has the space to be able to breathe

- it doesn’t matter though, you’re still having a blast and dancing away to your hearts content

- ghost definitely can’t help watching the way you move your body, trying his best not to seem creepy, but you seem so in your element - it’s almost like watching you in the shooting range. you’re so lost in focus

- it’s hot as hell

- even if he thinks the way you’re dancing looks absolutely ridiculous, you’re confident and he finds it deeply attractive

- “don’t ever bring me to one of those again”

soap

- probably the most on board out of everyone to join

- you guys absolutely sat in your room together while you did your makeup and dolled yourself up

- “oi lad/lass, can ye put some o’ that on me?”

- soap gives you the biggest shit eating grin when you pull out a small baggie of pills to get the both of you through the night. you better pray there’s no upcoming standard military drug tests

- you are definitely going to be the one babysitting the entire time

- you almost lose him several times and the only reason you were able to find him again was because you heard loud scottish yelling

- arriving for the first time, soap can’t help but let out a low whistle. “fuckin’ ‘ell”

- tries to mimic the way you and the people around him are dancing but can’t for the life of him figure out how tf you’re all moving your bodies so quickly and fluently to the rapid beat of the music

- almost falls on his face trying the first time

- you’ve got him dressed up in the sluttiest, most ridiculous outfit that you think you’ll ever see him in. it’s definitely caught the attention of a few people around you

- god he’s so cocky when he realises he’s popular amongst the crowd with all the men and the ladies

- it may be boosting his ego but don’t worry. he’s only got his sights set on you

- speaking of sights set, soap can’t stop staring at you. you’re wearing the most revealing outfit ever seen and he swears then and there that he’s going to marry you

- he knew that he wanted to make you his, but tonight definitely sets that in stone

- the following weeks, you’re getting amused grins and eye rolls from your teammates (ghost is absolutely the one rolling his eyes)

- soap had secretly snagged a video of you dancing to your hearts content and made a point to make sure everyone bears witness to it

- when you find out, soap is sulking in the rec room with a bag of frozen peas pressed against his head, sulking like a kicked puppy

- oh well, at least he managed to hide one video of you after forcing him to delete them all

gaz

- it’s not his scene, but god he’s curious

- agrees to tag along with you, and boy is he glad he did

- his eyes are all over you the entire night. he just can’t help it when you’ve prettied yourself up so good

- “you look stunning, love”

- he’s content to just watch you truly be yourself, mingling and swapping bracelets with strangers and drunkenly stumbling around the place with a joyous laugh leaving your lips

- definitely would need occasional moments away from the crowds to allow him the space to gather his thoughts

- soap is probably there with the both of you tbh. it was originally a trio outing, but soap has run off to do his own thing

- don’t worry, gaz is here to watch over you and make sure you’re safe

- he takes it upon himself be be the sober one

- besides, he wants to remember the way you sway your hips to the beat and drag your fingers through your hair

- can’t help the slight pang of jealousy when he sees you dancing with another man, his eyes raking over your body and his hands reaching out to touch you

- “move along buddy”

- gaz is quick to pull you next to him, a steely glare directed at the man as he pulls you in to his side, your wide, surprised eyes looking up at gaz

- gaz isn’t usually one to be overprotective or jealous, but god is it hot when you bear witness to it for the first time

- absolutely chews soap out on the way home for stranding them amongst the hundreds of people at the rave

- you’re sleeping soundly - a small, drunken yet content smile on your face as your head rests on gaz’s shoulder in the cab home

- gaz can’t help but smile at you softly, hand reaching up to brush your hair out of your eyes as you rest

- he definitely stood out like a sore thumb at the rave, but it definitely won’t be the last one he’s attending. how could it be? you were such a delight to watch

- tonight will definitely be replaying in his mind for the following weeks to come

price

- you would lose your job so quickly if you ever brought price along to a rave

- occupation aside, unless you have the luck to win the lottery - price is probably also not joining you

- the poor bastard is not big on crowds, especially amongst so many young adults that are so intoxicated on more than just alcohol

- he’s not the oldest there, far from it, but his time serving in the military has made him feel detached from popular trends and the normalcy of civilian lifestyles

- you probably end up leaving early. the loud music gives him a headache, and god - do people actually listen to this?

- “don’t you dare take that shot”

- you definitely downed it after giving him an evil smirk

- the entire night is spent on the sidelines of the dance floor. there is no way that price is dealing with that many people pushing up against him while also dealing with the pounding in his head

- bitching and moaning aside, price is glad to see you letting lose and enjoying yourself instead of burying yourself in work and training

- you’re a hard worker, he knows you deserve this chance to cast aside the burdens of your occupation

- he’d never admit it, but he was glad to get off base (even if it was at an event he would never willingly go to on his own accord)

- he’s standing a few metres to the side, hands in his pockets and chuckling, shaking his head in amusement as you dance away in your own little world while he sips on a beer

- he’s discrete about it, but his eyes slowly travel over your body when your eyes are closed and you’re too lost to the beat of the rhythm - body coated in light layer of sweat, skin gleaming an assortment of colours as the lights bounce off your body

- he feels bad when he says he need to get the hell out of there, but his heart melts a little when you’re nothing but understanding

- he would never admit it, but it wasn’t the worst night of his life

- he got to see a new side of you that he never expected to see

- walks past the training room a few weeks later where you’re busy training. it’s late and everyone has retired for the night, but you’re gunning it on the treadmill, the same music the two of you listened to that night out playing from your bluetooth speaker

- he can’t help but think back to the way you moved your body so seamlessly to the harsh beat of each melody

- it’s ingrained permanently in his memories. it’s altered his brain completely

- he treasures it like an overprotective dragon does with its hoard of glittering gems and gold. what he saw that night was for him to see and him alone. the 141 boys have no idea what they’re missing out on

[strawberrymarmaladejam]

"the world, world is my punching bag."

hello! this is a fic i originally put on ao3! i think marshady is incredibly underated, especially over here, so I'm coming to change that! not posting the smut one cs ive got irls lurking soo..

enjoy the short story!!

I'm not a monster." Slim could cry that sentence out all day. Until his lungs gave out and he went blue in the face. And he will. He continued to shout it over the rooftops. But it would fall on deaf ears to everyone around him.

If he can't get attention for the real him, he'll just adopt the personality everyone thinks he has. Spew bitter, hateful and angry words because he can.

And truthfully, those same words weighed heavy on his heart and conscience. It's the only reason--well--one of the reasons he continued to seek out those damn pills in his bathroom every morning, every night.

Slim was well aware that he could change his ways, but it didn't matter anymore. It never mattered. Nothing ever mattered. This was the fate he was subjected to.

So when he found the familiar, yet unfamiliar words tumble off his tongue again, he wanted to lash out. Because he was not afraid of being a monster anymore. He wasn't.

"I know you aren't," Marshall said. His tone holding not an ounce of pity. Or hesitation.

Stupid fucker, Slim thought. Why aren't you afraid of me?

"You know how I know?"

Slim shook his head, because for some reason, he couldn't fucking speak anymore. His throat suddenly dry, and his palms clammy. "Because I know you care," Marshall muttered. "Because I care," Marshall's body was on top of his. His face moving to bury itself in his neck.

Slim's arms wrapped around Marshall's body before he couldn't even think. Seeking out comfort from those familiar arms. "I don't care," Slim argued, weakly. "Not anymore."

There was a hefty silence. Just Slim's labored breathing, and his rapid heartbeat in his ears. He hated this-- "You're not a monster."

[joachimnapoleon]

Hello ☺️

I was listening to The Age of Napoleon podcast and the host puts forward the idea that when Murat was inexplicably unwell in Spain of 1808, it was more of a mental breakdown because Napoleon had not been pleased with Murat trying to request for the position of King of Spain.

I know the cause and the illness itself was never really confined and I've heard the King of Spain request a number of times in contemporary writings. If this is not true what do you think caused his illness at that time?

Hello! This is an interesting subject, and I tend to disagree with the standard narrative that Murat’s illness in Spain was due to him not getting the Spanish throne. First, I think the idea that he was so bent on becoming King of Spain is really hyperinflated. That he wanted *a* throne for himself and Caroline, I don’t doubt; I just don’t agree that he was particularly enthusiastic about being King of Spain; perhaps during his early days in the country when he was still fairly upbeat about the state of things, but definitely not after the Dos Mayo uprising and the ensuing rapid deterioration of the situation in the country. The May 2 uprising came as a brutal shock for Murat. If you read his correspondence leading up to it—and I included several of the key letters around this period in my book—in general, he was very (naively) optimistic about the state of things in Spain, the reception he received upon entering the country, and what he perceived as pro-Napoleon sentiments from the populace. He was frustrated by Napoleon’s lack of clear directions and the complexity of the increasingly fraught political situation but overall was still convinced—even after one of his aides-de-camp was stabbed at a bullfight in late April—that nothing was going to happen and the Spanish people would accept whatever decision Napoleon made about the Spanish crown. When the capital exploded in violence on May 2, judging from the tone of his letter to Napoleon written that day he was quite shaken by it, although he did his best to ensure Napoleon that it was nothing but a small minority of troublemakers and that the vast majority of the people of Spain were still pro-French. Marbot writes that Murat “quite misjudged the Castilian character” and “imagined that they would be frightened by the suppression of the revolt at Madrid, and would make a complete submission.” He ended up being wrong again, and honestly I think he just wasn’t well equipped to handle the situation. He didn’t deal well with these types of deteriorating situations well at all (see also the Russian retreat after Napoleon left him in charge), and the stress inevitably took an awful toll on him.

All of the above might seem like I’m going off topic from your question, but I think it’s relevant in the context of Murat’s ensuing illness because Spain is really the first instance where his health is dramatically affected at a point of intense stress, strain, and overwork. If his alleged disappointment over not getting the Spanish throne factored into it at all, I think it was only a small part of it. There’s one key quote I came across years ago in a memoir and I’ve been trying to track it down again and am so far failing, it may have been from Roederer or someone else who accompanied Joseph, but it was an observation that Murat seemed greatly relieved to put Spain behind him. The more I think about it, I can’t help but conclude that Murat’s disappointment might’ve had more to do with his perception of being slighted/unappreciated/cast aside by Napoleon, than it did with the throne of Spain per se; he and Joseph also disliked each other, and to see Joseph chosen over him probably was an extremely bitter pill to swallow. Murat will have similar bouts of bad health in Naples during periods of heightened tension/perceived insults and disrespect from Napoleon, especially in 1811.

When Murat fell ill in Spain, his health collapsed so quickly and violently that it was speculated that he had been poisoned. He complained of severe stomach pains and was vomiting bile. Historian/Murat biographer Vincent Haegele writes that “The effects of this disease manifest themselves physically on a body largely exhausted by stress, shortened nights, and perhaps immense resentment for the Emperor. Murat exhausted himself by working during the day and could no longer sleep at night, as noted by La Forest, who was serving as French ambassador to Spain at the time. La Forest described Murat having “restless nights” and, in Haegele’s words, “a nervous tension that was less and less controlled,” exacerbated further by news of growing uprisings throughout Spain and the assassinations of various Spanish officials, situations which forced an already exhausted and unhealthy Murat to have to keep working even harder. He relapsed in early June, and La Forest wrote on 7 June 1808 that Murat “spent a bad night, given over to melancholy ideas” and that “General Belliard asked me not to go and see him, confiding in me that H.I.H. needed solitude and was suffering from nervous affection.”

So tldr; I think Murat’s illness was mostly the combination of too much stress and overwork, that not getting the Spanish throne was a smaller part of it that has been largely overblown.

[ltash]

Venom

Part 5 "Flicker of doubt"

Simon Ghost Riley x female OC

He was his target and she was becoming his prey the moment he knows about her. The hunter was going to be hunted.

