#When there's no cops around - anything's legal!

[selineram3421]

Guess who's watching Gravity Falls again.

[s1lverd4sh]

Dipper.

*gravity falls memories intensify*

[percabethownsmybutt]

grover: is that legal?

percy: when there's no cops around, anything's legal

[myownwholewildworld]

uniformed!joel one shot - the police officer

series masterlist | main masterlist | part ii

pairing: police officer!joel x f!reader.

summary: you're driving back home and, unbeknownst to you, you've committed quite a few traffic offences, noticed by the one and only police officer, joel miller. he's not gonna let you get your way that easily.

a/n: umm hello?? idk what happened, but here we are. i threw this idea to the wind, people seemed to like it, so i started typing and this is what came out. read the warnings and do not judge me please lol this is inspired by this and this ask, so kudos to them! so basically i have decided to start a series of one shots where joel miller wears different uniforms. YEAH, i know, i'm not okay but that's okay. if you guys have any suggestions for this series, my askbox is open! also, i've decided that if i/you guys want, i can write the same uniformed!joel more than once (e.g. two fics of police officer!joel). if someone is interested in being in the taglist for this series, please do let me know. anyways, i do appreciate all comments, reblogs, likes and asks. as always thank you for reading! <3

warnings: 18+, mdni. no outbreak AU. dark theme. filthy smut. dub-con. age gap, no age gap, you choose (joel is mid-late 40s, reader is at least of legal drinking age). power imbalance (joel is a cop). alcohol consumption (reader is sober by the time it happens). fingering. squirting. oral (m and f receiving). mouth fucking. slut shaming. cheating. rough, public sex. unprotected piv. creampie. joel is a bully and a dick, basically, so be warned. alternating pov. no description of reader apart from having hair that can be pulled. not proofread so i'm sorry.

w/c: ~4.6k.

tagging some people who seemed to be v interested (please let me know if you want to be removed, no pressure!):

@fartcloudfartcloud @liciafonseca @fan-fiction-floozy @sweetlummie

“Shit”, you mumbled as the car keys slipped off your fingers.

You crouched down and blindly dabbed the asphalt, your phone falling off your hand too. You grunted in frustration ― maybe you did drink a bit more than what you had intended. Not to the point where you thought it would be dangerous, otherwise you wouldn’t be driving home. You were already clumsy when sober, so this was no sign of anything, really.

The keys had tumbled under your car, so you got on all fours and bent over to reach. After a few trials, you finally got hold of them. Steadying yourself on the handle of the driver’s side of your car, you got up. Your tiny, fitted skirt had scrunched up at your waist, so you pulled from the hem to bring it back down. Looking around, you hoped you hadn’t flashed anyone.

You had dressed up for the occasion. As you grew older, your group of friends slowly drifted apart, so agreeing on a date and time to meet up had been a fucking miracle. You had been out since midday and sipped on many margaritas to quench your thirst. But knowing you would need to drive back home, you had stopped drinking a couple of hours ago. If you could, you would have gotten hammered. Living in the outskirts of Austin sucked.

You managed to finally open your vehicle and sat down. You hunched down, avoiding the steering wheel, to undo your heels. A satisfied sigh escaped your lips when you took them off ― your feet were hurting so bad, you questioned all of your life choices. A minute later the motor roared awake, and you were on your merry way without a hitch.

That was until you drove out of the city center onto not very well-lit roads. You were driving through an industrial estate when sirens went off behind you. Clicking your tongue, you looked through the rearview mirror, thinking it may be an ambulance asking you to give way.

Ah, no, you were very mistaken. It was a freaking police car, and it seemed like it was asking you to pull over. Great, just fucking great, you thought.

The headlights blinded you, so you couldn’t see the man approaching your car. Then you heard a tap, tap, tap on your window, the officer dazing you with the torchlight. You inhaled deeply, putting on your best smile, and rolled down the window.

“Good evening, officer. What can I do for ya?”, you battered your eyelashes at him, still dazzled by the torchlight.

Maybe if you played all sweet and innocent, he would take pity on you and let you go.

However, you were met with a deep, husky voice.

“License and proof of insurance”, he barked, no good evening miss, no please, nothing. So rude.

When he put down the torch, you caught a glimpse of the guy’s face. Bearded jaw with a prominent moustache, brown curly hair with slivers of silver, an attractive hooked nose, and some devilish hazel eyes. He was in his mid or late forties and was so fucking handsome you almost drooled at the sight.

You bit your bottom lip, a lopsided smile curling at the corners.

“Yes, of course, officer”, your voice was sweet and smooth as you bowed over the passenger’s seat, your boobs casually resting on the steering wheel.

You opened the glove box and handed him the papers, faking the most innocent, girly look you could muster.

“Is there something wrong, officer?”, you asked, leaning on the door frame, gifting him with the tentative sight of your deep cleavage.

His eyes wandered off the papers he was holding and lingered where you intended. You read the tag on his shirt: Officer Miller. Well, Officer Miller looked damn good in that tight uniform. The black shirt clung to his flexed biceps, the buttons slightly giving way to the bulge of his chest, the belt hugging his waist and… good fucking lord, those thighs, the size of a rugby player’s.

Your mouth watered.

You would lie to yourself if you said you were not affected by his presence. In fact, your damp cunt might as well fucking disagree with you. You pressed your knees together, unconsciously looking for some relief to the sudden wet heat gathering in between your legs.

His eyes drifted up lazily, locking on to yours. You swore a muscle on his jaw twitched.

“You were speeding, doing 40 on a 30-mph road. And your headlights are off”, he replied, his tone raspy.

Fuuuuuuuck, that’s why I couldn’t see shit. Were you that drunk? You didn’t feel like it.

Your face expression didn’t flinch, playing dumb might just do the trick. So you giggled, smacking your forehead with the palm of your hand.

“Ah, silly me. But it was well lit up until now, sir, so no harm done, right?”, your honeyed voice pleaded. “I swear this was a 40-mph road a couple of months ago?”

“It was but got changed. Did you not see the road sign?”, he seemed to be very annoyed.

You had no time to answer, because Officer Miller pointed to your lap. For a second you panicked ― surely your arousal had not drenched your clothes, right? You were aware of how wet your pussy was, but not to that extreme. Right? You looked down ― your phone was resting on your lap, but nothing else. A wave of relief overcame you and then you glanced up at him, confused.

“You were talking on the phone while driving, I presume.”

You gasped and promptly shook no with your head.

“No, no, officer. You see, I left it there when I got in the car, I forgot it was on my lap. I promise I wasn’t texting or anything like that.” Your explanation was genuine, but he cocked a brow. “I wouldn’t lie to you, sir.”

“Why? Because you’re a good girl?”. That question caught you off guard and turned you on at the same time, sending shivers down your spine. Your clit twitched. You gaped and nodded unwittingly. “I see. Step out of the car.”

Your heart was racing, attempting to jump out of your chest. Maybe you had been too suggestive. But he was the embodiment of the law, surely the officer had had his good share of temptation and would not yield so easily.

You got out of your sedan, slightly dishevelled, and tugged at your skirt so it would stop riding up your thighs. Officer Miller had taken one step back, his eyes measuring you from top to bottom, loitering on your breasts. His tongue quickly darted out to wet his bottom lip ― you were mesmerised by the simple gesture and pondered how it would feel if you choked on his tongue.

That thought made your cunt gush some more. You pursed your lips ― eyes on him, trying to convey normalcy.

“You’ve been drinking and have also been driving barefoot. That’s a total of, what, five offences?”. Miller clicked his tongue in disapproval. “It’s like you’re begging to spend the night in a cell.” His eyes flickered with malice ― and something else. Lust?

You really did not want to sleep in a cell tonight. You just wanted to get home, that was all. Also, most of your “offences” were bullshit. You were certain he couldn’t charge you with half of it, but his wickedness made you wary.

“I’m not drunk,” you said with a languid smile, touching his forearm, his arms crossed at his chest. “I stopped drinking two hours ago, officer.”

He raised an eyebrow ― Officer Miller didn’t believe a word you said.

“I can smell it.” You didn’t know if it was intentional or not, but his eyes drifted down to your pussy.

“I-It?”, you repeated, lips parted.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at you for a long minute. Your bravery had flaked a bit, although your cunt was begging for him to do something about it.

Joel was having a hard time curbing his horniness. You were so inviting, so insinuating, it was like you were asking to be fucked there and then. Oh, yes, you were, he knew you were. Showing off your boobs, wetting your lips, rubbing your knees together, playing with the edge of your tiny skirt. He had noticed every single one of your seductive attempts.

His cock was hard, so much so that it was stretching against the zipper of his work trousers. He kept his arms crossed, but what he really wanted to do was to readjust his erection so it wouldn’t be so damn uncomfortable.

“Turn around, hands on the car”, he ordered with a steely voice.

