#and emergency services were having to drive over blood + guts to get people to safety

[theflirtmeister]

hmm ended up in a 9/11 rabbit hole and now I feel sick and sad

[streamermattsgf]

Hearts and Hordes (2)

Chapter 2: The Road to Nowhere

M.S x Reader

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part one

summary: In the senior year of high school, life for you and your boyfriend, Matt Sturniolo, along with his brothers Nick and Chris, is filled with the typical worries of classes, friendships, and the future. But everything changes when a mysterious virus sweeps through your town, turning people into mindless, violent creatures

warnings for all chapters: violence, blood, death, emergency services, zombie apocalypse, smut, kissing, established relationship ect.

The air is thick with tension as you buckle your seatbelt in the passenger seat, Matt gripping the wheel with white knuckles beside you. His jaw is clenched, and his usual calm demeanor is replaced by a mix of urgency and fear that mirrors the unease in your gut. The world outside your window no longer looks like the one you knew this morning. The streets are filled with chaos—people running, sirens wailing, and an eerie sense that something terrible is unfolding beyond the horizon.

Nick and Chris are in the backseat, both of them quiet for once, their eyes wide as they watch the scene unfold through the windows. Nick holds a crowbar he'd found in your garage, and Chris is clutching a metal baseball bat like a lifeline. No one really knows what to expect, but no one wants to be caught off guard.

"Where do we go?" you ask softly, the weight of the question hanging in the air.

Matt's eyes flick toward you for a brief moment, his voice steady but strained. "Out of the city. We need to get somewhere less crowded, less… dangerous. The more people, the worse this is gonna get."

You nod, your heart racing in your chest as he starts the car. The engine roars to life, a low hum of something familiar in a world that's quickly turning unfamiliar. With one last glance at your house—now empty and cold—you turn your attention forward as Matt pulls onto the street.

"What about your parents? Should we go get them?" you ask. "Fuck, they're out of town, let me try call them" Chris says opening his phone and dialing his Mom's number.

"Fuck, no fucking service in this shithole" he says slamming his fists into the back of your seat. "It's okay Chris, I'm sure they're fine, whatever this is probably hasn't reached where they are" Nick says, trying to sound calm for his brother.

"We'll go to where they are, New York isn't that far" Matt says calmly, glancing over to you, noticing your quietness . All you could think about were your parents. "I'm sure they're okay, do you want to go to the hospital to see if they're there?" Matt asks, already knowing your thoughts.

You clear your throat "no, n-no I'm sure they're safe somewhere, I'll call them as soon as we get service". You don't know if you're trying to convince them or yourself that they were okay, but you just had to hope.

The further you drive, the worse it gets. The suburbs are already descending into chaos. People are running, panicked, as they scramble to get out of town. You pass families loading their cars with whatever they can carry, people frantically trying to flee. But not everyone is lucky enough to make it. You see the bodies, sprawled out on the pavement, their lives snuffed out too quickly for anyone to even help.

Your stomach churns at the sight, and you grip the edge of your seat, trying not to let the nausea overwhelm you. You don’t want to break down. Not now. Not when so much depends on staying strong.

"Jesus…" Nick breathes from the back, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is worse than I thought."

Chris, always the steady one, simply shakes his head. "We just have to keep moving."

You force yourself to keep looking ahead, trying to block out the horrors unfolding around you. But it’s impossible to ignore. You see a group of people huddled around someone on the ground, and for a moment, you think they’re helping. But then you realize with a jolt of horror that they’re not helping���they’re eating them.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, your hand flying to your mouth. “Matt, go faster!”

Matt’s foot presses harder on the gas, and the car lurches forward. He swerves around another wrecked car, narrowly avoiding a collision. The road ahead is littered with debris—broken glass, pieces of metal, even discarded shoes. It’s as if the city is unraveling before your eyes.

“We need to get out of here,” Nick says urgently, his voice trembling. “We can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

“I know,” Matt replies, his voice tight with concentration. “I’m heading for the highway. We’ll get out of town and after we get Mom and Dad find somewhere remote. Somewhere this… whatever this is, hasn’t reached yet.”

You nod, trying to steady your breathing. Matt’s plan makes sense. The city is too dangerous, too unpredictable. But the idea of leaving everything behind—your home, your friends, your parents, everything you’ve ever known—is almost too much to bear.

As you approach the highway on-ramp, you’re met with more chaos. Cars are backed up, people honking their horns and yelling out of their windows. A few cars are trying to reverse, but there’s nowhere to go. The gridlock is complete.

“We’ll never make it through that,” Chris says, leaning forward to get a better look. “We need another way out.”

Matt scans the road ahead, his mind racing. “There’s a back road that leads out of town,” he says finally. “It’s not usually busy, so it might be our best shot.”

Without waiting for a response, he veers off the main road, taking a sharp turn onto a side street. The neighborhood here is quieter, but you can still feel the tension in the air. The houses are dark, the sidewalks empty. It’s as if everyone has already fled or is hiding inside, hoping the nightmare will pass them by.