"I have found the one whom my soul loves."

Anastasia cleaned up the table, her mind replaying every moment of the dinner. She had planned to slip the pills into his tea, but his presence had been so overwhelming that she completely forgot. She mentally kicked herself for the missed opportunity but reminded herself that there would be other chances.

In her mind, she reviewed her interactions with him. The way he looked at her, the intensity in his eyes, the casual yet deliberate way he spoke - it all pointed to a man who was always on guard, always calculating. This wasn't going to be easy, and she knew it.

Better luck next time, she thought, trying to bolster her resolve. She would have to come up with a new plan, one that took into account his wariness and her own growing fascination with him.

The following day, she decided to take a different approach. She needed to earn his trust more naturally, make him lower his defenses without raising his suspicions. That meant finding common ground, something they could bond over.

Anastasia spent the day thinking about what she knew of his background. The military, the combat experience, the rough edges. She needed to appear more vulnerable, more relatable. Perhaps she could fabricate a story about her own hardships, something to create a connection. But it had to be believable, something that wouldn't break under scrutiny.

She dialed Makarov's number again to inform him about her progress. As the phone rang, she paced her apartment, adrenaline still pumping from her encounter with Ghost. When Makarov answered, his voice was a familiar comfort.

"Privet, Anastasiya!" Makarov greeted.

"Privet, Vladimir! Vy ne poverite, chego ya tol'ko chto dostig," she cheered into the phone, excitement evident in her tone.

"I chto eto bylo, moya dorogaya?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"YA priglasil yego na uzhin segodnya vecherom. Vse proshlo gladko," she exclaimed, unable to hide her pride.

"Priyatno slyshat'. Prodolzhayte progress," he said, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction before he hung up.

Ghost stood just outside the door, his ears straining to catch the faint murmur of Anastasiya's voice over the phone. The urgency in her tone was palpable, and though he couldn't understand the words she spoke-delivered in a rapid-fire cadence of Russian-they carried a weight that stirred unease within him.

As a seasoned operative, Ghost was accustomed to deciphering cryptic conversations, but this one struck a chord deeper than usual. Anastasiya's voice held a mixture of excitement and apprehension, hinting at the gravity of whatever progress she had achieved. Her commitment to the mission was unwavering, but Ghost couldn't shake off his doubts.

He pressed his ear closer to the door, trying to catch any more snippets of conversation. The language barrier was a frustration; he couldn't understand Russian, and the tone alone wasn't enough to decipher her intentions. The only words he could pick out were names: Anastasiya and Vladimir. He made a mental note of them.

He quietly stepped back from the door, his mind racing. Her sudden move from Russia to Manchester, her remote job, the convenient timing of her appearances—all of it felt too orchestrated. Ghost knew better than to believe in coincidences.

Back inside her apartment, Anastasia took a deep breath, steadying herself. She had successfully made her first significant move, but now came the harder part: gaining his trust. She knew she couldn't rush it. Ghost was a careful man, one who didn't let his guard down easily.

As she tidied up, she replayed their interactions in her mind. She needed a new strategy, a way to appear more vulnerable, more in need of his help. It was a delicate balance—she had to befriend him without arousing his suspicions.

The following day, she woke up determined. Today, she decided, she would create a scenario that required his assistance again. She looked around her apartment for inspiration and finally settled on a simple but effective plan.

Later that afternoon, she carried a new coffee container to Ghost's door and knocked. When he opened it, he looked at her with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

"Simon, could you help me? I can't seem to open this," she said, holding out the container with an embarrassed smile.

He studied her for a moment before nodding and taking the container from her hands. As he effortlessly twisted off the lid, she thanked him, giving him another opportunity to lower his guard around her.

Ghost handed the container back to her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You should get a better grip," he said, his tone not unkind but still guarded.

"I'll try," she laughed lightly. "Thanks again."

"Why don't you come inside, Anastasia?" Ghost offered, gesturing her to come into his apartment.

After a moment of hesitation, she nodded and stepped inside. Her eyes darted around, taking in the surroundings. The apartment was simple and elegant, each item meticulously placed. It was opposite to the chaotic life she imagined Ghost lived outside these walls.

As she moved further into the living room, her gaze fell upon a wall adorned with framed medals and certificates. They were a testament to his achievements, his service, and his dedication. Each one told a story of bravery and sacrifice, further complicating her feelings about the mission she was on. Her eyes lingered on the name engraved on them: Simon Riley. Special Air Service written on some, with the TF141 emblem prominently displayed.

She took in every detail, her mind racing. "What does TF141 mean?" she asked, feigning casual curiosity.

Ghost turned to face her, his piercing eyes studying her expression. "Task Force 141," he replied. "It's a multinational special operations unit. We handle high-risk missions that require a certain level of expertise."

"Impressive," Anastasia said, genuinely intrigued. "It sounds like you've been through a lot."

He shrugged, a hint of pride in his voice. "It comes with the territory. We do what needs to be done."

She nodded, absorbing the information. Each new detail she learned about him added to the complexity of her mission. She needed to tread carefully, to continue building this fragile connection without raising his suspicions.

"You must have some incredible stories," she said, trying to keep the conversation light.

"Maybe," he replied, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "But they're not exactly dinner conversation."

She laughed softly, appreciating his attempt at humor. "I suppose not. Still, it must be rewarding, knowing you've made a difference."

Ghost's expression turned somber. "It's not always about the rewards. Sometimes, it's about making sure the bad guys don't win."

The weight of his words hung in the air, and Anastasia felt a pang of guilt. She was here under false pretenses, and every moment spent with him made her mission feel more personal, more complicated.

"Well," she said, changing the subject, "I wanted to thank you for your help with the sink. It means a lot."

He waved off her gratitude. "It's nothing. Just being neighborly."

She smiled, a genuine warmth in her eyes. "Still, it means a lot."

As they stood there, the tension between them seemed to ease slightly. Anastasia knew she had to keep playing her part, to continue weaving this intricate web of trust and deception.

"If you ever need anything," Ghost said, breaking the silence, "you know where to find me."

"Thank you, Simon," she replied, feeling a strange sense of comfort in his presence. "I'll keep that in mind."

She left his apartment, her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly falling into place, and she knew she had to stay one step ahead. The game was far from over, and she was determined to see it through to the end.

As he closed the door behind her, Ghost couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Anastasia. His instincts told him to stay vigilant, and he intended to follow them. He would play along for now, but he would be watching her closely, ready to counter any move she made.

Anastasia returned to her apartment, her heart pounding. She knew this game of deception and trust would only get more intense.

At night, feeling the stirrings of boredom, Anastasia decided to hit a nightclub and enjoy herself. She was a wandering soul, and the prospect of going out alone at night didn't faze her. She knew how to defend herself, a skill honed through years of training and experience.

She slipped into a sleek, black party dress that accentuated her curves, paired it with a pair of killer heels, and headed outside. The city lights glowed against the dark sky, and the air buzzed with the energy of a Friday night. It was almost 9 p.m.

The nightclub she chose was one of the more popular spots in town, known for its vibrant atmosphere and eclectic mix of music. As she entered, the pounding beat of the music hit her, and the colorful lights danced around the room, reflecting off the polished surfaces.

Anastasia made her way to the bar, ordering a drink and taking a moment to soak in the scene. The club was packed with people, a sea of bodies moving to the rhythm of the music. She sipped her cocktail, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through her.

Despite the crowd, she felt a sense of solitude. This was her escape, a brief respite from the complexities of her mission. She allowed herself to get lost in the music, her body swaying to the beat. For a moment, she could forget about Simon Riley, Makarov, and the dangerous game she was playing.

As the night wore on, she found herself on the dance floor, moving with a confidence and grace that drew admiring glances from those around her. The bass thumped in her chest, and she closed her eyes, letting the music take over. This was her element, a place where she could be free, if only for a little while.

Anastasia left her cocktail on the table to dance. It was a moment of carelessness, a lapse in her usually sharp vigilance. When she returned to her drink, she took a sip without thinking twice. The music still pulsed through the air, and the lights still danced, but something felt wrong.

Within minutes, her head began to pound, and a wave of dizziness washed over her. Panic surged as she realized her drink had been spiked. She cursed herself for being so reckless, knowing she was now left helpless and vulnerable.

Stumbling through the crowd, she tried to make her way out of the nightclub. Her vision blurred, and her legs felt like lead. Just as she reached the door, a man grabbed her, his grip firm and insistent as he started dragging her towards the exit.

When Anastasia ventured out of the building, Ghost had already seen her heading somewhere. His instincts told him to keep an eye on her, so he quickly grabbed his jacket and followed at a discreet distance. He watched as she entered a bustling nightclub, and he slipped inside, mingling with the crowd to avoid detection.

As the music thumped and lights flashed, Ghost positioned himself where he could observe her without being seen. He watched her dance, noting the way she moved with a mixture of grace and abandon. For a moment, he was lost in thought, remembering the last person who had stirred any real emotion in him.

He never felt attachment or a soft spot for anyone, except for the love of his life who had worked alongside him in the task force. She had been his anchor, his reason to keep going through the darkest of times. But she had slipped from his hands like dust, dying in his arms during a mission gone wrong. After her and Johnny's deaths, Ghost had shut himself off from love, choosing to bury his heart under layers of steel and resolve.

Yet, there was something about Anastasia that gnawed at him. Perhaps it was the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide, or the glimpses of strength and determination she showed when she thought no one was watching. Whatever it was, it stirred a part of him he had thought long dead.

He saw her leave her drink unattended and tensed as she returned to it, taking a sip. Within moments, he noticed her movements becoming sluggish, her steps unsteady. It was clear she had been drugged. His anger flared, not just at the person who had spiked her drink, but at himself for not intervening sooner.

Ghost followed her as she tried to make her way out of the club. When a man grabbed her and started dragging her towards the exit, Ghost's rage turned into a cold, calculated resolve. He moved swiftly, his presence like a dark shadow over the scene.

"Get your fucking hands off her," he growled, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife.

The man holding Anastasia hesitated, looking back at Ghost with a mix of fear and defiance. "This isn't your business," he spat.

Ghost's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "I'm making it my business. Let her go. Now." He growled.

The man released her immediately, shoving her towards Ghost before retreating. Ghost caught her, holding her steady as she fought to stay conscious.

"You're alright," he murmured, his tone surprisingly gentle. "I've got you."

He carried her out of the nightclub, cradling her protectively as he made his way to his car. He drove with a single-minded focus, determined to get her to safety. When they arrived at his apartment, he laid her on the couch, fetching water and a damp cloth to help her recover.

"Drink this," he instructed, helping her take small sips.

Anastasia's eyes fluttered open, and she managed a faint smile. "Thank you," she whispered.

Ghost nodded, his eyes softening for just a moment. "Rest. We'll talk in the morning."

As he watched her drift off to sleep, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was more than just a neighbor. There was a connection between them, something that went beyond the mission or the circumstances that had brought them together. For the first time in a long time, Ghost felt a flicker of something he had long buried—hope.

Sitting on the couch, Ghost watched Anastasia sleep. Her soft snores and the gentle rise and fall of her chest were oddly soothing. Her small, innocent face with freckles made her look almost childlike in repose, but he couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that there was more to her than met the eye.

Her ginger hair framed her face, matching her eyebrows and lashes. For a moment, he allowed himself to be mesmerized by her serene beauty. Was she really that innocent?

His gaze shifted to her purse lying on the couch. He knew this was his chance to find out if she was deceiving him. Carefully, he opened the purse and began rummaging through her belongings. Her mobile phone was there, but it was password-protected. He frowned, placing it aside as he continued his search.

Her ID, driver's license, and passport were all in order, showing nothing out of the ordinary. He sifted through makeup items, a small notepad, and a few receipts, but nothing stood out.