You first looked muddled, but finally obliged, giving him your back ― your palms resting on the roof of your car, your knees pressed together. He was sure your cunt was pulsing, and you were just trying to calm yourself down.

The thought made him mad with lechery. His dick was throbbing already.

“I’m going to pat you down, and then I’m gonna cuff you. Understood?”, he warned you, getting close to you.

You suddenly looked over your shoulder, your smile unwavering. You tilted your pelvis back, your ass against his bulge. You glanced down and then back up at him decisively.

“I’m sure we can work something out, officer?”, you whispered, your butt pressing on his swollen lump.

No, Joel was not imagining things. You were definitely asking to be fucked senseless in exchange for just a warning. He was still contemplating whether to entertain the idea or not. You were tempting, he would give you that. Your body was built to satisfy a man’s pleasure ― he could see that even when you were clothed. Barely clothed. Your top was too small, your boobs almost spilling over the neckline; your skirt was too short, your ass cheeks almost visible ― and he was sure you had some slutty heels on before you jumped into the car.

His cock jerked at the thought of rearranging your guts. Because that was what Joel would do to you if he had the chance. He cupped his groin for a second now that you were not looking, pressing it slightly to relieve some of the tension.

It didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. He suppressed a frustrated groan.

Joel slotted his right knee in between your legs and forced you to separate them, his heavy boot grounding him. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, you’re under arrest for at least reckless driving. Now stay still.” He was fully aware of how the top of his thigh brushed your crotch, but made a titanic effort to ignore it, for his own sanity.

Your panties were so fucking drenched, you feared your discharge might start dripping down your inner thighs. In fact, you let your head down to check discreetly and sighed with relief ― nothing to worry about, he wouldn’t notice how fucking horny you were.

Then he forcefully parted your legs, and you felt the fabric of his trousers sliding against your wet panties. The subtle touch made you jerked your hips up and then back down in surprise, your clothed cunt flushed against his thigh ― you had to swallow the sluttiest moan of your entire life, it felt damn good.

“I’m― I’m sorry”, you mumbled, lifting your body up to break the contact.

You didn’t need to look down to know that there would be a wet patch on his black trousers.

“You should be, making a mess of my uniform like that”, he grunted, exasperated.

Pressing your lips, you inspected every inch of the roof of your car while he patted you down. His big, calloused hands lingered on your underboob longer than necessary, almost cupping them. Both hands travelled down to your waist, his fingertips slightly under the waistband of your skirt.

Your heart was pounding, suddenly unsure of the whole thing. What were you really doing? Were you so desperate that you would let him use you in exchange for letting you go? Were you getting more than what you had bargained for?

It was like the excitement had burnt the last drop of alcohol in your blood and now you were fully aware of what you had unleashed.

But you had no more time to question your attitude, because Officer Miller completely slipped one of his hands under your underwear and buried all of his fingers in your soaked folds, except for his thumb which quickly found your clit. You shut your eyes and moaned audibly, your knees giving way.

His free hand wrapped around your waist to help you stand up, while his fingers traversed your whole slit, from your perineum to your clit, buttering your cunt with your own fluids.

“You are so fucking wet already, you should be ashamed of yourself”, he whispered in your ear while he pushed your ass back into his bulge.

Your treacherous body had awakened at his touch, your clit felt like it was on fire and your cunt was pulsating so hard it was uncomfortable. You rubbed his dick with your buttocks, unconsciously looking for some more friction. Miller groaned behind you, jerking you closer, his cock hard pressed against your ass.

Two of his fingers dipped further down and found your leaking hole, his thumb still rubbing your clit languidly. You whimpered and stirred your hips when one fingertip circled your entrance tentatively. Your back arched, pushing your butt further into his erection.

“Aren’t you a slut?”, he hissed as both fingers slid inside you, your brain not registering his words.

Your moist pussy clenched around his fingers, squeezing them hard. Every time your heart beat, so did your cunt. Officer Miller started fingering you, first slowly, and then picking up a relentless pace. Unable to control yourself, you mewled like a kitten in heat, your forehead now resting against the cold metal of your car and a thread of spit hanging from your mouth. Your needy cunt was so stimulated, so hot, so slippery, you couldn’t stop yourself from coming, even if you wanted to.

So you let go. You orgasmed so hard, you squirted with his fingers still dug in your creamy pussy. But you coming didn’t stop Officer Miller from driving his digits inside of you over and over again, forcing another climax on you a minute later. Your inner walls palpitated so violently, you felt the emptiness of your womb. Then you noticed it: the trickle of your own cum streaming down your inner thighs.

Officer Miller forced his fingers out of you, a pop sound making it obvious that your pussy was drown in your own fluids. The cop tapped your pussy a few times, almost gently, as the last wave washed off your nerve endings. You had never come so hard in your life before. Not even your boyfriend of five years had been able to turn you on this bad.

When your limbs regained some strength, Miller let go of your waist and stepped back. You slowly turned around to face him, but as your eyes drifted down his uniform, you realised that there was a new wet patch on his trousers, this time on his bulge. You had leaked so much, you had drenched his own pants.

You tried to find the words to explain to him that this was not what you had intended. Or was it?

“You’re still under arrest”, his voice was resolute, as if nothing of what just happened had affected him.

Before your neurons could make contact with each other, he handcuffed you, your laced hands resting in front of you, conveniently covering your spent pussy.

“But―”.

“No but’s, blackmailing a cop is an offence too. So that makes it six now, right?”, he cut you off.

You huffed, not believing what he was saying. You had not blackmailed him, not even close, he was just making it up now. Before you could argue, Officer Miller removed the keys from the ignition, shut the driver’s door and locked your car. He then grabbed you by your elbow, forcing you to walk in front of him towards his cruiser.

“Oh, c’mon, you’re now just bullying me”, you complained, your sweet façade quickly toppling.

Miller didn’t reply to your taunting. He simply opened the back door of his Crown Vic and threw you in. You almost tripped but manage to stop the falling. You sat down on the seat, your legs still out of the car, bare soles against the asphalt.

You didn’t know what possessed you, but your cuffed hands darted up and played with the buckle of his belt. Maybe if you gave him some head, he would relax and let you go. You were already in too deep anyway, your whipped pussy living proof of your desire.

“Officer, please, I can make it worth your while if you let me go”, you muttered, your fingers unclasping his belt.

Miller did not say one word, he just stared you down while you held his gaze. His waist slanted forward in an unspoken invitation, his eyes swirling with lust and wickedness.

You were not sure why you were doing this, or if you wanted to do this. But you were a horny mess, your pulsing cunt urging you to keep going, saturating your panties even more. Sure, you could drive home and ask your boyfriend to take care of you, but by the looks of it, you were going to spend the night in a station cell if you didn't do something about it. About him.

With firm hands, you undid the buckle and unzipped his trousers. His big, meaty cock sprung out with no warning, swaying in front of you. He was wearing no underwear. You marvelled at the sight ― his dick was the longest you had ever seen with a considerable girth, veiny and hairy at the base. It looked scary, but also fucking tempting.

“Don’t just stare, do something”, he commanded, grabbing your cuffed hands to bring them closer to his erection.

Ah, someone is impatient, you thought with a smirk before wrapping both of your hands around his circumference. With your mouth agape, close to his leaking tip, you rubbed the precum against his slit with your thumb and then started pumping him. His cock was palpitating, hard and velvety under your clasp ― and warm, so fucking warm you could feel his blood rushing underneath.

His jaw clenched, his eyes transfixed on your moving hands as you upped the rhythm. And then, without prior notice, he fisted your hair in a ponytail and drove his whole dick down your parted lips. You retched when his glans surpassed your uvula and coughed with his cock still in your mouth.

You were suffocating, but he didn’t give a fuck. In any case, he pushed his cock further down, but it had nowhere to go. His pubic hairs tingled the tip of your nose as you looked up, silently asking for mercy with teary eyes.

Miller glanced down at you and the motherfucker just smiled as you were still gagging.

“Look at you. What a whore, you’re taking it so well”, he mumbled under his breath before pushing your head back.

His cock slid out and you coughed to clear your throat of precum, swallowing it. His brutish attitude, although unwelcome, made your traitor of a cunt gush.

“I’m gonna fuck your throat to teach you a lesson. Open up for me, darlin’.”

You didn’t know why, but you just obeyed. Without breaking visual contact, the cop slotted his cock back in between your lips. With his hands on your temples, he tilted his hips forward until his tip stroked the end of your throat. Then he pulled out harshly and started jackhammering your mouth relentlessly, driving his cock in as far as he could every single time, his hairy balls hitting your chin. With Miller taking the lead, your cuffed hands were free. They were lazily resting on your lap until you dipped them down, your index caressing your deprived clit.

You just took it like a champ. After a while, your gag reflex relaxed and you dared to press your lips around his girth, so it would be more pleasurable for him. His slick cock was drumming in your mouth, filling it up entirely, choking you.