The car speeds down the empty streets, the buildings growing sparser as you head toward the outskirts of town. For a moment, it almost feels like you’re escaping the madness, leaving it all behind. But then, as you turn a corner, you see something that makes your blood run cold.

A man stands in the middle of the road, his back to you. He’s hunched over, his movements jerky and unnatural. At first, you think he’s just another survivor, maybe injured or disoriented. But then he turns around, and you see his face.

Or what’s left of it.

His skin is pale and mottled, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Blood drips from his mouth, staining his torn clothes. And his teeth—his teeth are bared in a grotesque snarl, stained red.

“Matt, stop!” you scream, but it’s too late.

The car slams into the man, the impact jarring you in your seat. The body rolls over the hood and hits the pavement with a sickening thud. You cover your mouth, trying to hold back the bile rising in your throat.

“Oh God,” Nick whispers, his voice shaking. “Was that… was that a zombie?”

“I think so,” Matt replies, his voice hoarse. “I had no choice. He was in the road.”

You take a shaky breath, trying to process what just happened. The man—no, the zombie—was already dead. He had to be. There’s no other explanation for what you just saw. But that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

“Keep going,” Chris says, his voice firm. “We need to keep moving.”

Matt nods and presses on the gas, the car speeding away from the scene. The road ahead is clear, and the countryside starts to open up around you. The city lights fade into the distance, replaced by the dark expanse of open fields and forests.

For a moment, the silence in the car is deafening. You can hear your own heartbeat, feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins. But then Matt reaches over, his hand finding yours again. His touch is warm, reassuring.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says softly, though you can hear the doubt in his voice.

You squeeze his hand, trying to hold onto that small bit of hope. But as you look out the window, watching the world you once knew disappear behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that nothing will ever be okay again.

As the car races down the lonely road, you realize that this is your new reality. A world where the dead don’t stay dead, where safety is a fleeting illusion, and where survival is the only thing that matters.

But as long as you have Matt, Nick, and Chris by your side, you know you’ll keep fighting. Because in a world gone mad, they’re all you have left. And you’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.

tags:

@sstvrnioloo @liz-stxrn @sturniolo-lover1317 @braindead4l @thetriplets3 @patscorner @ksturniolo7 @chrissturnswife

@bernardsbendystraws @luvr4miya @nyktoxs-lover @3lizaluvs @sturnsxplr-25 @stormyheartbreak k @angelic-l0ver @pixie-sticks-are-good @mariasturniolo @blahbel668 @colorthecosmos444 @vanteguccir @muwapsturniolo @55sturn @mattslolita @daysonend

@lovesturniOlOs @jetaimevous @avatarloverlol l @mbbsgf @witchofthehour @lianomer @slxt4chriss @sturniolosweetheart33 @udontknowmeh12 @chrispotatos @pussydestroyer100 @yo123itsme @hackerxsturniolos @nicksloverrr

if you want to be added to my tag list click HERE and leave a comment!

[yikesharringrove]

Not sure if you’re still taking prompts but can you maybe write something about Billy and Steve and the 5 love languages please? Thank you!

1. Giving and Receiving Gifts

Steve just stared at the box.

He had found it in his mother’s closet, obviously placed in there by a maid.

His birthday was next week, and his parents were giving him a record player.

The same one they had given him last Christmas.

Steve figures his father’s assistant picked it out. He’s had four since Christmas.

He sighed at the box. Maybe he could sell the record player, maybe he could buy himself something with the money.

He knows he’ll end up giving it to Dustin, or maybe Will.

-

There was a carton of cigarettes on the kitchen table.

Unopened Marlboro reds. Next to a plate of pancakes. Susan’s yearly peace offering.

Billy slid into the table quietly.

“Thank you, Dad.”

Neil just hummed.

2. Physical Touch

Steve sighed as he sank into the crisp sheets.

His parents’ bed was huge, far larger than two people needed.

He had sprayed his mother’s perfume on one of the pillows, curled up in their silk sheets.

If he pretended hard enough, he could imagine being held.

Someone caring for him enough to touch him, run fingers through his hair, pet down his back.

He set up one of the down feather pillows behind him, felt like someone was there.

-

Billy spat into the sink.

His tooth had chipped, but hadn’t come out completely.

His lip was split and he could feel the bruises forming on his back.

He rinsed the blood out of his mouth, cataloging dark fingerprints on his wrist.

He should head to the quarry, be alone for a little bit.

He pushed out of the bathroom, nearly colliding into Max on his way to the door.

She reached for his wrist, the one already marked by another hand.

Billy dodged out of the way, kept going to his car.

3. Acts of Service

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency-”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. You know I never mind driving him.”

Mrs. Henderson sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Sweetheart. You’re a life saver.”

It was true though, he really didn’t mind driving Dustin around. Gave him something to do. Helping felt good, made him forget about things for a little while.