Ghost glanced at her ID again, noting her age. She was 21, almost eight years younger than him. It was impressive for someone so young to have moved from Russia to Manchester and hold a professional degree in software engineering. The details added to the enigma she presented, making him more curious.

"Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath, frustrated by the lack of evidence. He placed her purse back on the couch, none the wiser.

As he sat back, his mind raced with thoughts. If she was playing a game, she was doing it well. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, yet he couldn't deny the growing intrigue he felt towards her. There was something about her that tugged at his long-buried humanity, making him want to believe in her innocence.

He watched her for a few more minutes, then decided to get some sleep himself. Tomorrow, he would need to confront her and get some answers. As he lay down on the other couch, his mind drifted back to the mission that had taken the love of his life. He couldn't let history repeat itself. He had to stay sharp, for his sake and hers.

[topazs-stuff]

living planets < I >

"Don’t worry, dear... yeah, yeah, I ate—promise. Really, don’t worry about me. I’ve got it covered. Yes, I’ll take my medication, and I’ll take care of myself. It’s just... I need to compile these findings—try to make sense of it all, maybe form a theory, a hypothesis. I’ll send it to you once it’s ready so you can read it, okay? Yeah... yeah, I promise. Alright. Take care, love. Bye."

As he hangs up the call, he lets out a weary sigh, his hand instinctively brushing across the cluttered desk. Data sheets, charts, and geological samples—spanning from 6000 BCE to the present day—are scattered in a chaotic mess. He picks up a report, scanning it with furrowed brows, then tosses it aside with a frustrated grunt. “This shit doesn’t make any sense... How can a volcano erupt with no buildup? No seismic activity, no pressure changes—nothing.” He mutters to himself, flipping through more pages. “And four times? Four times, across millennia? If it were just one, I could’ve ignored it. Coincidence. Statistical anomaly.”

His hands shake slightly as he fishes a pill bottle from the edge of the desk, popping the cap open with practiced ease. “This is truly a headache,” he sighs, swallowing the pill dry. His eyes drift back to the data, unwilling to let it go. Something about it gnaws at the edges of his mind, refusing to let him rest. Massaging his temples, he slumps into the creaking chair, his mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions. With trembling fingers, he boots up the simulation software. "One more," he mutters under his breath. "Just one more. I just need at least one case where everything goes... normally. If there’s a god—oh mighty—make sense of this data." His voice cracks slightly, betraying the mounting unease.

He hits the start button and leans in, his gaze fixed intently on the screen as the simulation begins to run. His other hand fidgets with a pen, spinning it between his fingers with increasing agitation. Every flick of his wrist, every tap of the keyboard, carries the weight of his desperation. His lips move silently as numbers and graphs play out before him. "Please," he whispers, barely audible. "Please no... not again." His eyes dart across the results, scanning for anomalies, for patterns, for anything. The pen slips from his fingers, clattering onto the desk. He freezes. The simulation’s outcome becomes unmistakable. The same eerie conclusion as before.

"It fucking happened again," he hisses, his voice sharp and trembling. His fists clench, gripping the edge of the desk as if trying to steady himself. "I can’t even blame my software. I’ve run this on two other systems—double-checked every variable." He exhales sharply, his breaths shallow and rapid. "It has to be the data. The data must be wrong."

He grabs his phone with shaky hands, dialing a number with practiced urgency. As soon as the line connects, he doesn’t wait for pleasantries. “The geological record we’ve been using is wrong. There’s no doubt about it,” he snaps.

A muffled voice on the other end responds, but whatever they’re saying only fuels his irritation. “What do you mean I’m crazy?” he cuts in, his tone sharp and incredulous. “Oh, so you’re telling me the data—showing that a volcano exploded and wiped out an entire region—when that volcano had no geological possibility of erupting for another thousand years, is accurate? Do you even hear yourself right now?”

The voice tries to counter, but he’s too far gone. Sarcasm drips from his words. “Oh, of course, I’m the fucking idiot here. Yeah. Sure. Great talk.” Without another word, he hangs up, slamming the phone onto the desk. “Fucking hell,” Alex mutters, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. And this data—this damn data—is driving me insane. Why me?” He groans, slumping back in his chair.

With a frustrated sigh, he picks up the phone he’d thrown moments ago, brushing off the dust as if that would also wipe away his exasperation. His eyes dart to a business card lying amidst the chaos of his desk. "Why don’t I call him?" he mumbles to himself. "He might have an idea—or at least know something."

He grabs the card, carefully dialing the number etched into its surface. The phone rings twice before a calm, unfamiliar voice answers.

“Uh, hello? Mister Ishu? This is Alex—Alex Martin. We met during the G20 Summit back in 2034? You gave me your card.” His voice wavers slightly, unsure if the man even remembers him. “I know, I know—it’s been three years. But, um... I’ve been studying Earth’s geological data, and, uh, the explosion of Mount Vesuvius? It’s—it’s very peculiar, to say the least.”

The voice on the other end pauses, then responds. Alex’s eyes widen slightly at the words. “Wait—you’re also looking into it?” His breath catches. “So, it’s not just me. You find it weird too. That’s... that’s a relief, I guess.”

He leans forward, pen tapping anxiously against his desk. “Do you have any idea what might’ve caused it?” A longer pause. When the reply comes, Alex stiffens, repeating the words aloud as if they’re incomprehensible. “You... you’ve started to consider Earth as a living thing?”

He lets out a nervous laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “I mean—it’s a planet. A rock. How could it possibly be alive? I didn’t study much biology, but a creature like this shouldn’t even be... possible. Should it?”

The voice on the other end says something else—calm, measured, almost cryptic. Alex nods absently, even though they can’t see him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll, uh—I’ll call you later. Thank you, Mister Ishu, for your time.”

He ends the call and stares at the phone in his hand, his mind racing. The idea lingers, impossible yet... it was explaining everything.

[elena-mayfair]

Will you help me?

Paring: Bruce Wayne x f!reader, Batman x f!reader Genre: Thriller, mystery, horror, slow burn Warnings: rating T+/M, blood and gore, violence, strong language, themes of depression and suicide Summary: When in distress seek help from friends. But what if friends have proven to be untrustworthy? What if there is no one to turn to for help? How to establish new relationships? Sometimes all it takes is one simple question: will you help me? Word count: 8k Note: Gifs are not mine, credit to the authors.

Chapter one: Bright future, dark city Chapter two: Curious people Chapter three: Madness and old friends Chapter four: I am innocent

***

"Do you like scars? Do scars make the man?," you hummed under your breath the lyrics of the song playing through the speakers as you stared in the mirror at the deep cut healing on your arm. Four stitches, seemingly not much and yet the scar would become a sure reminder of the day you almost drowned. After two weeks, the wound had almost healed, leaving a pale red thin line decorated with dots on the sides where the stitches had been just a few days ago. Two weeks were enough to heal the surface wounds. For the purple-green bruise that painfully scored your body to disappear almost completely, for the brown scab to fall off showing softly pink flesh, for the number of pain pills you took every day to decrease from eight to two. Two weeks, enough time to heal the wounds on your body, enough time to recover, enough time for rest and regeneration, time which you spent locked up in your apartment isolated from everyone…time not nearly enough to heal the wounds that were not visible at first glance.

"There are still good people in this world," you repeated each day as you replayed the events of that evening over and over again, trying to push them out of your mind. The indifferent look in the rearview mirror, the car speeding through the city, the cold metal touch on your forehead, the two wrecked cars, the creepy grin, the gunshots, the maniacal laughter…

Indifference…

"There are still good people in this world," you insisted, clenching your eyes as if that would somehow help push the images away. Black rapid water, screeching tires, impact, yanking, pain, cold, panic, water rising, horror…

Fear…

"There are still good people in this world," you repeated once again, forcefully pushing away the recurring images. There was Lucius Fox, who, in a compassionate and understanding email, assured you that all medical expenses were covered by insurance provided by the company. Lucius Fox, who assured you that you don't have to worry about your job or your place in the company, and you are to take as much sick leave as necessary. Lucius Fox, who personally signed a card wishing you a quick recovery that was attached to a small package delivered by a courier, containing a new phone. "'With wishes for a swift recovery, from the company,'" not many words and yet a faint smile appeared on your face.

"Yes…there are good people in the world…" such as your colleagues at work who, despite knowing each other for a relatively short time, sent you a sincere and kind message. Such as the policewoman who made sure you arrived home safely by escorting you to your door. Such as the paramedics who, seeing your fear and stubbornness in refusing to be taken to the hospital, showed great understanding and kindness in attending to your wounds at home. Such as the doctor who visited you twice at your home. Such as the Chinese food delivery guy who knocked on your door every other day…such as….

Kindness…a concerned look, a warm tone, a gentle assistance when your legs refused to obey you, a kind smile…Nightwing.

Hope…the light shining in the darkness of the water, the muffled explosion heralding rescue, the strong sure grip on your body, the life he took from his lips to give to you…Batman.

Support…the phone call answered in the middle of the night when you woke up from a nightmare drenched in sweat, the words of reassurance and comfort spoken each time when fear rose within you all over again, the understanding and empathy when you refused to recount your experiences in detail, the quiet empathy when he visited you at home time and again whenever you had no strength to go out…Jonathan Crane.

Over the past two weeks, Professor Crane proved to be your greatest support and your only contact with the outside world. The initial information about the car accident was enough to swap visits at his office for home visits. The suggestion came from him, he argued that if you felt up to it would be advisable not to interrupt the therapy process you had started. He explained that especially now, in a situation of increased stress, your mind becomes more susceptible to negative thoughts and feelings. Initially, you refused. The idea of having a psychiatrist come to your home, your safe place, your oasis of peace, seemed wrong. You only accepted the suggestion of sedative medication, which was delivered to your home. You appreciated the gesture and understanding, simply going to the pharmacy seemed like a mission for which you did not have the strength. However, this situation only lasted for two days. The night before day three, you woke up terrified in the middle of the night certain that the Joker had found you. That he was sitting in your living room, turning a gun in his hand, that as soon as you came out of your bedroom you would see him, that wide creepy smile, hear his maniacal laughter, feel the bullet piercing your body. "Hello toots!" he will say, "did you really think you would get away with it! HA!" he will snarl, "did you really think that you can drive a car off the road and be done with me?! HA HA HA HA HA!" he will laugh as a fired bullet will pierce your stomach.

Fright paralyzed you completely making you unable to move from the bed. Fright so sure of his presence. Horror fueled by the awareness of your complete loneliness, the absence of anyone you could call, anyone who could come, anyone you could turn to for help, you were alone. Not thinking much, you dialed the Professor's number, and to your surprise he answered. For an hour he talked to you on the phone, trying to calm you down and convince you to come out to the living room, but when that didn't help, he got in his car and drove to your home in the middle of the night.

***

~~Few days earlier~~

"You need to come to the door and open it," Professor Crane's voice echoed on the other side of the line, "I'm at the door."

"I can't…" you replied in a weak voice. Your heart pounded in your chest with each beat making it harder to breathe. Curled up against the bedroom wall, with your knees drawn to your chest, you stared at the door in horror, anxiously awaiting the moment when it would open to reveal the shiny gun metal.

"You have to…" Crane replied.

"He's there…" you whispered, "if I open the door… he is there… he will kill me…"

"Y/N think about it," Crane said in a calm controlled tone, "I know you are terrified. You are experiencing a panic attack. Your body is probably shaking, your pulse is accelerated, cold sweat is covering your skin," he listed the symptoms, "You are having a panic attack."

"But Joker…"

"Think," he interrupted you, "I know it's difficult at the moment but think for a second. If the Joker was actually in your apartment, would he wait for you to come out of your bedroom? If you didn't wake up, would he wait until morning? If he was really in your apartment, would he wait and risk you calling 911?"