Miller pulled your head back sternly ― you were panting like a puppy by the time he was done with your throat. Your eyelashes were damp with unspent tears. You were sure that tomorrow it was going to hurt like if you had caught the worst cold of your life. Your mouth was filled with his sticky precum, a bridge of it connecting your mouth to his cock.

“You’ve not thrown up, well done”, he chuckled darkly. “Clean this mess for me.”

Again, as if you were not in control of yourself, you did as you were told. You licked his throbbing cock, swallowing all the fluids you had swept off his groin.

He lightly patted your cheek. “Good girl, now get up and take that finger out of your pussy.”

You had not realised you had been fingering yourself all along and your clit was begging for some relief. With a trembling sigh, you removed your hand from in between your legs and stood up.

Only then you caught on: he had not come yet. Fuck, you thought.

Did you want this? You were not sure. Letting him finger you and giving him head was one thing, but letting him fuck you was a completely different story. You were not a slut nor a cheater, but he made you feel like one. Your dribbling pussy made you feel like one.

Joel snatched his fingers around your elbow once again and made you walk to the front of his cruiser. He was in extreme need of relief ― his cock was pulsing so hard it was driving him mad with lust. He was gonna fuck that cunt of yours till you begged him to stop.

Unceremoniously, he splayed you down across the hood of his car ― your chest against the metal surface, your ass up in the air and your legs spread wide. If he could take a picture to jerk himself off to, he would.

He needed to see for himself, taste for himself. He was sure as hell that your pussy was drooling, beseeching to be filled to the brim. So he knelt behind you and parted your ass cheeks to have a better look. You whimpered, tiptoeing to give him better access to your soaked flaps.

“You’re such a slut. I could scrunch your panties to fill up an entire glass with your cum. Your thighs are all wet and tacky too”, he couldn’t stop himself from pointing it out, driving his hands up from the back of your knees, up your inner thighs, until they reached your crotch, framing your pussy.

He leaned forward and sipped from the fountain of your underwear, his fingers digging in the flesh of your ass, smelling your sweet sex. You wept, moving your hips against his mouth. Ah, yes, he knew you wanted him to fuck you hard. Very hard.

Joel rode up your tight skirt, exposing your ass to the elements. And then he pulled down your panties and put them in the pocket of his vest, as if they were a trophy. Because they were.

He now could have a better look at your creamy cunt, all smeared with your wanton fluids. Spreading your pussy open with his hands, he lapped you entirely a few times, even your butthole. Joel heard your moans loud and clear, knowing that you had never had your pussy eaten this good before. So he kept on going ― lapping, licking, sucking, biting until you squirted in his mouth, leaking like a broken tap and whining like a bitch in heat.

Joel drank it all and when you were finished, he stood up. He spanked your ass and with a swift movement, impaled you until his balls were flat against your thighs.

You screamed, literally screamed at the top of your lungs, when he stabbed you with his cock. You tried to hold onto something, but there was nothing you could grab. This was exactly what your cunt needed, being stuffed like a goddamn turkey in thanksgiving. Officer Miller drove his cock in and out of you lazily at first, and then he started fucking you stupid with such vigour that your body was being rocked back and forth, the handcuffs sliding against the hood, scratching the metal underneath.

You just moaned uncontrollably throughout the whole thing, unable to quieten yourself. Your cunt clutched around his throbbing dick, squeezing it hard, so hard you felt your muscles strain. Your clit spasmed severely, another fucking climax creeping up on you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK”, you implored to the sky, to him, to whoever was listening.

The cop then fisted your hair in a ponytail and pulled backwards, forcing you up off the hood, your back arching against his chest while he drilled you mercilessly. You were sure the squelching sounds your pussy was making could be heard from a mile away.

Then you finally came again, shrieking ― your treacherous pussy clamping down on his dick, leaking absolutely everywhere, trying to desperately milk him dry. Your eyes welled up, your black eyeliner running down your cheeks.

“You’re gonna take it inside and you’re not gonna complain”, he moaned in your ear and even in your blissful daze, you panicked.

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” you mentioned, but you knew it wasn’t going to stop him.

“Ah, do you? Doesn’t seem like it right now”, and then he huffed heavily, letting go, driving his cock as far inside of you as he physically could.

His warm cum filled you to the brim, painting your walls of sticky white. Irremediably, you sighed, heaving, and closed your eyes, letting yourself rejoice in how full you were of his spent, of his cock.

And as soon as it started, it ended. His dick slid out of your crying, sensitive pussy, leaving your damp skin exposed to the cold air.

You took a minute to compose yourself and pushing down your skirt. When you looked at him, he had already tucked away his cock back in his work trousers, his cop uniform slightly in disarray. Now there were more wet, sticky patches adorning his groin area, a mixture of your shared pleasure.

“Can I have my panties back, please?”, you requested, extending your hand to him, with a sunny, albeit quivering, smile.

“No, I’m keeping them.” You furrowed your eyebrows.

“Can I at least have a tissue to clean myself up?”, your voice grew smaller as you lost confidence.

“No. I want you to go home with your pussy bursting with my cum, so that boyfriend of yours knows you’ve been fucked stupid by someone else”, he explained, full of himself.

At least you were going home. Or so you thought until you saw him walk to the back door of his Crown Vic, holding it open for you to jump in.

“This means nothing, you’re still spending the night in the cell”, he said, matter-of-factly.

You scoffed, angry. “Are you fucking serious?”, you asked, although what you really wanted to do was cry.

But you swallowed your tears, contrite ― your pride was bigger than your shame. And right now, you felt mortified.

What had you done?

Well, you had gambled, and you lost.

But, on the other hand, he had fucked you so good, so filthy, you were not sure any other cock would measure up to his.

[rougepancake]

Just My Type

FT. Jonathan Joestar, Joseph Joestar, Jotaro Kujo, Josuke Higashikata, & Giorno Giovanna

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2

WARNINGS: Sexually explicit content under cut. Minors and ageless blogs dni. Fem!Reader. Stalking, panty stealing, inappropriate use of stands, pervy jojos, masturbation, accurate to their individual timelines. Don Giorno and Cop Josuke. NOT PROOFREAD!!

SUMMARY: Perv headcanons for the JoJo’s up through part five. Might make one for the JoBros-

JONATHAN JOESTAR

Out of all of them, he feels the most guilt

He’s a gentleman, after all

First it starts out with him eyeing your body, taking subtle peeks throughout the day

It then escalates to him brushing against you gently, and it kills him

There’s not much he can do outside of watching you and getting off to you before bed

SPEAKING OF THAT-

He humps his pillow

God he’s so desperate and needy too

Especially when you have no idea. For whatever reason, it makes his heart swell

But he feels so bad about it. What if you ever found out? What would you do? Do you feel the same way about him??

Once saw you riding your horse and was genuinely never the same after that

There was something about how determined you looked, with that wistful look in your eyes that just turned him on

He’s so down bad that he asked Dio for advice

“Get her drunk and convince her to stay. She’s stupid enough anyways.” “Grope her… duh…”

Dio does NOT give two shits about wether not his advice is legal

However, Jonathan follows through with the alcohol one

It’s his only chance to get close to you outside of studying alongside you

And to his surprise, you come over and share some wine with him

Thankfully, you wind up getting tipsy first, which gives him the chance to make his move

“Ah, y/n. It’s not safe for you to travel back to your estate in such a condition. Allow me to provide you with somewhere to spend the night.”

He lets you stay in his bed, and even convinces you to wear his clothes to bed

Snuck into the room while you were asleep and just watched you

Oh how he wanted to touch you, to feel you, but he couldn’t. It felt like he couldn’t do anything about his feelings for you and it bothered him so

Also practically ruined his clothes once he got them back. (Listen man sometimes it’s hard to get cum stains out-)

Dio never lets him hear the end of it and proceeds to give him shitty advice

JOSEPH JOESTAR

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again- this man is a WHORE‼️

He has no shame whatsoever and refuses to keep his feelings for you a secret

In fact, you can barely tell if he’s kidding or not when he hits on you

He steals your clothing

Shirts? Gone. Bras? Never to be seen again. Panties? Oh he’ll steal them, ruin them, and then slip them back into your dresser when he’s over

He loves the idea of getting away with it, and it turns him on to know that you’re just as clueless as ever

Slips pictures of himself into your house, leaving them on the counter to make you think of him

Honestly thinks he’s so smooth (Caesar thinks he’s fucking weird)

Has no problem with smacking your ass out of the blue

Also really likes to pick you up and bury his face in your chest

Has collected various photos of you and gets off to them almost every night

Like it’s just a pic of you smiling and he’s hard as hell

While Jonathan whimpers and begs, Joseph moans and mutters

On the loudness scale he’s about 13/10

He does not give a flying FUCK about who hears him

Talks dirty while he fucks his hand, closing his eyes to picture your beautiful face between his legs, smiling up at him

Yeah he likes to take sneak peeks of you in the bath, so what?!

Does all of this with the mentality of “she’ll be mine eventually, so I’m entitled to a head start-“

JOTARO KUJO

Feels a little guilty about it at first, but never feels that way ever again once he gets ahold of a Polaroid of you in a bikini

Carries that shit around with him EVERYWHERE

He has also collected various photos of you, and has a mini photo album that’s dedicated to pictures of you smiling

Sorry but I think he’s into dacryphilia

Sure he loves to see you happy and enjoying yourself, but he just thinks you look so pretty when you cry

He fucking loves it when you come to him in tears, taking it as his chance to wrap his arm around you and bring you in closer to him

He constantly tells you that you’re annoying, but would smash you in a heartbeat

Enemies to lovers bs but he’s in love with you from the start

He prefers to steal your bras over anything else (he seriously has a thing for tits-) and DOES NOT give them back until they stop smelling like you

He also (occasionally) steals your shirts and replaces them with his own. The idea of you walking around in one of his shirts when it’s too big for you really gets him going

Loves to take you out for drinks and then escort you back home

Even better if you’re a lightweight

It gives him a reason to carry you back to your place and tuck you in bed

Once found your ‘special drawer’ while snooping around and fucking stole your vibrator

Granted, he bought you a much better one and snuck it into your drawer, but you were pissed when you noticed it’s absence

He has, and will continue to, use Star Platinum/The World to stop time and get his hands on you

Even if it’s just for a few seconds, he’ll be thinking about it all day

Oh god and Star Platinum loves you too

Grabs and holds you. 10/10 cuddler, even if Jotaro is incredibly embarrassed

You’ve always just seen it as ‘Jotaro’s lonely side’ and nothing more, so you don’t tell off Star

Star has been known to sneak away from Jotaro just to hang out with you

If you and Joot ever end up sharing a hotel room together for any reason, Star will hump you in your sleep

Now, Jotaro lets out low grunts and moans, but is typically quiet when getting off. STAR PLATINUM???? Fucking whimpers and whines like there’s no tomorrow

This man is hanging on by a thread

JOSUKE HIGASHIKATA

Man

On the guilt scale, he’s second place for sure

Feels HORRIBLE

But is also like his dad with the “yolo” mentality

Steals your shirts and shorts, sleeps in them (even if they’re too small), and refuses to give them back

Like your clothes just keep vanishing and you’re like ???

Has used Crazy Diamond to sneak into your place and has no real intentions of stopping

Has a shit ton of photos of you sleeping hidden away in his room

Really just wants to hear you call him a good boy

When he’s needy, he is NEEDY. Humps his pillow, whimpers, whines, the whole ass package

His hand just isn’t enough for him anymore

Unlike his father, he’s not brave enough to get close to you or touch you. My guy can’t even hug you without turning a bright shade of red

Oh and if you come over to play games with him, he’s a total goner

Absolute mess of a man

Can’t do shit without being embarrassed, so he’s a lot less weird than the others

But by god what he would give to hear you call him a good boy

It’s like his one dream

Rohan once used Heaven’s Door on him to get more dirt on him and has (some) no regrets. Will never let Josuke hear the end of it.

“Ohoho you like y/n? Josuke you good for nothing pervert. Give the woman a break.”

Prays that one day you’ll be in trouble and he’ll be the officer sent out to save you

GIORNO GIOVANNA

He’s one second away from going full blown yandere

You can’t change my mind

He’s got everything he needs at his fingertips, and could easily take you away without having to lift a finger

Openly flirts with you, but treats you with such respect that you can’t tell if he’s just being nice or not

Also spoils you

Buys you anything he’s ever seen you take interest in

Even if you don’t really want it, it WILL show up at your door eventually

Makes sure to sign his gifts to you so you don’t forget who it is that’s spoiling you like this

Kisses your hand and cheeks in a way that he claims is platonic

Loves it when you trust him enough that you can come to him for anything. Gossip? Do tell. Something bothering you? Just let him know and he’ll have it all sorted out in no time

I shit you not he makes you sit on his lap while you tell him about your day

You think it’s because the two of you are such good friends, but he actually just loves the sight of you pressed against him

His voice gets higher pitched when he gets off, and he begs a version of you that doesn’t exist to let him cum, pleading with you over and over

Eventually, he’ll start to feel bad about it, but he’d much rather live in the moment

[seat-safety-switch]

One of my neighbours has a weird dog. Civilization's tradition of "weird dog" dates back several millennia, older than our society itself. Our canine friends are such beloved companions that we're willing to overlook all kinds of neurotic behaviour, as long as it doesn't injure us too badly. This dog, however, went too far.

You've heard that country-music song about the guy who loses his dog, right? Big ol' weeper, truckers pulling over to the side of the road to sob all over the dashboards of their Peterbilts. Well, this dog, who we're gonna call Pickles (because that's his legal name) went a bit past that. Not dead, of course. Don't worry about that.

I was relaxing in my courtyard (the hole in the back of the house that used to be a bathroom, before The Propane Incident) when my neighbour came rolling up. Her dog, Pickles, had run away, and she needed help finding him. Callously, I suggested getting in her fancy new truck and driving around the neighbourhood to look for the dog. He could not have gotten far.

That's when she dropped the bomb on me: Pickles stole that truck. Somehow, through the powers of being a weird dog, Pickles had taught himself exactly the procedures required to put the truck in drive, get it on the interstate, and then set the cruise control. Could he do anything else? Absolutely fucking not, let me tell you about this dog, I once saw him piss on his own face while trying to mark a tree. Just this one thing was within the capability envelope of Pickles, it turned out, the most annoying possible thing he could do.

For at least the rest of the day, until the tank ran dry during his impromptu road trip, the highway patrol tried to pull Pickles over. It wasn't their fault: he was simply not good at listening to directions. My neighbour guilt-tripped me into driving her and Pickles back from the site of the arrest, mostly because she didn't want to risk her new tires on all the shattered cop cars that had failed to execute a PIT maneuver on the truck during his run for freedom. I made sure to bring something with a manual transmission, because I was sure that dog hadn't learned to drive stick yet. Damned if he wasn't watching every motion I made on the clutch that night, though. Strange fucking dog.

[kkirincorrectquotes]

Kakashi : Iruka, is that legal?

Iruka: When there are no cops around, anything's legal!

Kakashi : ...Sensei, I'm shocked!

Iruka : You want to glitter bomb those two bats on the council or not, Rokudaime-sama?

[sayangrafayel]

MC: Sylus, is that legal?

Sylus: When there's no cops around, anything's legal!

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Y/N: Jeff, is that legal?

Jeff: When there’s no cops around, anything’s legal!

[pinky27freak]

Yuu: Ruggie, is that legal?

Ruggie: When there's no cops around, anything's legal!

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Blood, Not Family

Sam and Dean & little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: set during 3x12, the boys get arrested and you’re left to fend for yourself with your abusive maternal family

Warnings: abusive family (no actual abuse shown), angst with a happy ending, the episode depiction isn’t exact because I don’t have it memorized

Everything was going wrong.

You and your brothers had been taken in by Agent Henrickson and the rest of the FBI, and you hadn’t seen Sam or Dean for hours. You were in an interrogation room, your brothers probably locked away in a holding cell, and there was nothing to do but wait. That is, until Henrickson himself came to talk to you.

“You’re not being charged with anything,” he informed you begrudgingly. “But I still have a few questions for you.”

You remained silent, unwilling to be cooperative.

“Your brothers—I’ve looked into it, and it seems like you were with your mother and half brother for several years before they kidnapped you.”

“They didn’t kidnap me,” you snapped, your desire to remain silent overrun by your need to defend your brothers.

“They have no legal right to you,” Henrickson countered.

“Just because they didn’t go through the stupid legal channels doesn’t mean that they had to kidnap me. Maybe that’s what it means to cops and fancy lawyers, but not to me—they saved me, they didn’t kidnap me.”

“Saved you?” Henrickson considered your words for a moment before moving on. “And dragging you around everywhere? You’re a kid, still in school, you must not have wanted to go. They forced you, didn’t they? Huh? Roughed you around when you didn’t want to go.”

“No!” You insisted. “Not Sam and Dean. They’ve never hurt me, they’d never do that.”

“We’re talking about murderers here,” Henrickson argued. “A few hits or punches to their little sister doesn’t seem out of character.”

“They. Are not. Killers. And they’d never hurt me,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Fine,” Henrickson sighed, convinced that he wouldn’t get anything else from you. “Well, your family will be here any minute to pick you up. Your brothers are going away, well…forever.”

“Wait.” Your head shot up, all the breath leaving your body at once. “Wait, wait, you can’t—“

Henrickson was gone before you could even protest.