"He could…"

"Y/N!" Crane raised his voice, "Do you think he wouldn't have heard our conversation through the door? Do you think if he heard it he wouldn't react?"

"He's insane…"

"Y/N open the door."

"I can't."

"Get up and open the door."

"I'm afraid…"

"Y/N!"

"I'm sorry…"

"Open the fucking door!" he shouted commandingly. It worked.

With your legs shaking, you slowly got up from the bed and cautiously opened the bedroom door, carefully looking out first, ready to close them immediately. The living room was empty, exactly as you had left it the previous evening. There was no sign of anyone's presence. No shoe marks on the floor, no furniture moved, no smell, no Joker.

"Y/N, are you there?" you heard on the phone which you still held tightly to your ear. You didn't answer, instead you headed for the front door behind which Crane was waiting.

"There's no one here…" you whispered in a weak voice, opening the door wide and looking at the Professor. He stood there, wearing a dark brown coat, looking at you intently. He, too, was pressing the phone to his ear. "There's no one here…" you repeated while your body shook again.

"Can I come in?"

You moved away from the door letting him in.

"It was all so real…" you tried to explain weakly. You leaned against the door and slid slowly to the floor. Adrenaline was leaving your body like air through a punctured balloon. "I, I was sure, I was convinced that he was here."

"The mind can be very decieving…" Crane looked around the apartment as if despite everything he wanted to make sure you were alone. He checked the other rooms, the bedroom, the bathroom, and for a moment even looked out the window, simultaneously making sure it was closed.

"I couldn't imagine it…" you argued in a half whisper, "it was too real."

"Traumatic experiences can trigger in a person anxiety levels so strong that imagination can seem real," Crane explained. He squatted in front of you and his green eyes looked straight into yours, "are you hurt?" he asked, "can you stand up?"

"I think so…" you nodded uncertainly then, grasping Crane's outstretched hand, you got up on your feet.

"Alright…" belaying you, Crane walked you over to the couch, turned on the soft lamp light, then sat down across from you and once again began to pierce you with his gaze, "Then now tell me, why would the Joker want to kill you? What exactly happened two weeks ago?"

And so you did. Two cups of tea and three hours later, Crane knew everything. Every little detail starting from the party at 44 Below, to your first encounter with Batman, to Joker's Arkham brakeout, ending up with Batman and Nightwing's rescuing you after you drove the car of the road. Every single feeling, every single thought, every single fear, fascination, emotion, thought. Every most trivial detail. You hid nothing, for the first time you were completely honest with him. With a flow of words, you poured out everything that was sitting inside you, and you had to admit that you felt damn good about it. Crane only listened. Sitting comfortably on the couch next to you, sipping tea, he did not interrupt, did not comment, only listened without taking his penetrating eyes off you.

"How are you feeling?" he finally asked when you finished the story.

"Good," you replied without hesitation, "really good…" you added at the sight of a smile on Crane's face, "but I'm afraid this intervention is going to tug hard on my wallet."

"Don't worry about that now. We're finally talking honestly, you finally lowered your guard enough to open up to me. Don't bother with trivial matters now."

"I needed this, I'll admit it. I needed to get it off my chest, and let's be honest, I don't have anyone to talk to. We've already established that. And the only person I considered a friend….well…. let's just say that I wasn't wrong for not trusting people."

"And yet you trusted me."

"That's different. My emotional exhibitionism is driven by pure selfishness and the need to throw out negative emotions. After what happened today, you might as well be a pizza delivery guy," you quipped.

"Would you also call a pizza delivery guy in the middle of the night paralyzed with fear?" he smirked.

"I guess not," you chuckled, "why did you come?"

"It's not unusual for a psychotherapist to respond to a crisis situation, even in the middle of the night," even though his words sounded serious and professional something completely different shone in his eyes. A mystery, a dangerous gleam, betraying something contrary to the spoken words.

"Thank you," you looked confidently into the cryptic green, "I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. You were…" you hesitated, "you were the first person I thought of," you lied hiding your embarrassment in your tea cup. He wasn't. But the person you thought of was not someone you could call in the middle of the night, even if you had the possibility to do so. "Why did I thought of him…." you rebuked yourself in your mind.

"Something is bothering you," Crane noticed.

"Many things bother me," you replied evasively.

"I thought we were over word games…"

"Because we are," you sighed in resignation, "forgive me. I guess that's my habit."

"If you want we can go back to standard questions like 'how do you feel about it', 'do you want to talk about it'," he smiled mischievously.

"No, thank you!" you denied immediately, "you don't even realize how annoying these questions are."

"So talk."

You took another sip of tea and gazed at the full moon rising against the black sky. A moon that involuntarily made you think of the Batman signal lighting up the night sky. The symbol of the Dark Knight, the protector of Gotham. The symbol of hope that there is someone in this world who cares.

"For the last two weeks I've been cooped up at home and I've been doing some reading…" you began, still staring at the sky outside the window, "colleagues recently joked that I have little chance of ever finding myself in the middle of a fight between Batman and Gotham's psychos. And yet here we are."

"Wrong place, wrong time."

"Possibly," you replied quietly, "But with spare time on my hands and a million questions in my head, for the past two weeks I've done nothing but read newspapers, archived posts, blogs, forums. How is it possible that I have never heard anything about this before?!" you threw a frustrated question, angrily looking into the green gleam, "how the fuck is that possible that I never ever heard anything about Batman, Nightwing, Robin, Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, Green Arrow?! How?! It seems like it is fairly common knowledge! It seems that every big city has its own Batman! So tell me Professor, how come I never heard any of it?!" Crane answered nothing, clearly taken aback by your question, "Like dude can fucking fly! And it seems like this is the first time I ever heard about it!"

"I think you already have the answer to this rhetorical question," Crane stated.

"Something is missing…" you sighed heavily, "something is not right with me…" you tapped angrily with your finger on the side of your forehead, "something is not right in my head. I feel like I should know these things, and yet I don't. I feel like I'm missing part of my mind. Like there are gaps in there, missing pieces which I cannot find," your gaze met his again and hung on for longer than was polite, "Will you help me? Will you help me find the missing pieces?"

"I will," he replied without a moment's hesitation, "but it will require a different approach. If it is indeed as you think, if indeed some parts of your mind are blocked, it will not be enough to simply talk it through. I will expect you to be completely honest and trusting."

"I can do that."

"Good. Let's start from changing the dynamic of our relationship," he scooted closer to you, set his tea cup down on the table then extended his hand to you, "Jonathan," he smiled anticipating your reaction.

You only shook his hand with a smile on your face and relief in your heart certain that you did the right thing by telling him about your worries. Confident that you could count on his help.

***

"Hey isn't that the girl we rescued last time?!" Dick Grayson asked at the sight of the photo and personal file displayed on the Batcomputer screen. Dressed in sweatpants and a tight tank top with a towel hung around his neck and a water bottle in his hand, he was rubbing sweat from his forehead after intense training. His younger foster brother followed him closely step by step, exhaustion painting on his face. Tim was eager to work, to train, to improve his skills, and the years of practice Dick had had over him posed a satisfying challenge.

"The one who tried to drown Joker?" Tim asked standing behind Bruce's chair.

"Yup, the one!" Dick replied, "She got some fight in here! She would rather drove care of the road into the bay than get the Joker to his destination! That's impressive!"

"Is she a friend or foe?!" Tim inquired.

"I don't know yet," Bruce replied without taking his eyes off the monitor, "She works for me."

"What?!"

"How come?!"

"She works at Wayne Tech, we hired her less than two months ago," Bruce replied in a poised voice upon hearing their simultaneous question, "I've had the opportunity to talk to her a few times."

"And?"

"And I can't tell if she's really an innocent victim of circumstance or just a good con artist."

"Do you want me to keep an eye on her?" Tim asked, "I could keep tabs on her for a while, see where she goes, who she hangs out with, what she does after work."

"No, Tim," Bruce refused immediately, "if she is indeed a crook sooner or later she will reappear under not very favorable circumstances and then we will have grounds to be suspicious of her. For the time being, we must assume that she is innocent, as she claims. Besides, as Bruce Wayne, I will have the opportunity to keep an eye on her every day. And as Batman… I want to take on this case personally."

"But…" Dick tried to object yet Bruce didn't give him a chance.

"We have more important things to deal with," Bruce interrupted him by minimizing Y/N's photo, "another victim. Marc Phillips, age forty-five, pilot," a photo of a middle-aged brunet appeared on the computer screen.

"The pilot of the avionette from which the newlyweds jumped," Dick stated, quickly tracing with his eyes over the text on the screen.

"That's right," Bruce confirmed, "After the incident he was under the psychological observation by Professor Jonathan Crane, he stayed in the psychiatric ward of Elliot Memorial Hospital, from which he was released two days ago."

"What happened?" Tim asked unable to find an answer on the screen.

"He hung himself."

Silence fell in the cave as all three began to analyze the facts and the cause-and-effect sequence in their minds. Each of them knew that there was an element of strangeness in the previous victims, an element of the unusual and untold that connected them all. Suicide by hanging had nothing inexplicable about it.

"It doesn't make any sense," Dick began, "I mean it makes sense, but at the same time it doesn't make sense. Oh you know what I mean!"

"It doesn't fit the residual pattern we've had so far," Tim joined in, "the guy hung himself. There's a cause and a reason."

"I want you to inspect his apartment," Bruce informed, finally getting up from the computer and looking at them, " inspect his apartment, talk to the Elliot Memorial staff, and most importantly Professor Crane. His file is perfectly clean, which doesn't change the fact that we can't exclude him from the suspects list."

"What about you?"

"I have an interrogation to attend to."

***

Gotham by day was not much different from Gotham during the night. Thick rain clouds usually hung over the city effectively blocking the sun shrouding the city in a damp sheen. The wet streets and buildings reflected the city lights dressing the city in a veil of mysticism and secrecy. Walking through the city you didn't feel overwhelmed, quite the opposite. Despite the thick clouds in the sky, the brisk air from the bay allowed you to breathe fully, for the first time in weeks. For a moment you forgot where and for what purpose you were going, allowing yourself to once again admire the mysterious beauty of the city, marvel at the million lights and colors refracted in the droplets of water, gaze at the statues carved into the buildings' walls seemingly crying over the fate of the inhabitants, gargoyles lurking on the rooftops appearing to drool at the sight of their victims. The beauty and menace of the city seemed to clash with each other at every turn as if battling for dominance over the city and its citizens. Every alley seemed to hide a mystery, every street seemed to teem with secrets deeply hidden. Gotham was dangerous but also beautiful. For around the next corner, a frantic death could be waiting to herald the end of the adventure, or a laughing group of children in their innocence kicking a ball joyfully, a sign of goodness and purity that had to be protected.

Lost in thought, lost between delight and fear, you didn't notice when your feet led you to the First Gotham City Police District building. A building that was a perfect representation of the city itself. Modern style merged with age-old classics. The central part of the building wore the signs of the age, while the modern wings on the sides, although initially appearing incongruous with the rest, effectively brought the building into the 21st century. In the center of the tall clock tower a blue GCPD glowed, while gargoyles positioned on the sides seemed to keep a watchful eye on the surroundings.

The interior proved to be a perfect reflection of its exterior and an even more appropriate deepening of Gotham's atmosphere. Dark, stuffy, dusty, shrouded in a yellowish light that seemed too dim to meet health and safety requirements. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air ignoring more regulations and laws. On old-fashioned cluttered desks stood modern computers bearing the Wayne Tech logo bringing an element of modernity to the age-old interior. From an office nearby, raised voices could be heard indicating a confrontation behind closed doors. A little farther behind bars, several criminals were taunting the cops, doing their worst to provoke them. Someone reported a theft, someone else a missing person, another a beating. Fragments of conversations between police officers drew a picture of deep-rooted crime.