…

“Oh, sweetheart!” The sound was so sweet it made your stomach churn. A face that you’d hoped beyond hope that you’d never see again was suddenly right there, opening the door and smirking at you for all the world to see as she marched towards you, arms outstretched.

“Don’t call me that!” You growled, backing away and cringing as the nickname that Dean so often called you was uttered by this horrible, horrible woman.

“They’re here to pick you up.” Henrickson entered behind your mother, and it took him only a moment to sense the tension in the room. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not going home with her, I’m not! You can’t make me go with her!” You cried, turning your pleading towards Henrickson.

“Oh, listen to the poor thing, she’s still in shock,” your mother cooed. “Those horrible boys must’ve hurt her terribly to scare her so.”

“They didn’t do anything to me!” You insisted. “You did! They saved me!”

“Saved you? Oh poor poor girl, she’s got Stockholm syndrome.” Your mother tried again to reach out for you, but this time it was Henrickson who stepped in.

“I…I think you should wait in the lobby,” Henrickson said, stepping between you and your mother. “I have just a few more questions for her.”

“Well…well alright then,” your mother said hesitantly. “But please hurry. We’ve been waiting to get her back for so long.”

“Of course.” Henrickson ushered her out the door before turning to you.

“You can’t make me go with her, you just can’t!” You wouldn’t—couldn’t—calm down until you were sure that Henrickson would get rid of your mother.

“Ok, just calm down,” Henrickson sighed. “She…she hurt you, didn’t she.” It wasn’t a question, not really.

“Please don’t make me go back there,” you begged.

“I…I can try to stall so that I can think of what to do. She has legal custody, so it’s going to be hard, but I’ll try,” Henrickson said finally. “For now, come with me.”

You held your breath as Henrickson led you out of the room, unsure where he was taking you as he led you down the hall. Your breath came easy when he led you through one last door, and behind it lay a row of cells, your big brothers in the farthest one.

The boys’ faces lit up when they saw you, safe and sound. Henrickson unlocked their cell and let you in before turning and walking out the door to confront your mother.

“Hey sweetheart.” Dean’s greeting as he pulled you into a hug was much more welcome than your mother’s had been. “You ok?”

“She’s here,” you whimpered. “He brought her here to take me, Dean.”

“What?” Dean’s arms tightened around you as he looked over your shoulder at Sam. You’d told them all about your mother and step brother, and he knew who you were talking about without you having to say her name.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Sam promised. “We…we’re gonna figure something out, ok?”

“He said you’re going to jail.” You pulled away from Dean and looked up at him. “He said you both are going away forever.”

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” Dean promised, avoiding your comment about jail.

“You…you are going to jail,” you said, reading between the lines. You knew your brother well enough to know exactly what wasn’t saying. “No, no! I can’t let that happen!”

“None of us have a choice,” Sam cut in. “We just have to make sure that you don’t end up with your mom.”

“I’m not the only one that matters here!” You argued.

“You are to me,” Dean deadpanned. “There’s…” Dean swallowed, and you knew he was trying to keep up his tough exterior. “There’s not much hope for Sammy and me, kid. But I’m not gonna let that douche take you, I’m just not.”

“But—“

The flickering lights interrupted your protests. You looked up at them before turning to your brothers.

“That can’t be good.”

…

“Alright,” Sam said. “The plan is ready.”

Those flickering lights had turned out to be demons, and with a lot of convincing, the boys had gotten Henrickson on their side for the fight.

“This is ridiculous.” You cringed at the sound of your mother’s voice, finding yourself leaning closer to Sam almost subconsciously. “Demons? This is crazy! Those kidnappers should be locked up, and I should be leaving with my daughter!”

“Hey, if you wanna leave, you’re welcome to!” Dean thundered. “You wouldn’t make it ten feet before getting taken out by those demons, and that’s fine by me! But Y/N stays here. You haven’t earned the right to call yourself her family.”

“I’m her mother! And who are you? You’re barely even related to her!” Your mother argued.

“Blood isn’t the only thing that matters,” Sam growled. “And even if it did, she’s our sister—John is our father, too.”

“One absent father between the three of you can hardly compete with me, her mother,” she argued. “Besides, she has a big brother; one who isn’t a criminal.”

Your hand found Sam’s sleeve, and you gripped it tightly for comfort as your mother’s son—your step brother—smirked and stepped up next to your mother.

“He’s not my big brother!” You insisted. “He’s just your douchebag son that you let treat me like a punching bag!” You felt Sam’s hand find yours before he squeezed it, trying to help you calm down.

“Oh, so imaginative,” your mother huffed, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know where you get such ideas, your big brother hardly hurt you.”

“Hey!” Dean snapped. “You don’t get to talk to her, and you don’t get to call her a liar. You—“

“Dean.” Agent Henrickson interrupted. “Sam—it’s time, it’s now or never.”

“Well then it’s never,” your mother sniffed. “I don’t know what kind of trick these boys are pulling—“

“Those dead agents of mine aren’t a trick!” Henrickson roared. “Now I need you to stay out of the way and shut up so I can do my job!”

Your mother looked like she wanted to fight, but Dean set the plan in motion before she got the chance.

…

“It’s over,” you breathed. “We did it!” You launched yourself into Dean’s arms, and he chuckled as he ruffled your hair.

“We sure did, kid.” Dean pulled away from you as he faced Agent Henrickson. “So…”

“So Sam and Dean Winchester died in a helicopter explosion, along with two of my agents,” Henrickson interrupted. “Rest in peace, boys. And I better never see you again.”

You grinned widely as Sam and Dean both nodded appreciatively.

“Yes sir,” they said in near unison.

“Wait,” your mother spoke up. “What does this mean for me? They-they can’t take my daughter!”

“I’d like to see you stop us,” Dean scoffed, wrapping an arm around you protectively as he led you towards the door.

“Agent Henrickson!” Your mother squealed. “Stop them!”

“Stop who?” Henrickson asked innocently. “Sam and Dean Winchester are dead; it seems to me that your daughter is choosing to walk away from you on her own.”

“Yeah, right,” your step brother scoffed, stepping up to block your way.

Sam stepped in front of him, his frame towering over that of your step brother’s, and his chest heaving with angry breaths.

“You really want to do this, punk?” Sam challenged. “Not so hard when it isn’t a kid half your size, is it?”

Your step brother gritted his teeth as he stepped out of Sam’s way.

You turned for one last glance at your mother and step brother before Dean could lead you out the door.

“You may be related to me, but you were never my family,” you said. “And you will never see my face again.”

And with your brothers’ hands grasped in yours, you turned away from your relatives, and left with your family.

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @casmustdiee

[lestappen-inchident]

Charles: Is that legal?

Max: When there’s no cops around, ANYTHING is legal.

[storiesbyrhi]

Part One: A building gets torched

Eddie Munson x Reader Series Masterlist 1710 Words

If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.

Warnings: canon typical violence, references to sexual assault, swearing, drug and alcohol use, sexual references, child neglect, death/grief, references to organised crime

Note: A majority of the characters from The Crow have been replaced with Stranger Things counterparts. However, a few remain in their original form (e.g. Gideon, Grange). Some major characters have been written out, as they don’t work within the context of this story (e.g. Myca – who is one of my favourite characters). I have taken material, including direct quotes, from the film and comics/graphic novel.

After Sunset, October 30, 1994

Jim Hopper stood next to the broken window. He’d been there before. He recalled how he felt when he first saw that window. How its grand scale and clean glasswork made the rest of the ratty apartment seem worth it. The window framed the city in a way that made it seem almost beautiful. Almost.

That had been a couple months before Devil’s Night. There had been whispers that the building was going to be sold off. Hopper hoped it was true. Maybe a new developer would demolish the place. He didn’t want to think about how many ghosts haunted those walls. Between the overdoses and the organised crime related violence, a lot of trips to the morgue began there.

Unfortunately, the buyer was not the up and up real estate type. Hopper heard it was more of the top of the bad guy hierarchy type. Martin Brenner owned half the city and not by any legal or ethical means. In the police files, intel on him was filed under the codename Top Dollar, like even the cops were too scared to put their name to anything that could be used against him.

 When Hopper caught wind of that, he’d paid the apartment a visit – paid you a visit.

“You gotta cool it with this stuff,” he’d warned, gesturing to where you’d been working on a new petition for everyone to sign.

“You’ve never told me to cool it before. Never shown up at my home before,”

“Before when you were feeding the homeless? Helping little old ladies cross the road? This is different. Come on, kid. Don’t play dumb.”

You sighed, but it sounded more like a huff. It hadn’t been feeding the homeless. You’d fundraised to keep the local community kitchen from shutting its doors. And, there had never been little old ladies. Maybe little old raccoons and opossums you’d built little wooden houses for…

Hopper shifted on the spot. “Look… I know you’re tryin’ to the right thing… I know you don’t want to have to move-”

“It’s not about moving. It’s about-”

“The principle, I know,” Hopper interrupted you right back. “I know. But the guy who’s eyeing the place, you don’t wanna mess around with him.”

Even then, you knew Hopper was right. You knew what you were doing was potentially dangerous. Brenner’s name had been mentioned to you before Hopper came knocking. But you were stubborn.

“How’s he even doing this? It can’t be legal. Probably paid off Kline, right?”

Hopper cringed at the name Kline. Larry Kline was the elected official who should have been fighting for the city. Instead, he was lining his pockets with Brenner-shaped coins.

“Eddie know you’re doing this?” Hopper changed tactics. There were three giveaways that Eddie was probably on tour. The first was how quiet the apartment was. The second was the lack of guitars on the wall hooks. The third was that Gabriel, a fluffy white cat, was asleep on the couch. Gabriel only sought the company of others when Eddie wasn’t an option, even though he was technically a birthday present for you.

You bit down on your tongue. “I don’t keep secrets from Eddie,”

“Right, but… Might you have conveniently forgotten to mention who wants to buy the building? Who you’re starting a fight with?”

The conversation had ended with a vague promise that you’d maybe consider ‘cooling it.’ Hopper had left that night uneasy. He never got around to tracking a phone number for Eddie out on the road. Knowing Eddie, which he only kind of did anyway, he’d never tell you to stop doing anything. That man worshipped the ground you walked on.

Hopper stood at the broken window and held a cigarette between his teeth. He looked down to the street below, Eddie’s body being covered with a crime scene sheet while onlookers scrambled to see the carnage.

Behind him, crime scene techs and cops buzzed about the apartment. He turned to survey the scene. The photos on the wall told a story of love. His brain tried to reconcile how you looked in them, compared to how you looked lying on the apartment floor covered in blood. The paramedics were still working on stabilising you, you clinging to life by your fingernails.

Hopper gave the okay to move you while he picked up a thick piece of card off the floor. A wedding invitation for the following day – a sunset event.

“Who the fuck gets married on Halloween anyhow?” one of the cops asked, staring at the mannequin keeping your wedding dress company.

Hopper didn’t answer. He listened to their commentary.

“What’s the count so far?” a rookie questioned.

“143 fires so far… They’re slacking off from last year,”

“Three hours to go; maybe they’re just slow starters.”

Hopper followed the paramedics as they took you downstairs and out to the ambulance. Another detective was there. Detective being a very generous title, as most of the work Phil Callahan was capable of was not of the sleuthing variety.

“This the victim?” he asked.

 “No, it’s Amelia Earhart. We found her, Detective, and you missed it,” Hopper deadpanned.

Before Callahan could come up with something witty to say, Hopper was back at your side. A girl on a skateboard had appeared, pulling at your sleeve.

“Stand back, kid,” he said.

It was Max’s voice that dragged you somewhere close to Earth. “Where’s Eddie?” you croaked.

“Ah… Don’t worry about him,” Hopper told you.

“Tell him to take care of Max.”

Paramedics had you loaded up, closing the back of the ambulance. Hopper stood next to Max for a moment before putting a hand on her shoulder.

“You Max?”

“Yeah,”

“Okay, look… Your sister… She’s gonna be okay,”

“She’s not my sister. She just takes care of me… She’s my friend. Her and Eddie… You lied to her about Eddie.” Max sounded more sad than accusatory.

“I had to,”

“And you’re lying to me about her. She’s gonna die, isn’t she?”

Hopper could deal with a lot of things. A grief-stricken teenage girl was not one of them. He clasped both of her shoulders and held her, looking around the scene with a growing understanding that the misery had only just begun.  

One Year Later After Sunset, October 29, 1995

Max visited the cemetery often. She’d walk along the rows, taking one flower from each bouquet she passed. By the time she was standing in front of the matching graves, she had an offering. One white rose for Eddie, the rest for you.

Losing you and Eddie was bad, but the months since had been worse. Her mother had all but resigned from that role, spending more and more time wherever Neil and Billy Hargrove went. Max hardly saw Susan anymore. The Hargroves, and the people like them, were terrifying.

Max sat down facing the headstones. “I found another one,” she said. “It says that people used to believe that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead.”

In the weeks after that Halloween, Max obsessed over the science of death. She wanted to know how you and Eddie had felt. What would happen to your bodies, buried under all that dirt? Then, once she knew everything there was to know, she moved on to folklore. What stories had been told about dying? What existed beyond the veil?

“The thing though, is that if the person dies unfairly, if something so bad happens, then that is carried with the soul. The sadness. And the soul can’t rest.”

Max had contemplated magic. She saw a Ouija board put out by the trash cans outside her apartment building and seriously considered taking it inside. Her research had slowly veered into the direction of revenge-driven resurrection, for which many cultures had legends and fables of.

“Sometimes the crow can bring that soul back, to put the wrong things right.”  She paused, looking down and pushing the dirt around with a stick. Max shrugged to herself. “I know it’s a fairytale… But it would be nice…”

Thunder rumbled above Max. After gathering her things, she began to walk away. A crow swooped down, landing on Eddie’s headstone. She was sure it was the same one that always hung around the cemetery; she’d named him The Night Watchman.

“Keep an eye on them for me,” she told him, dropping her skateboard and riding off into the drizzling rain.

It was fear first. Terror. Darkness.

He tried to draw a breath in but it didn’t provide any relief. Something told him to get up. Get out. A voice. A voice in his head. Get up. Get out. But get up and get out of what? He thrashed but all his limbs hit solid wall.

Punching, punching, punching. When he finally broke through the coffin’s lid, his knuckles were raw and bleeding. He dug, splitting nails and swallowing dirt. He reached the surface, pulling himself from his grave.

His body couldn’t decide between curling up or being splayed out on his back. It couldn’t decide between screaming or sobbing. He was twitchy and achy. His knuckles had scabbed and scarred. He’d healed but the healing hurt.

At first, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who he was.

A crow landed on an overhead branch. It called to the man, a deep and piercing caw. It was there to guide him. It was there to bear witness. It was there to share the burden of the second life of Eddie Munson.

Eddie knew to follow the crow. He knew the crow would take him to where he wanted to go. It would take him to you.

He stumbled, pulling himself through the cemetery and out into the city. Nobody noticed him weaving through alleyways and stalking shadows. He pulled at his burial clothes, hands running over the bullet hole scars on his body.

Eddie’s bare feet walked through filthy puddles and over crumbling asphalt. He only stopped when the crow landed on a dumpster, squawking.  Something dark was sitting on top of the trash. Old worker’s boots, too small for Eddie, but he put them on anyway. He stomped onwards.

End Note:

Thank you to the love of my life @jo-harrington for brainstorming and editing help, and for general support and hype girl shit.

The process of writing this series has been a bit of an isolated one, compared to past work. So, I don't know how it will be received. I am more unsure about it than I have been about my other stuff too. Any feedback would be immensely appreciated.

Happy New Year, xo Rhi

Fic Taglist (open): @mrsjellymunson @princesssunderworld @qweencrimson @b-irock @writinginthetwilight @bornslippys @ali-r3n @lexr86

All Eddie Taglist (open):solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes  @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob  @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel @dashingdeb16 @cultish-corner @em0220

[fluentmoviequoter]

No Bad Days When You're In Them

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!girlfriend!reader

Summary: Tim has a bad day, but he forgets about it when he sees you get hurt.

Warnings: angst, kidnapping, mention of domestic violence, r gets hit by a vehicle, mention of hospital and broken bones, fluff and comfort!

Word Count: 2.3k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

The worst part about having a bad day, in Tim’s opinion, is that he knows it’s affecting him, but there’s nothing to do about it. With each passing moment, he feels his attitude worsening, but each of those moments also keeps him from caring that he’s snapping at the people closest to him. Bad days are inevitable, they are a comfort of sorts to cops, but that doesn’t mean Tim enjoys them.

“Wait, what does that mean?” Nolan asks.

“You passed the rookie exam, figure it out,” Tim answers harshly.

“How are we supposed to get inside if the guy isn’t cooperating? We don’t have a warrant,” Nolan points out.

“Then focus on what we do have!”

“A report of a kidnapped child and no probable cause to get in! You’re not the only one having a bad day, Bradford.”

“Then don’t make it worse.”

“Whoa! What is going on?” Angela asks as she approaches Tim and Nolan.

“Get a little room,” Nyla commands.

Tim steps back from Nolan, his jaw tight and his shoulders drawn up. Between the bad morning he had and the stress of a kidnapping case, Tim is ready for the day to end. If he can go home, and see you, then maybe the residual tension and annoyance he’s carrying will disappear. He’ll just have to remind himself not to take anything out on you; he promised never to do that again. At this moment, though, he can’t see himself doing anything more than finding comfort in your presence.

Tim’s phone rings as Nyla relays the details of the missing person’s report the child’s father gave, but he silences it without looking at who is calling.