"I'm telling you Frank, Maroni will go to war with Falcone! It's only a matter of time!" said one.

"Don't even joke like that! We don't need a gang war now when the Joker has escaped from Arkham!" countered the other.

"He didn't escape, he got busted out."

"By two chicks! Can you imagine?"

"Yeah, trust me, I can," the man laughed rubbishly, "chick who has the balls to bust Joker out of the Asylum must have some imagination if you know what I mean."

"Damnn man, you are sick!"

You shuddered at their words as if something disgusting had touched your skin. "What a pig," you thought and headed for the reception desk behind which a young policewoman was drowning in paperwork.

"Excuse me," you snapped her out of her work, "My name is Y/N Y/L/N, I was supposed to report to the police station to provide a statement."

"Y/N Y/L/N," the policewoman lifted her gaze from above the documents and looked at you with a gentle smile, "yes, yes…Arkham case…" she said more to herself while searching the computer for information, "Commissioner Gordon is in his office waiting for you. Please follow me," she stated and gestured you deeper into the building.

The commissioner's office situated on a small rise in the central part of the police station towered above everything as if emphasizing his presence and authority. A yellowish light shone through the glass walls from within, gently illuminating the entire precinct, bringing to your mind a faint ray of hope breaking through the darkness and gloom. Inside, the office was as messy and hazy as the entire post. Despite the large centrally located windows, it seemed murky and tight. The central part brightly lit contrasted so much with the black corners hidden in shadow. Thick cigarette smoke drifted against the yellow warm light. Cigarette butts spilled out of an ashtray that fought for its place on the desk with coffee cups and stacks of documents and folders. Stacks of files were crammed on shelves and in boxes piled against the wall and on the floor around the desk even more than everything else so far informing you of the scale of crime in Gotham. The commissioner sat behind his desk bent over the files with a cigarette hanging at his lips as if not paying attention to his surroundings.

"Commissioner Gordon," the policewoman began.

"I told you I am busy," Gordon muttered under his breath, "if nothing is burning or exploding Bullock can handle it."

"Miss Y/L/N to see you, Commissioner," she finished, announcing your presence forcing the commissioner to raise his eyes from over his papers and interrupt his work.

"Thank you, Alice," he turned to the policewoman changing his tone of voice, "find Bullock and send him to me please," he instructed, "Miss Y/L/N please sit down," he turned to you pointing to a chair on the other side of the desk.

You took the seat opposite him, and although you tried very hard to remain calm and composed you were sure that Gordon clearly saw nerves and uncertainty in your movements. You involuntarily looked around the room wanting to register every little detail, returning your gaze again and again to the dark corners shrouded in shadow.

"Would you like something to drink?" Gordon asked politely, "the coffee is dreadful but it gets the job done."

"No, thank you," you replied just as kindly.

"I see you're feeling better now," Gordon continued, "I'm glad, and thank you for showing up."

"Did I have a choice?" you asked without thinking, momentarily regretting not biting your tongue.

"We brought you in to give a statement, you are not under suspicion in any way," Gordon explained, "nor do we have any grounds to interrogate you against your will."

"So if I want I can leave and refuse to testify?" since you had already started there was no point in backing out.

"You can," Gordon confirmed, "but I think it would look very suspicious. Would you agree with me?"

"I think you're right," you admitted quietly.

The door opened abruptly and a second man entered the office. Medium height with a heavier physique, another picture of contrast and clash of two contradictions. His lengthy hair and several days of facial stubble expressed nonchalance and neglect, yet his suit blazer, shirt and tie showed professionalism and elegance.

"Miss Y/L/N, my partner, Detective Bullock," Gordon introduced the man.

"Right, so how was it with the Joker and his girlfriend," Bullock leaned against the glass wall of the office and asked directly, "We know you helped him escape, we know you were the driver of the car the Joker used to escape," Bullock didn't plan to play nice.

"I... it's not quite like that…" you began.

"During the escape, you broke more than a dozen laws, caused two accidents, and damage to public property," Bullock listed, "three people are in the hospital of which one is in serious condition and fighting for life."

"I'm sorry…" you cringed at the sound of your own words, knowing very well how pathetic that sounded.

"Sorry ain't gonna cover that sweetheart! You gotta work with us here."

"It's not like I had any choice…" you tried to defend quietly.

"We can book you for complicity and charge you with a fine," he added.

"And what about the assumption of innocence?" you looked at Bullock defiantly.

"It went to shit the moment you pressed on the gas."

"Miss Y/L/N, please tell us how it happened that you were dragged into this situation," Gordon interjected into the conversation, adopting the role of a good cop, "everything, with details."

"I didn't know," you looked at him trying to sound as sincere as you could, "I had no idea. I was asked by a friend to pick up her boyfriend, who was returning from a short vacation. I had no reason not to agree."

"Dr. Harleen Quinzel," Gordon inserted.

"That's right," you confirmed, seeing no point in hiding her identity.

"How long have you known each other?"

"Most of our lives," you replied, "we grew up together, went to school together, we used to be inseparable. Then, life happened and we just each went our separate ways. Harleen moved out to Gotham and I stayed in my hometown with my family and contact just stopped."

"And yet you decided to renew it," Gordon continued.

"I recently moved to Gotham, I don't know anyone here, I thought it was a good opportunity to renew an old friendship."

"Why did you move to Gotham?" Bullock cut in.

"For work."

"As a Joker's getaway driver?"

"No!" you denied angrily, "As an engineer at Wayne Enterprises. You can check it out. I was hired at Wayne Tech as an engineer. Lucius Fox is my direct supervisor."

"We know," Gordon stated, "what was happening on the eve of the Joker's escape? You were seen at 44 Below." A cold shiver ran down your spine when you realized how bad it all looked.

"I met Harleen for the first time in years," you began to explain, "I don't know the city very well yet, so I decided to rely on her."

"Didn't it seem suspicious to you that you were going to a club beneath a club?"

"She said her boyfriend knew the owner and that it was a VIP club," you replied, "I had no reason not to trust her."

"And then? Nothing seemed suspicious to you?"

"At times, sure," you admitted, "strange types watching us, drinks appearing out of nowhere, it was unusual, but I was happy to spend time with my friend, I didn't want to look like a freak, and also alcohol did its job."

"Please continue the story," Gordon encouraged.

"Everything was pretty normal until we were invited to the owner's office," you continued, and you had to admit to yourself that now as you were telling the story out loud in front of the cops, it sounded very bad, "Harleen called him Ozzy, a short corpulent man. There was another one, big and stocky, Harleen seemed to know him," you recalled from memory, "Butch, she called him Butch."

"Oswald Cobblepot and Butch Gilzean," Bullock threw in.

"There were a few others there as well, I think security guards," you continued, "I refused to go inside."

"Why?"

"Something felt off," you countered, "I'm sorry don't have a better explanation."

"What happened next?"

"Batman happened," you replied quietly, "Batman fell out of the ceiling," you repeated looking Gordon in the eyes, "he jumped out through the ceiling vent grate, beat everyone up in a snap, and told us to leave."

"Just like that?" Bullock questioned.

"I didn't ask him why," you furrowed your eyebrows, "I almost shit myself when he jumped out of the ceiling. Sorry, but I didn't give a shit about his reasons!"

"Alright, that was Saturday," you followed Gordon's voice with your eyes, "What happened on Sunday?"

You calmed your blood pressure, regretting not asking for a glass of water, and continued.

"As I mentioned earlier, Harleen asked me to go with her to pick up her boyfriend who she said was returning from a short vacation. She was very eager for me to meet him, so I didn't refuse even though I didn't feel like socializing after the Saturday events."

"After all that happened you just said yes?" Bullock inquired.

"I know how it looks, but I didn't even have time to think about it all," you replied, "more than that, I looked at everything through the prism of our friendship."

"Continue please," Gordon encouraged.

"Harleen didn't tell me where we were going, and I didn't ask. I was tired and lost in thought. In the car, we talked about her work at Arkham Asylum, and we got into a discussion about how dangerous that job was and how dangerous Gotham was. Trivial matters of life decisions and supporting each other, the kind that friends talk about. Although now as I recall that conversation, it takes on a whole different context…" you remarked quietly, "anyways, Harleen said she wanted to drive up to Arkham on the way because the doctors were donating blood on Sundays and now it was her turn. I had no reason to suspect a lie."

"What happened next?"

"Harleen went to the hospital and I stayed in front of the gate by the car. She was gone for a long time. And suddenly I heard an explosion and sirens! I was scared that something had happened!"

"Why didn't you run away? A normal person would have run away," Bullock threw in another question.

"I was worried about my friend! You have my recording! I called 911, reported the incident and seriously for a moment I wanted to go into the Asylum and look for her! I was afraid for her! But before I could go in I saw her from a distance running. I had her on the phone, she was screaming for me to start the engine. I thought she was running away from whatever was going on there. I didn't think twice! I jumped in the car and started the engine. She shouted, urged me on, everything happened very fast…" you recounted in one breath, "I didn't even look at the seat next to me. Only at the moment when the Joker put the gun to my head did I realize what was really happening."

"But you didn't stop the car," Bullock noted.

"Did you skip the part where the Joker put the gun to my forehead, detective?" you fumed angrily, "again, I've never been in a situation like that, obviously! I didn't know what to do! Everything happened very quickly! Only screaming and a gun to my forehead! I was trying not to kill us and at the same time not to kill anyone along the way! And then everything sped up even more when Batman appeared out of nowhere! So forgive me, Detective Bullock, but I didn't think, I reacted to the situation! Joker as soon as he saw Batman started shooting! I was afraid that he would shoot one of the people walking by, I was afraid that I would cause a crash! I tried to maneuver through traffic and not cause an accident!"

"How did it happen that you drove off the road?" Gordon asked softly.

"I did it on purpose," you replied as if slightly embarrassed.

"On purpose?"

"The situation escalated, I knew Harleen was a great swimmer, it seemed the only way out of the situation. I didn't want anyone innocent to get hurt."

"Weren't you concerned for yourself?"

"I wasn't thinking," you replied, "I wanted to stop all this. Driving off the road seemed the best solution at that moment."

"How did you get out of the car?"

"Batman pulled me out," you replied, "he saved my life…." you added in a half-whisper.

Silence fell when you finished telling the story. Gordon and Bullock exchanged meaningful glances as if they were wordlessly exchanging thoughts. Your gaze wandered once again to a dark corner of the commissioner's office hidden in shadows an anxious shiver ran down your spine. The shadow seemed to have a shape.

"Alright,'" Gordon broke the silence, "we have no more questions. Detective Bullock will escort you to the exit. Please do not leave the city and remain available should we have any more questions."

"Commissioner, what about Harleen? Have you found her? Is she safe?" you asked unable to hide the worry in your voice.

"Harleen Quinzel remains wanted with a warrant for her arrest. Her whereabouts are currently unknown," Gordon stated before thanking you again for your time and closing the door behind you.

*

Gordon watched Bullock and Y/N walking away for a moment before turning the lock on the door and sitting down again behind the desk, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag while slowly letting the smoke out.

"What do you think?" he asked into the space.

"I think she is telling the truth," a growly voice answered from the shadows.

"Yes, I think so too. Poor girl. I haven't seen such bad luck in one person for a long time," he sighed heavily.

"Though just because she doesn't lie doesn't change the fact that we have to keep an eye on her. Her history with Qunizel and genuine concern for her safety makes me think that Miss Y/L/N still has a role to play. Either of her own will or in spite of it."

"You want me to put APB on her?"

"No. I will handle this myself."

"I'm sure you've heard about the pilot," Gordon added after a moment, letting out a puff of smoke, "have you had a chance to check out his apartment yet?"

"I've got Nightwing and Robin working on it as we speak," Batman replied, "I'll let you know when I know something."

"Batman, I don't think there's any connection. The guy hung himself!" Gordon began to think aloud receiving only a cold breath of air in response. The shadow was just an empty shadow again. Batman was gone.

***

Across town in a small suite on the second floor of an apartment building once lived Marc Phillips. Marc was an average man, working as a car mechanic by day, earning just enough to live an average life and pay alimony. Marc wasn't proud of his average life, but he was proud of his avionette. A beautiful little plane that he loved more than his own wife, although he never admitted it. He cherished it, cared for it, looked after it like it was the most precious treasure. Mark didn't quite like his average life, but he loved the moments when he took the avionette into the air above streets and buildings and skyscrapers. Yes, in those moments Marc felt he was alive. How happy he was when his closest friend found a lovely woman he wanted to marry. She was a good, honest woman, the kind Marc had met very few in his life. How proud he was when he was able to offer them a private flight in his beautiful avionette for their dream honeymoon. How despaired he was when all that joy splashed into a wet stain on the dirty pavement. Marc knew that if he was gone no one would take care of his beautiful avionette, his greatest pride. As he put the loop around his neck, he imagined how rust ruined and ate away the red paint, how moisture covered the blue with a foul green hue. Yet that evening Marc wanted to feel free. He wanted all his fears and anxieties to disappear. He wanted to rise above his mediocre life one last time. His last flight, however, turned out to be short, just half a meter, which was given to him by a knocked-down chair. Then came the darkness.

"Bills, payment notices, signed divorce papers, nothing interesting," Tim was browsing through a dresser drawer, looking for anything that might provide a link to the investigation.

"Standard rope probably purchased at Home Depot. Good strong weave, zero rush, looks like he was tying it for two days," Dick looked closely at the marks, "he knew full well what he was doing. The rope was woven tightly with a triple twist, leaving no chance of breaking. The length was chosen almost perfectly, considering the height of the chair."

"Poor bastard," Tim muttered under his breath, "what do we know about his psychiatrist?"

"Professor Jonathan Crane. A renowned psychiatrist, specializing mainly in trauma, PTSD, and phobias. Born in Gotham, he graduated from Gotham University with honors. He later worked at Metropolis General Hospital and the Royal Memorial Hospital in Star City. Recently, he has become the head of the psychiatric wing at Elliot Memorial."

"Isn't that chick who broke the Joker out of Asylum a psychiatrist as well?" Tim asked inquisitively.

"Hey, just because we have two psychiatrists on file doesn't mean they have any connection to each other, Robin," Dick corrected his brother.

"A bit too much of a coincidence don't you think?" Tim countered and returned to searching through the drawers, "Hey Nightwing?!"

"Yup?"

"Didn't Batman seem more cryptic than usual to you today?"

"Yup!"

"He's hiding something."

"Yup!"

"Do you think it has something to do with that girl?"

"Yup!"

"Hey, I found the pills!"

"Good job Robin!" Nightwing applauded as he walked over to his brother, "Damn, a whole drawer of pills."

"Sedatives, sleeping pills, antidepressants," Robin looked at each bottle separately to finally stop at one, "these I don't know," he stated lifting a small bottle to the light.

"Neither do I," Nightwing stated looking at the pill, "take them, take them all. This is the only trace so far."

"Not quite!" Robin grinned, raising the folder of documents to eye level, "hospital discharge and diagnosis!" he announced with a smirk.

"Jackpot! Our job is done here."

***

If one would raise his eyes upward and look at the evening sky casting its blackness over the city he would see nothing. He would not see the black figure rising and falling between the buildings, spreading his cape and gliding above the city. He would not have noticed the calm face and keen eyes scanning the city intently. He wouldn't have noticed the discreet turns of his head picking up on disturbing sounds. He would not have heard his cape flapping in the wind, would not have noticed the worry painted on his face at the sight of the huddled figure sitting on the edge of the bridge leading to Gotham North. From the street, it was hard to see the black figure in the starless sky. Yet Batman could see everything. He perched on the building's rooftop close enough to see everything yet far enough away to remain unnoticed. She was sitting there, exactly where the metal railings had been until two weeks ago. Black leather jacket, heavy boots, her hair loose and dancing in the wind, she seemed distant. Gazing into the rough waters of the bay, she seemingly carelessly waved her legs hanging off the bridge. "Why would she come here?" he wondered, "what is she hiding?"

For a moment he thought of leaving her there. For a moment he considered turning his back to her and carrying on with his patrol. For a moment he was convinced that he shouldn't approach her, that this was a very bad move. And yet there was something wrong with the sad picture he was observing, something that wouldn't let him just walk away. Zooming in on her face, he realized that something was missing. He was missing the feisty smile he had come to know, the carefree laugh and that adorable embarrassment. The picture was broken. He couldn't simply ignore it. He gently jumped off the roof and soared toward her landing softly a few steps away, careful not to scare her.

"Don't jump," he murmured quietly as he approached her slowly. She shuddered and turned abruptly, too abruptly for his liking.

"Batman…" she gasped with widened eyes.

"You're not planning to jump are you?"

"No," she replied shortly, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm the one who should be asking you that."

"I'm waiting," she replied without taking her eyes off him.

"Waiting for what?"

"A miracle, I guess,'" she quipped, "my phone died in the water, and Harleen doesn't respond to my messages on Insta, Messenger and Twitter. Don't know why, but I was kinda hoping that I would find her here."

"You shouldn't be looking for her."

"She's my friend!" she fumed angrily, "if nothing else at least she owes me an explanation."

"Let it go. She has made her choices."

"It's so easy for you to judge people Batman?" she asked and looked away gazing once again at the water below, "it's so easy for you to cross someone out? Maybe it's not what you think it is?"

Batman did not answer immediately. Part of Bruce knew he shouldn't, yet he drowned out that voice. He sat down next to her on the edge of the bridge and fixed his eyes on the raising waves.

"Then tell me how you think it is…" out of the corner of his eye he saw her flinch slightly surprised by his action, but she did not take her gaze off the water.

"Harleen is a good person. All her life she has wanted to help people. That's why she chose her specialty. She has always said that there is a stigma against people with mental disorders, especially those who commit crimes. She objected to the statement that the criminally insane cannot be cured. She always said that she would prove to ignorant people that illness, any illness, can be cured or at least mitigated," Y/N said and Batman listened in silence, "Does that sound to you like a description of someone you treat like a criminal?"

"No," he admitted, "but I, unlike you, know something you don't."

"Which is?"

"I know who the Joker is."

"Another reason to consider her his victim, not his accomplice," Y/N stated stubbornly, "you know she's a wanted criminal?"

"I know."

"I'll find her first and prove that she, like me, is just an innocent victim of circumstance," fierceness flashed in her eyes and Bruce realized that there were no words that could stop her, "I'll find her before the cops find her, before you do!" she furrowed her brows angrily and tightened her hands on the edge of the bridge. Bruce knew this fierceness well. He saw it many times in Dick's eyes, Jason's, Tim's, in his own each time he looked in the mirror.

"You almost drowned," he tried to appeal to her sense of self-preservation, "you almost died in there," he looked at her but she stubbornly stared into the water.

"You saved me…" she whispered finally, "And I thank you for that," he did not comment. "Thank you also for sending paramedics to my house."

"You're welcome."

"How did you know where I live?"

"I didn't," he lied, "The policewoman knew."

"Right…"

"Leave the Harleen case to me and the cops," he insisted gently, "two weeks ago you almost drowned. Leave it. Go back to your normal life, to your family, to your job."

"I can't…" she replied before adding after a brief pause, "you're right, I almost died. I should have died. Every day I get from now on is a gift. I can't just go back to work and normal life. I can't leave her."

"I can't let you put yourself in danger and potentially hinder the investigation."

"Then help me,"" she snapped her eyes and looked straight into his own, "Will you help me, Batman?"

***

Chapter six: Choices that define us ~~***~~

Author note: It took a while but here we are at the end of chapter five! Thank you for your patience. I'm really trying to publish chapters as consistently as I can but unfortunately, there is work and other responsibilities. And these chapters, well they do take time. I hope it was worth the wait! We had slow down a bit, take a breather after chapter four, tighten the plot, so we could pick up the pace again. Besides, I am really enjoying slow world-building, adding characters, adding new pieces to the story, connecting the dots. I do hope that it will pay off at the end. I've been asked for a tag list and I took the liberty of adding some of you so please let me know if you want to be added or removed. I thank you all for your DMs, comments and reblogs. Even if I do not respond to all of them, I assure I read them all, and each brings a smile to my face. Enough of me bubbling, gotta start working on chapter six cos I kinda miss Bruce ;) For now, as always Dear Reader, I thank you for reading.

~~***~~ Tag list: @clown-princesa @theclassicvinyldragon @blondwhowrites @green-parx @batgirlspain

[ceruleanmusings]

in sickness and in health - mickames

summary - when learning she's sick, james takes care of mickey in the best way he knows how.

tag: @myloveforhergoeson @partiallypearl @witchofinterest @raging-violets

-----

"What are you doing here?" Mickey asked. Or at least tried. She had to stop and start a couple times due to the rounds of coughing that plagued her at the sight of him. James. Sitting outside her window on the fire-escape, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Kelly said you're sick," he said.

She blinked owlishly, nearly blinded by his smile. Or the sun. Her watery, half-lidded eyes couldn't handle more than the darkened room she'd been confined to for the last few hours, buried beneath her blankets until she heard a strange series of taps outside her window. Now she really wished it was just a dream. "No, I mean what are you doing here? How did you find the apartment?"

"Oh. Well, Logan—"

"Goddammit, Logan!" Her curse would've had much more effect if her words hadn't turned down in volume halfway through, leading her to clear her throat a couple times until it came back.

Her pointed a red cylinder at her. "You should've known it was only a matter of time."

Mickey made a face. He was right. The Boys were strangely persistent when they wanted to know, have, or get something. It was a blessing and a curse. Mostly a curse, which is why Aunt Kelly worked hard to keep them from learning where they lived. The only address they had was her last apartment. They'd moved to this one soon after for the space and told her and her sisters to keep quiet so they wouldn't find out where it was. They're destructive, she explained. This is a nice place. I want to keep it that way. As if they needed the explanation. They'd seen their whirlwind first hand. They didn't need to be told twice.

"Shouldn't you be at—" she tried asking four times before giving up, body nearly holding in half as a rapid-fire series of coughs bulleted her elbow. Huffing, she flopped back against her pillows and focused on getting her breathing back to normal. Her head pounded, or was those her sinuses? Her throat was scraped raw and she didn't know whether to keep wearing the large hoodie or take it off. It should be illegal to feel hot and cold at the exact same time. "Why?" she finally managed to ask, motioning to him out the window.

He shifted from his previous position—sitting cross legged—to lean his arms against the windowsill. His elbows touched either end of the frame. "Being sick sucks," he said, resting his chin on his arms. Then he tilted his head to the side, eyes swinging upward. "Being sick alone sucks even more," he added a few moments later, an afterthought.

Her mouth twisted to the side. That look in his eye, the tender tone to his words, the feather-soft sigh, they lasted only for a second until he pulled his veil back down but she knew sad musings when she saw it. People thought nostalgia was the bitter pill to swallow, of nothing being the same anymore. Nothing being like how one wished had to be even worse.

"Thermos?" She rasped, pointing to the red cylinder in his hands. Her tactic worked, quickly putting the light back in his eyes.

"I brought you soup." He passed it through the window. Their fingers brushed and she frowned. His skin felt ice cold compared to hers. Setting the thermos next to her, she grabbed the half empty bottle of hand sanitizer off her nearby nightstand and held it out to him. With a small pout, he rubbed the quick-drying liquid on his hands. And she thought he was terrible about sunscreen. "I don't care if you get me sick."

"Uncle Gustavo would," she said.