“Today is going to get worse so if either of you have a problem, get away from my case,” she tells Tim and Nolan.

“No problem,” Nolan says. “Sorry.”

She looks at Tim, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes as he agrees, “I’m good.”

“Good. Tim, you’re going around the back with Angela. Nolan, you’re contact; find a way to get this guy to the front door and we’ll take it from there.”

“Did you get a warrant?” Nolan inquires.

“No,” Angela answers. “You two don’t have probable cause?”

“I can make him scream,” Tim offers.

“Thanks, but we need a legal means of getting in there. If he has this little girl, she’s got-“ Angela checks her watch to say, “Less than half an hour until she needs insulin.”

Tim exhales and looks at the house. A curtain moves on the far side of the house, and he taps Angela’s arm before he points to it. She turns to watch, and Nyla and Nolan follow suit. With their eyes on the window, they don’t notice the front door opening.

The curtain falls back into place and Tim looks away. Standing in the open doorway, the owner of the house raises a gun toward Tim.

“Gun!” he warns.

He, Angela, Nyla, and Nolan dive to the side of the walkway for cover. The man empties the magazine into Tim’s shop.

“Can today get any worse?” Nolan mumbles.

“Now it will!” Nyla responds quickly. “Shut up, Nolan!”

“Cover me,” Tim tells Angela.

“No, Tim-“

She doesn’t finish her sentence before she raises her gun to cover him. Tim moves quickly through the yard as the man reloads his weapon. Just as the new magazine snaps into place, Tim pulls the gun from his hands and uses the force to throw the man to the ground. Nolan approaches quickly to place handcuffs on the suspect, but Tim simply sets the gun aside and walks into the house.

“Hello?” he calls. “LAPD! It’s safe to come out.”

He hears a scraping sound in a room down the hall and pulls his gun from the holster as he nears the door. The scraping slows before someone or something hits the door.

“Help!” a young girl cries.

“Hey,” Tim greets as he holsters his gun. “My name is Sergeant Bradford.”

“I’m Josie,” she replies.

“Okay, Josie, I’m going to help you. Listen, I’m going to tap the wall over here, and I want you to get as far from the door as you can before you tap back, okay?”

“Okay.”

Tim extends his arm and taps his knuckles against the wall beside the door. A moment later, Josie knocks further down the wall. Tim stands and kicks the door twice before it snaps, and he muscles it open the rest of the way.

“Bradford!” Angela calls from the doorway. “Still having a bad day?”

Josie hugs Tim’s legs, and he knows that saving one girl isn’t enough to escape the day he’s having. No rest for the weary, right?

“There’s a situation downtown. Need all the backup they can get,” Angela adds. “Hi, Josie, I’m Detective Lopez. Your dad is waiting in my office to see you.”

Josie releases Tim and runs toward Angela. And just like that, Tim is back on patrol and navigating through the crowded and hectic streets of Los Angeles. When he reaches the address he was sent to, he sees a crowd of violent protestors. Sitting back in his seat, he takes a deep breath.

Tim’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he clenches his jaw as he pulls it out. Whoever has been trying to contact him is relentless, as if he wasn’t juggling enough already.

“Nell?” Tim wonders aloud as he reads the contact name on the numerous missed calls.

He calls her back, and she answers nearly immediately. She begins talking the moment the line connects. She reads an address that Tim knows by heart, and he pulls the gear shift of his shop into reverse. As he steers into a j-turn and hits the sirens to drive the other way, he asks Nell why she’s saying his girlfriend’s address.

“We got a domestic call nearby, and the responding officers checked on the neighbors. She wasn’t home, but it was her house number that the caller gave,” Nell explains. “We don’t think she’s in danger, since she isn’t home-“

“She should be,” Tim interrupts. “She told me she’d be home all day today. Tell me more, Nell.”

“Yeah, of course. So, the caller said he was at her address, but said it was his house. Probably another neighbor wanting to be anonymous.”

“How long ago did the officers try to contact her?”

“About half an hour.”

Tim hangs up on Nell and dials your number. He’s close to your house, but if you answer he’ll probably yell at you in relief. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance to see what his reaction would be because you don’t answer. As he turns onto your street, he hits the brakes. There’s a small crowd of people in the middle of the road, and he jumps out of the shop as he races toward them.

“Tim!” you yell.

He stops and turns, surprised to see you approaching from the other side. “The guy that was hitting his wife, his- his brother showed up and started knocking on doors. He was trying to find the person responsible for his brother going to jail.”

“Slow down,” Tim says softly, laying his hands on your shoulders.

“No, Tim, he was out here yelling and waving a gun around, but then he just disappeared. We started gathering in one of the yards, but we still don’t know where he is.”

Tim looks around and sees the crowd separating. He expected someone to be in the center of the crowd, but it’s just concerned neighbors. As he radios for backup, he keeps a hand on you. The bad day wasn’t supposed to extend to your neighborhood, yet Tim finds himself relaxing slightly just because you’re beside him.

“Wait in the shop,” he tells you.

“But I-“

“I need to know you’re safe. The passenger door is unlocked, and more cops will be here in less than two minutes. Just- just wait, okay?”

You nod and slowly pull yourself from his touch. Once you’re in his car, he yells into his radio to find out where his backup is.

“I’ve got a crowd of innocent people standing like a target with no idea where the shooter is!” he exclaims. “Get somebody here!”

“We’re trying,” Grey replies calmly. “I know where you are, but you need to step back from that, from her, and focus on your job.”

“I’ll focus on my job when I can do it again,” Tim snaps.

He directs the crowd of people to stand in a nearby front yard, then asks them to sit with their backs against a fence to protect themselves from the armed man looking for revenge.

You watch Tim stand with your neighbors, but he’s looking around with his hand on his gun. You’d been doing the same, but there was no sign of the man who pounded on your door and demanded to know if you had called the police. You hadn’t, but you knew exactly who did: the man who lived across from you and almost always got your address numbers mixed up.

“Bradford, backup’s a minute out,” someone says over the radio in Tim’s car.

From where you sit, you can see him as he replies, and he looks stressed. The moment everything is under control, you’ll hug him, you decide.

You don’t get much further than that in your planning before something catches your eye. Directly to your right, a construction front loader is barreling toward you. There’s no time to get out of the shop and out of its path, so you brace yourself for the impact. Just before the door beside you folds in against your side, you see the face of the man Tim is looking for. Interestingly, you don’t feel any pain, just a deep hope that this doesn’t make Tim’s day worse or get him hurt.

Tim watches the vehicle crash into his car. With the bullet holes littering the back, he should’ve realized that leaving you alone was a bad idea. Either the day is just historically bad or that shop is cursed. He pulls his gun as he runs toward you. Finally, his backup arrives, and he yells for them to get the guy in the front loader.

“I need an R/A! Now!” he yells into his radio.

Tim reaches his shop and pulls the driver’s side door open. Your eyes are closed, and you’re wedged uncomfortably between the bent door, your broken seat, and the raised console. He pulls loose pieces of his wrecked shop away from you, his bad day and worse attitude completely forgotten. When he reaches over your lap, you lay your hand on his.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you blink your eyes open.

“Are you?” Tim inquires quickly.

He’s sitting backward in his seat, his eyes locked on yours. He flips his hand to hold yours and sighs when you squeeze it kindly.

“I’m okay. Sore, uncomfortable, but fine. Are you?” Tim shakes his head, and you add, “You seemed stressed. Bad day?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is,” you argue. “It is. And as soon as I’m not trapped here, I’ll hug you to prove it.”

“You’re going to the hospital first.”

You want to argue, say that you would prefer to just go home, but Tim’s expression makes you stop. The stressed look, the yelling, it’s all gone as he focuses on you. As long as he doesn’t start apologizing, you will do whatever he asks.

“Does that mean you won’t hug me?” you ask.

“Not until I know you’re okay,” Tim replies.

He looks out the window beside you and squeezes your hand. The front loader has been towed away from the shop, and your chest is rising a touch higher as if pressure has been taken off of you. Tim hopes that you’re right, that you will just be stiff and sore for a while and nothing worse. His bad day seems like nothing now; seeing you hurt is worse than any hectic day the LAPD can throw at him.

A firefighter moves to your door and prepares to remove the door forcefully. The EMT beside him looks at your eyes and head, then welcomes you to pass out if you want, rather than fight any pain or discomfort. Tim nods reassuringly, his hand still in yours, and you close your eyes.

You’re happy to spend the night at Tim’s rather than the hospital. The shared comfort is good for both of you after the day you had. While you recline in Tim’s bed, mindful of the deep bruising on your right side, Tim lays on your left. His head is on your shoulder as he runs his fingers along your forearm. There’s a movie playing on the TV screen, but the only thing you can think of is the man beside you.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you,” Tim replies. He sits up to look at you and adds, “I’m sorry you got hurt because of me.”

“That wasn’t your fault. You were trying to keep me safe. You always keep me safe.”