"I'd be out of his bald for a few days. He'd thank you."

Her mouth opened to protest then she shut it a second later. He was right. Uncle Gustavo would probably throw a parade in her honor for getting one of the Boys away from him. Not that she'd show up for it. Crowds and too much attention was her own personal nightmare. Probably should've thought of that before getting in a band.

"What kind?" Steam wafted past her nose once the seal broke. Something thick and creamy sloshed along the inside of the thermos. She wished she could smell it. At least the heat would help soothe her throat.

"It's Bubbe's Penicillin Punch. Guaranteed to make you feel better in no time. And don't worry, I asked Mama Knight to make it."

"That's probably safe." Her raspy chuckle made her sound like an eighty-year-old smoker. "Since you can't boil water." And the last time she ate something he made, her face was up close and personal with the toilet for two hours. He'd held her hair back; that was nice.

James grumbled about being able to boil it, just not knowing he had to watch it while Mickey poured the soup into the cup of the thermos. It slid out smoothly, chunks of carrots, celery, corn, noodle, and chicken bobbed along the surface. Throwing her head back, she downed half the contents in one swoop.

"You don't want a spoon? I can get you one!"

She shook her head, blocking her mouth with her hand and she quickly chewed and swallowed. The minced food and brother slid down her throat, giving her a flash of relief. "Takes too much time." Plus, the last thing she wanted was for him to launch himself off the fire escape just for cutlery. She dragged her tongue along the edges of her mouth, catching the slow dripping beads of soup before she dropped her hand. "Noodles need to be appreciated to the full extent of their noodle goodness."

"You said noodle twice."

She nailed him with a look. "You bet I did."

Her raspy laugh returned when his mouth opened and closed in rapid succession, like a fish gasping for air. Finally he draped his arms through the window, fingers lightly flicking the panda-shaped sticky note stack that had fallen onto her blankets at one point, and pressed his cheek up against his arm, looking right at her. Heat crawled up her neck, which she knew had nothing to do with her cold. "Marry me!"

"I need a diamond first."

"I can give you my last name!"

She took another swig, blocking her smile with the small cup. "You said this was your bubbe's recipe?" He nodded. She mimicked him, savoring the taste on her tongue. "Thanks for sharing her with me."

James' eyes crinkled in the corners, a bashful smile curling his lips. he pointed his chin inward. "What're you watching?"

She settled back into against the pillows, "A League of Their Own."

At least she was. Last time she checked. She had blinked, just blinked, but when she opened her eyes the light in the sky had turned to a setting golden orange, the shadows on her wall tilted and stretched, and her window sat empty. Frowning, Mickey rubbed her wet, crusted eyes and sat up straighter.

Low chatter, running water, shifting pots and pans, and wafted in through the cracked door. Sammi's shoe cubby had every space accounted for. Her mint green messenger bag hung off the post of her bed.

Realizing it was later than she thought, Mickey pushed out a yawn, stretching her arms into the air. They landed unceremoniously in her lap and she spotted the panda sticking to her side of the raised window. Humming, she plucked it off with two of her fingers.

Didn't want to wake you. Hope you feel better! xJames

She traced a finger along the x before his name.

With a full belly and equally full heart, she definitely did.

[voraciousvore]

Bucky's (4/44)

***This chapter contains vore!***

Chapter 4: Eaten

Patty watched in horror, scarcely believing anything she was seeing was real, as the clear lid was pulled open and a gargantuan hand snaked in through the opening to grab her. She squealed with fright and ran, hitting the glass hard and bruising her knee, but the impossibly huge fingers closed around her anyway. The floor dropped away beneath her, along with the other humans as they gawked up at her from below, appearing like toy figurines from such a grand height. 

Bucky slammed the lid shut and carried Patty toward the kitchen. “No!” Patty screamed. “Unhand me, you-“ She couldn’t finish lobbing her insult before Bucky smothered her cries with the tip of his finger over her mouth. She was whisked away into the Giant kitchen, a sprawling chaos of hot stoves, rushed chefs, and platters of food lined up on the countertops. The air was full of hot steam and a cacophony of noise: yelling, chopping, clinking, clattering, banging, sizzling and popping. Patty’s head was spinning.  

She was slapped down onto one of the countertops, but still pinned with a hefty Giant finger so she couldn’t run. “Chef Cruor, this human’s for table 9. Special order.”  

“Alright,” a deep gloomy voice replied. The Giant chef stalked over to the counter and regarded Patty coldly. He had a snobby, sallow face with a thin nose and dark hollows under his eyes and cheekbones. His wavy dark hair was tied back in a ponytail so he wouldn’t get hair in the food as he cooked. He picked up Patty in his gloved hand impassively and lumbered over to his station, where he was already preparing the appetizers. He had baked miniature rolls that resembled croissants. He slapped down a cold cut of salami and spread cream cheese over the surface while Patty observed apprehensively. 

He pressed Patty into the sticky bed of cream cheese, ignoring her screams and thrashes, and rolled the cold cut around her body. He then stuffed the human into one of the croissants by wrapping her tightly in the soft, flaky crust. Patty tried to move her arms and legs, but they were firmly pinned to her sides. She felt like a pig in a blanket. The chef prepared a few more appetizers, sans human meat, and arranged them in a circle around her on a dinner plate with the square footage of a living room. 

“Take this,” Chef Cruor insisted, shoving a human-sized pill, barely a crumb on his finger, into her face. Patty would have refused, but Slim Jim’s advisement echoed back to her. In a snap decision, she chose to trust his words and reluctantly swallowed whatever it was that the chef gave her. She didn’t know what the pill was for, but at this point she had nothing to lose. She was going to be eaten and killed regardless. Perhaps the pill would mute her pain, sedate her, or make her pass out. She didn’t want to be conscious while being chewed up or digested. 

“Order up! Human appetizer for table 9!” Chef Cruor belted out in his deep voice, setting the plate on the counter. Patty felt a wave of nausea as a waitress scooped up the plate and hustled over to the customer’s table, bobbing her up and down with the jerky motions of her rapid footsteps. Red and white swam before Patty’s eyes in a dizzy rush. 

“Here you go,” the waitress announced to the customer in a sickly-sweet tone as the plate clinked on the table. Patty looked up and gulped with fear as she finally beheld the Giant who would consume her, along with two other Giants sitting at the table. She knew, deep down, that screaming and struggling and pleading would be useless when she saw the ravenous, delighted look on his gigantic countenance. 

“Thank you, miss,” he said absently to the waitress as she dashed off, not taking his predatory gaze off the plate. He drew in the plate closer to his massive torso and reached his hand over. Patty squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered, but he picked up one of the snacks next to her instead and popped it in his mouth, keeping his eyes fixated on her. He chewed it up and swallowed with deliberate, exaggerated movements, calculated to frighten his human meal, and his technique worked. Patty watched his Adam’s apple pulse in his throat as he swallowed, and she realized she’d soon be following. He picked up another mini croissant and ate it with a devious smirk. Patty trembled in her salami straitjacket. 

“P-please… don’t eat me!” she cried, tears running down her cheeks. The Giant seemed to delight even more in her misery. He pinched his human-in-a-blanket appetizer and raised it up to his face, grinning wide. His lips and teeth parted in hungry anticipation, strings of drool dripping down inside the cavern of his maw. Patty screeched in terror when he moved the appetizer toward his mouth and bit into the flaky crust, peeling it off with his teeth and scooping it inside his mouth with his fleshy tongue. He swallowed, and Patty, being so close, could hear the squishy sound of saliva and lubricated food sliding down his throat. 

“No! Stop!” she protested louder as the white rows of teeth approached a second time, this time gripping the salami and unrolling it into the Giant’s mouth. He slurped it up, and Patty heard the same squelchy swallow, watching as his jaws tightened and his throat muscles clenched in a rolling wave down his neck. Her limbs were free to flail about now, but she was still pinched between the Giant’s fingers, covered in cream cheese. His mouth opened again, and his huge tongue splatted against her feet and raked against her body all the way up to her face, licking off cream cheese and replacing it with a slick coat of slobber. He rotated her around in his fingers and licked her again, then opened his mouth wider. Patty’s scream was cut off as she was forced into his mouth. 

Patty was horrified to behold the walls of teeth closing shut all around her, trapping her inside a room of red flesh. What she had feared most was morphing into reality. This was real. She was going to die. She was going to be eaten. She flew into a frenzy, surging away from the yawning abyss behind her and clawing at the teeth, desperate to be let out, but the Giant whose mouth she was in had other plans. He easily slammed her down with his heavy tongue, squishing her against his teeth and sucking the rest of the cream cheese off her body. He rolled her around on his tongue, humming with pleasure. 

Patty wasn’t sure whether it would be worse to be masticated to death by the molars, or to be swallowed alive, but she wasn’t given much time to think it over as she slipped towards the dark void at the back of the mouth. She found herself staring down the gaping black hole of his throat. A breath of warm air passed over her face and tousled her hair. She jerked away, but the tongue pushed her headfirst into the chasm and the muscles contracted around her, mercilessly swallowing her down. 

She believed her bones would snap, or her ribcage would cave in, from the crushing force as she was sucked down in darkness black as pitch. She felt nauseous and claustrophobic as she dropped in a controlled fall the long, hot distance down, as if burrowing to the center of the earth to the molten core. Her mind was scrambled with hysterical panic. She couldn’t imagine the horrors that awaited her at the end of her journey, but they were approaching whether she was ready or not. She had no control over her fate. 

The Giant rubbed his belly and moaned with satisfaction as Patty squeezed through the opening to his stomach and splashed inside. She thrashed violently in the festering cauldron of acid, slapping the stomach lining uselessly with her fists and feet. Her tracker contacted the wall and lit up, to her shock, cutting through the blinding darkness with a bright light. Patty was unaware that the device on her arm had a built-in flashlight. She fixated with unbearable distress on the churning, wrinkly, fleshy pink interior closing her in. The stomach shifted with rhythmic movements, stirring the acid pooling around her body to digest the Giant’s meal. 

Some indistinguishable sludge slopped down from above and plopped down into the bubbling acid. Patty aimed her flashlight up to the top of the stomach to see more mush squeezing out from the muscular sphincter that guarded the ingress. She wouldn’t be able to reach that high or climb out. She was trapped. She pummeled and body slammed the walls around her, hoping that perhaps she could upset the Giant’s stomach and force him to expel her. 

“Mmmm... I love it when they squirm around inside,” the Giant thundered all around her, like the omnipresent voice of a deity. Patty shrank into herself, alarmed by the powerful voice. She realized then that anything she did would be futile. The only physiological response she had observed had been a slight quickening of his enormous heartbeat, suggesting her thrashing excited him. He swallowed her whole on purpose, to enjoy her struggling. That’s why he wanted an “unwilling female,” as the waitress had put it. Patty slumped against the squishy, throbbing stomach lining, full of despair. She didn’t want to give him what he wanted. 

She was going to die. There was no escaping her fate. She was done for. All because of her irresponsible roommate Jenny and her damned drugs. She was going to die a horrible, stupid, pointless death, without having accomplished anything of substance in her short, wretched existence. She was full of regret as she reflected on her life choices. She regretted not calling her parents from jail and saying final words to them, for fear of disappointing them. She regretted “taking a break” and not finishing college. She regretted investing all her effort into a failed relationship with her boyfriend who ended up dumping her. She regretted that she never had the chance to explore and discover her passion. She regretted not doing more with the time that she had. All her regrets snowballed into a painful realization that she had wasted her life, and it would soon be over. She could never get it back. Everything felt so far away now, out of her grasp. 

As she lamented, the organ she was inside rumbled loudly, making her shudder. She snapped out of her daze to consider her immediate position. She didn’t know how long it would take for her to be digested, but the thought of watching her flesh boil off her bones horrified her. She tried to climb away from the lake of acid, but she had nowhere to go, and the folds in the lining were too slippery to serve as handholds. She had to accept what was inevitably going to happen, but truthfully it was too appalling to even contemplate. 