Tim shakes his head as his eyes drop to a scrape across your cheek.

“You keep me safe from more than you know,” you whisper. “Do you feel better now? Bad day over?”

“It hasn’t mattered since I saw that guy hit you,” Tim admits.

“I make your bad days go away?” you ask with a smile.

“You do. Not watching you get hurt. Nothing else mattered in that moment.”

You nod and thank Tim again. He returns to his place beside you, and you take turns holding each other throughout the night. You both need comfort, and this is the best place to get it. When Kojo joins you after the movie ends, you know that today wasn’t all bad, and Tim realizes that no day can be bad when you’re in his life. Not when this is what you both come home to.

[aloysiavirgata]

Will you write me a post-Fight Club fic? They’re bruised and beat up and I want to read about it.

Kersh had said Sweet fancy Moses when he saw their injuries and ordered them either home or desk bound until such time as they would not terrify small children with their countenances.

***

Scully slouched against the wall with an ice pack on her face. She did not want to be here, but she didn’t want to be anywhere else either. People stared and she hated it more than she hated paperwork. She had practically worn a groove in her apartment floor from caged pacing.

Mulder was using a tape dispenser to grind Excedrin tablets into a powder. He rubbed it on the insides of his swollen lips like cocaine.

“Ow,” he observed. He didn’t get the fun medications until he went home, which he didn’t wish to do because it was boring. He carried his injuries with a certain swagger.

“I thought Mr. Saperstein was going to show you some in-your-face, smack-down moves so you could quit getting your ass kicked so often,” Scully said.

Mulder scowled at her. He grabbed a pad of paper from the desk and wrote YOU’RE LOOKING PRETTY ROUGH YOURSELF XENA. He tapped at it until she looked up.

“The Lorax is coming for you, Mulder,” she warned.

He was finding it difficult to talk clearly with a wired jaw but, because he found it impossible to refrain from making smart remarks, he was on his third legal pad.

WELL EXCUSE ME BUT I WASN’T EXPECTING TO HAVE TO EITHER TAKE A CANE TO THE JAW OR PUNCH AN OLD LADY

He added a frowny face and several exclamation points to emphasize the complexity of the situation.

Scully examined her reflection in the back of a spoon. Either Lulu or Betty - Scully couldn’t remember which thanks to the concussion - had launched herself off the ropes and onto Scully. She had led with her forehead.

“Burt Zupanic,” she mused, readjusting the ice. “Of all the men to fight over.”

SWEET-ASS PERM, Mulder noted, unhelpfully.

She laughed, which hurt. Most things hurt at present, her pride included. She’d already had three cups of coffee this morning, but after surviving all her various maimings, Scully was confident her organs could handle it. She emptied the pot into her Stanford mug.

Mulder tapped her arm. HEY I AM ORDERING SOME CLAM CHOWDER FOR LUNCH. DO YOU WANT ANYTHING?

“Clam chowder through a straw, ugh, Mulder. Besides, you’re not supposed to have anything with chunks in it.”

THEY ARE BLENDING IT UP FOR ME. MILKSHAKE OF THE SEA.

She gagged a little. “That’s vile.”

PROBABLY. IF THEY MAKE ANOTHER MOVIE ABOUT US I THINK WE SHOULD NOT MENTION THIS PARTICULAR INCIDENT.

As though he actual movie had been so much better. She cringed every time she thought about it. At least the COPS episode conveyed her reluctance and irritation. “Pinky swear.”

He held his own finger out and she hooked hers around it.

THE PACT IS SEALED

“Hey Mulder?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you want to get the hell out of here, go take some of the really good painkillers, curl up in my bed in our underwear, and watch bad Lifetime movies until we pass out? I don’t have chowder but there’s leftover tomato bisque with your name on it.”

FUCK THE CHOWDER LET’S ROLL

They were out the door before the ink dried.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 98 (Questioning Bay Security & Grim Pays an Unwanted Visit)

cw: pet death

While Conrad looked over his case files at the precinct, Detective Zion Spangler approached him. "Can you help me with the manager of Bay Security? He's resisting attempts to book him, and he says he won't talk to me."

Conrad knew J Huntington III through parent-teacher nights and school assemblies. Though his focus was meant to be on the search for Rafa and not the investigation into the suspicious death of Jimmy Stefano, Conrad was still frustrated by a lack of leads and agreed to talk to him.

"I don't have a clue what you brought me in for," he groused as the sergeant took his fingerprints.

"Questionable bookkeeping, Mr. Huntington, just like you were told when the detectives picked you up."

"Well, like hell I'm gonna talk to some green young nobody on the same force that needs our help to keep anyone safe in this town!"

Conrad sighed. "Well, if you don't talk to me, I can't promise you'll be home tonight for dinner with your wife and kids."

"Come on, Sargent. It's a few days before Winterfest and I promised my kids I'd take them out shopping for their mom."

He grew more cooperative after that, following Conrad into the interrogation room while Zion and a few others watched from the other side of the glass. J looked across the table with a sneer while Conrad pointed out where the cameras were inside the room.

"We're just trying to figure out why a security company with a monopoly at the docks was off duty that night, and there are some questions about the books. Really, there's a question about the lack of much in the way of books."

"We're a legal company. You should be talking to George Brindleton, not me. He said pull the guys, I pulled the guys. It's my job to do what he says."

"George is wintering in the sun, but if you don't give us enough to work with, we'll have to call him in for questioning when he gets back. You and I both know he won't like having to talk to us."

The thinly veiled threat was enough to get J to look at photos of the crime scene and give insight into his work for George Brindleton.

"We do what he wants and he signs big checks. He paid us to make up the loss in paid time so close to the holidays."

"He told our captain he was cutting costs in the dead season, but if he's paid you, regardless, he had another reason."

J shrugged. "Talk to George. I don't ask questions. It doesn't serve me."

"And breaking kneecaps to manage what goes in and out of the port serves you, instead?"

"That's the problem with law enforcement these days. You're too good. But people are terrible, Sargent Gordon."

"Is that what you tell your kids?"

"Your son is a Landgraab, Sargent. What do they know about being good?"

Conrad held his hands in his lap. "Ash is a lot like his mother."

J scowled and Conrad changed tactics. This wasn't getting them anywhere. "We looked into Bay Security, and we know George Brindleton is an arms-length investor. So why do you do strictly what he says?"

"There's a lot of simoleons in legacy families."

"What does that matter to you? J Huntington the Third, is it?"

"That's a joke. There's no J Huntington the First or Second, but my makers thought it'd be funny. It's not, and maybe you can guess why I don't speak to them these days. I named my son Caiden."

"What does George have on you?"

"On me? Nothing. I came into this job with the deal already in place, and it's better for my family if I just accept things as they are. I don't need to be a hero. I know a good cop like you wouldn't understand."

Conrad knew he was no hero. "Not one of your guys was hanging around the docks and saw anything the night of the murder? Isn't there a Friday night poker game in one of the old fishing boats?"

"If we don't have to break knees, Sargent, we don't. I don't keep tabs on them when they're not working."

"You've never seen the victim in Brindleton Bay before?"

He shook his head. "Not until you showed me that picture of him dead at the docks."

With little learned from the head of Bay Security, Conrad let J Huntington go with nothing gained in their search for Jimmy Stefano's killer. Ximena was still at large, but he was grateful she hadn't turned up around him or his family in the weeks since the murder, at least.

Winterfest was just a few days away, and Heather and Conrad planned to forge ahead with the holiday as if nothing was wrong. Heather, especially, was loath to let Ximena ruin her children's Winterfest, and they didn't want Ash to notice anything amiss.

But though they were wary of the threat posed by Ximena, they still faced unexpected tragedy right before the holiday break.

Heather's old cat, Boomer, got sick with hot feet. She took him to her clinic and tried to help him, but she soon realized there was nothing she could do. He was twenty-one; it was his time.

The fuzzy white mixed breed died of old age the night before Winterfest Eve. Heather had brought him home from the clinic so he could pass comfortably. When the time came, the Nesbitt-Gordon household was visited by a new friend.

After Grim helped Boomer cross the rainbow bridge, Heather invited him inside from the cold, and he comforted her over the loss. "Grief is a privilege reserved for those fortunate enough to know love," he said wisely.

Heather had many pets, and she dealt with loss at her clinic, but it didn't take the sting away. Not tonight. Still, she was grateful for Grim's kindness and sent him on his way with a smile. "Bella Goth's probably expecting you. Thank you for caring for Boomer tonight."

Grim disappeared with a pound of his scythe against the floor. Despite the advice, Heather was heartbroken, and the holiday season began under a cloud of sadness at the Nesbitt-Gordon home. ->

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NOTE: In game, J Huntington III is married to Liberty Lee and they have two kids, son Caiden and daughter Alexis. J breaks kneecaps and Liberty's an astronaut, apparently.