The Giant continued to talk to the other Giants at his table, his voice booming through his guts alongside his heartbeat and breathing, but Patty didn’t pay attention to the irrelevant snippets of conversation. He ate his dinner, and the chunks rained down into his digestive system on poor Patty. She stewed in half-digested food and misery, waiting to die. However, as the food around her dissolved in the acid, Patty noticed that she remained intact. In fact, she became aware that the acid didn’t burn her skin or even so much as tingle. What was going on? She was baffled and a bit afraid. While she certainly didn’t want to be digested, she was still stuck inside the Giant’s belly. How long could she stay alive in here, if the acid didn’t liquefy her? She didn’t want to find out. 

Chapter 5

Chapter 1

[glamorgroove]

Top  Eye Creams For Dark Circles That Actually Work in 2024.

It’s true that dark circles can become a grueling and unsympathetic guest in our eyes. They appear in the night with the intention of removing our glow and make us appear exhausted even after a great evening’s rest. Be assured Beauty fighters! Here’s a selection of the most effective eye creams that can take care of those dreadful shadows. They’ll make you look refreshed. No matter if you’re struggling with the effects of genetics or fatigue or even nighttime Netflix addiction, these Top  Eye Creams For Dark Circles That Actually Work in 2024.

Best Eye Creams For Dark Circles That Actually Work in 2024

                       Isdin K-Ox Eye Cream

The product is a real hit because it is an easily-wearable, quick-absorbing formulation which only needs a small quantity to cover the whole under-eye region. Applying the smooth texture effortlessly thanks to the application tool made from cooling ceramic and also to ensure that the product did not leave any residue when dried. The texture and moisturizing in our skin increased immediately (due to the hyaluronic acid) however the real results showed up several weeks afterward.

Even with a sleepless night as well as a couple of dull red-eye flights (plus any jet lag which goes along with them) we saw a noticeable change on how we looked. dark and puffy eyes looked less swollen and soft, as well. We were awed by how healthy our eyes looked, as well as the way smooth and soft our skin appeared, especially viewing the photos of prior and post-test at the close of our test period. Be cautious, but be patient and keep your journey, and you’ll soon be just as amazed as we were.

Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair Retinol Pro+ Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream

Our dark shadows began to fade to soft toned, even skin. The additional hydration improved the skin’s texture, which crepey and helped our wrinkles shrink and firm over time. We were especially impressed by the cream for eyes that you could purchase in a pharmacy because it was possible to apply the Neutrogena gel-based formula to the eye area, and it would blend into the skin, provide moisture to the skin. Some eye creams which hydrate the skin feel a bit sticky, but the one we used has a perfect drying time and matte skin and is the perfect base layer to concealers.

We think that the slight temperature we experienced when first applied the cream on our skin in the course of testing was due to the retinol. However it faded when our skin adapted to the brand new formulation.

Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair Retinol Pro+ Anti-Wrinkle

La Mer The Eye Concentrate

It was an exquisite alternative to the other recipes were tested. Because our eyelids are textured and feel like the Sahara They are soft. The soft solution quenched the desire of our skin, and did not weigh down or interfere with our makeup. The cream for the eyes was applied to the skin with the tip of a metal. It was cooling in the form of swelling and circulation. In the space of two weeks of treatment, our eyelids appeared less firm and more supple. The improvements continued to increase over time. It was a relaxing experience and luxuriant.

We were impressed with how soft and hydrated the under-eyes appeared and felt. Even although we sometimes experienced tiny irritation during the test time, that didn’t deter us from using the product every all day.

La Mer The Eye Concentrate

Drunk Elephant C-Tango Multivitamin Eye Cream

Drunk Elephant C-Tango Multivitamin Eye Cream

It’s a great alternative for those who don’t enjoy the feel of thick eye cream which can cause the formation of crumbs under the eyes. Its consistency was like the anti-aging cream but it was smooth and fast which gave our eyes an energised, refreshed appearance. Additionally, the moisturizing effect allowed our concealer to be smooth and didn’t make it pill instantly. its plumping ability instantly neutralized dark shadows of grey in the corners. The packaging was one of the main reasons that we didn’t like the eye cream at a price we were expecting additional eye creams inside the box, considering its weight and size.

RoC Retinol Correxion Eye Cream

RoC Retinol Correxion Eye Cream

Retinol may not be suitable for people with sensitive skin. The ingredient list contained known names in the skincare sector that have been proven for their gentle and soothing properties. The product didn’t cause any irritation due to the lactose component, high in protein and Glycerin, tempered any potentially irritating properties of Retinol. The skin was soft, more elastic, and more energized after each application. To ensure safety we applied the eye cream after dinner. After just a week of regular use our eyes seemed less and less puffy. In week 2 the dark circles had as well reduced.

We were awestruck by how this RoC blend felt and performed in a way, we’re convinced it’s a win-win for people with sensitive skin. It was first used for morning use since it’s very hydrating however, we’d have liked the slight shimmer for the appearance of a glowing result.

Summer Fridays Light Aura Eye Cream

The cream’s light but rich fast-absorbing texture the cream’s thick texture was enjoyable to use. It made our skin feel incredibly well-hydrated, without any pilling when we applied makeup or when paired with other products for skincare in our routine. It was a small amount that was enough for an entire application and a tiny amount went far. Even after the product had begun to take effects, our skin seemed soft and smooth well-hydrated, nourished and radiant. The cream is powered by a potent mixture of peptides, vitamin C and the caffeine shot, it instantly boosted the brightness of our deep-set eye circles and sloughed away the wrinkles. Its light coral hue that served as a gentle color corrector was another feature we loved.

The formula gets its name, “Light Aura,” because of the tiny particles which boost its shine. We loved the extra brightening, however those who prefer duller skin may want to go with another cream.mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

Glow Recipe Avocado Melt Fine Line Eye Cream that contains Retinol

The texture and the components of the Glow Recipe’s formula created the perfect Korean cosmetics we’ve tried to review for our eye cream. One tiny drop goes in a huge way since it is absorbed in less than a minute following application, and it is able to warm up quickly on fingertips. It was a pleasure to apply it in the evening as an makeup mask for the night, however it was never weighty or obvious upon the skin (and did amazingly with the makeup!). Even though we have very sensitive skin, we didn’t experience any discomfort, irritation or any other adverse consequences from this product, that was an amazing unexpected finding considering it contained the ingredient retinol which is known as a skin irritation.

Although we only used the product twice per day and were amazed by how much remaining product after the five weeks of trial. But, we want an applicator that could help us make use of every drop.

Glow Recipe Avocado Melt Fine Line Eye Cream that contains Retinol

Ole Henriksen Banana Bright+ Eye Creme

Ole Henriksen Banana Bright+ Eye Creme

The recipe makes use of banana powder’s luminizing properties to prepare and make tired eyes ready for the morning. It was clear that this eye cream had serious potential when we opened the container and saw the bright yellow-orange hue that was filled with yellow-colored light reflectors to correct shadows’ color. Prior to applying concealer, dark circles appeared less obvious after we massaged the creamy vegan cream onto the skin. Antioxidants in the product’s special triple vitamin C formula will help to reduce uneven skin tone and improve skin’s luminosity. With all that delicious and creamy sweetness our skin wasn’t dry, and the concealer was not slipping around. It was a pleasure to feel how soft the texture was to our skin.

We love the formulations from this company, and we’ll be using the product for a long time However, over the test period, we weren’t able to see any noticeable changes to the dark circle under our eyes. However, if you’re simply seeking a healthy makeup prep step, and your under-eye shadows aren’t bad at all and you’re looking for a good alternative.

U Beauty The Return Eye Concentrate

U Beauty The Return Eye Concentrate

While U Beauty’s U Beauty formula is thinner than many other eye creams but it does have moisturizing characteristics similar to balms with rich ingredients. It absorbs quickly, leaving the skin feeling soft as well as plump and firm instantly. The sensitive skin of ours responded nicely to the product, and over the 5-week trial, we felt none of the irritations.

While squeeze tubes and pump bottles are better for for storage of eye creams, the jar is an ideal container for the medication. For a complete application it was necessary to fill several times. In light of the price it would be better to use the use of a container to show that we’ve used every bit of the product. We also we got price for the money.

Be aware that the cream may require some time to take in (especially in the case of skin that is wet! ) It may not be the ideal alternative if you must get up early to work in the morning. It’s more nourishing than the other options on the list. Furthermore, the cream contains a pink hue that acts as a color-corrector, helping to even out the blue hues that are found on dark circles. Read More

[cakesexuality]

Psychiatrist appointment kept getting rebooked on both our ends and was cutting close to the 6-month mark (when I'd be officially considered discharged if I didn't come back) but it finally happened yesterday

Last time I saw him, he said my main problem was psychosis, which is true and that probably was my biggest problem at that point

This time, he said he doesn't think I have psychosis at all

I asked if we could try a depot, because I'm having issues taking my meds as part of my relapse and a depot would make it a little bit easier

He says he can't do that because I don't have a diagnosis for something an antipsychotic would be used for

I have a diagnosis for something that an antipsychotic would be used for and have had this diagnosis for the last 9 years

I ask why I need a diagnosis of something specific in order to receive a depot

He tells me "I need to tell them why you're taking it"

Who the fuck is "them"?

He wants to increase my Seroquel to 100mg

Even 75mg of Seroquel is too much for me to take on a daily basis and I have to cycle my dose throughout the week between 75mg and 50mg

He wants to change my antidepressant from Wellbutrin to Prozac

I give him the heads-up that Wellbutrin doesn't do anything for my MDD but works for my ADHD, so taking me off it would leave my ADHD unmedicated, but this doesn't seem to bother him

I've taken other antidepressants similar to Prozac in the past and they didn't do anything for my anxiety, sometimes made my anxiety worse, usually didn't do anything for my depression, and were not worth the stuff that would happen to me like hair loss, hallucinations, rapid mood swings, dissociation, etc., but this is fine to him

He wants to give me the liquid form of Prozac because it's easier to control the dose, but oral suspensions have been the hardest medications for me to take right now and I'd fare better with a pill

I just finished taking 28 doses of a liquid medication in 7 days, please give me time to breathe before starting a new one

He wants to change my antidepressant because I'm in a bit of a relapse and one of the potential side effects of Wellbutrin is reduced appetite

One of the potential side effects of Prozac is reduced appetite

The increased hunger caused by my Seroquel outweighs any possible reduced hunger from my Wellbutrin

He says my main issue right now is anxiety and that's another reason why he wants me on Prozac

I ask him what had led him to say anxiety is my main problem so I can clear up any possible misunderstandings, since I don't feel like that's my main issue at the moment and I don't know what I've said or done to make him believe that

He says "Because that's my opinion"

I ask if it's my body language, my tone of voice, my word choices, etc. leading him to that conclusion

He says "None of those things"

I ask, if not one of the things I listed, what else could it be?

He says "Because that's the impression I get"

I ask why he gets that impression

He says "I just do"

I can see that he apparently gives prescriptions based on vibes rather than actual symptoms

After going around in that conversational loop at least 5 times, I say "Okay" and disconnect the video call

I talk to a social worker at CMHA who doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about when he says I need a diagnosis to get a depot and she convinces me to reconsider whether I want to give up on this doctor already

I call his receptionist the next day and she says that he meant he would need to tell my diagnosis to the drug manufacturer

The receptionist also says I'm already officially discharged less than 24 hours after speaking to him, so I guess the decision of whether to go back has already been made for me

I talk to a nurse at CMHA, a pharmacist at my pharmacy, and a receptionist at my GP's office, and none of them know why he would have to tell my diagnosis to the manufacturer