-

He had only been in Max’s room once before.

It had been to yell at her about stealing his Walkman.

It hadn’t changed since then, still just as cluttered, still as California beachy as before.

He placed the skateboard on the unmade bed.

He noticed her wheels were getting torn up on the shitty roads, installed new ones for her.

It was as close to an apology as he could get.

4. Quality time

Steve’s house was empty.

And he hated it.

No matter how loud he turned on the television, no matter how much music he played, or how many lights he turned on, it was still an empty house, with no one but a sad lonely boy rattling away inside.

-

Billy doesn’t like sitting in silence.

He guesses Susan doesn’t either, as she shakily tries to fill the dinner table with a poor anecdote from her day.

Billy smiles where he should, and eats quickly, but not too wuickly, and compliments Susan’s cooking, and only leaves the table when his father dismisses him.

He retreats to his room, listening to music to drown out whatever game Neil’s watching in the next room.

5. Words of Affirmation

“You’re not stupid.”

Billy’s brows were furrowed.

“Yeah, I am. But it’s okay though I’m-”

“No, you’re not.” He said it with an air of finality. “Your mind just works different. But you’re really smart.” Steve smiled weakly. “I mean it. You’ve got this creative brain, always thinking outside the box. You have a knack for detail other people miss. You’re smart”

It was the first time anyone ever told him that.

Fitting, as he’d had a lot of firsts with Billy already.

-

“You’re not a monster.”

Steve’s voice had an air of authority. His eyes were wide.

“Steve, I, I hurt-I killed so many-”

“You weren’t you, though. You were, were possessed. You couldn’t have stood a chance against that thing.”

“I should’ve fought it sooner.”

“It took all your energy to fight it off. And you did, in the end. You saved us all. You’re not a monster. You’re a hero.” Billy’s nose twitched. “You’re selfless, and brave, and a fucking hero.”

4. Quality Time

Steve’s house wasn’t empty.

And he loved it.

Billy seemed to take up every room, fill the space with snide remarks about the decor in Steve’s house, or laugh loudly at family portraits.

He had put music on in the living room, and turned on lights as he looked through his house.

Steve felt warm, and for once, for fucking once, he didn’t feel lonely.

-

Billy likes the quarry, although he would never say that to another human being.

It’s quiet there, and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend the water lapping at the rocky shore is the ocean, that he never left California.

But then he looked to his left, and smiled at the sight.

Steve was always pretty, but something about moonlight made him ethereal.

He was quiet, looking out over the water.

Billy liked that Steve knows when to let the moment sit, when quiet is okay.

3. Acts of Service

“Noticed your breaks were starting to whine, so I changed your break pads. Ended up doing the oil and wiper fluid, too.”

Steve stared at the car.

“You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Good for pt.” Billy’s hands were working much better, he had more articulation these days.

And rebuilding things, fixing things, it made him feel better than any talk session ever had.

It was nice seeing Billy like this, a little closer to his new self.

It made Steve’s stomach flip over.

-

“I finished unpacking your stuff while you were out applying places. I don’t know how you like things organized, so you’ll probably want to redo it I just thought-” Steve was rambling away, all nervous.

“Thanks, Stevie. I appreciate it.” Steve’s face went red.

They had moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the shitty part of town. Billy’s window opened onto a dingy parking lot, while Steve’s showed the gas station below.

“I was just finished, thought I would move your along, too.”

He tamped down the way his gut rolled, the way his heart pounded against his ribs at Steve’s slight flush.

2. Physical Touch

“Do you, uh, do you think I could sleep in here?”

Steve felt like he was going to throw up his heart, hands still shaking from his nightmare.

“‘Course.” Billy’s voice was gruff in the darkness, but he held up the side of his blanket.

Steve slipped underneath it with him.

He was still breathing too fast, stiff as a board on Billy’s bed.

“It’s okay.” And then Billy’s arm was around him, and his back was against a warm, solid chest, and it was all too easy to melt into the touch, maybe let a few tears fall.

Billy was warm, and grounding.

And Steve felt a tiny bit better.

-

Billy tossed himself down onto the couch.

It was two small for how both of them sprawled across it at once, their bodies pressed together.

Steve wiggled his way out from under Billy, leaning against his side, legs tucked up under his hips.

“Long day?”

Billy never replied.

He turned his head to look at Steve, and he was so close, his breath fanning over Billy’s cheeks, dark eyes nearly going cross eyes as they dropped down to look at his lips.

His hair was soft as Billy sank a hand into it, guiding their kiss.

It was a long time coming, the soft brush of their lips.

Steve pressed his body closer to Billy, who let out a desperate whine.

Steve’s hands were soft and warm, one cupping his cheek, one gripping his wrist.

They took shaky breaths after parting, still close enough to feel the other’s breath, neither boy wanting to break their soft little bubble.

They kissed all night.

1. Giving and Receiving Gifts

“Happy birthday, you pain in my ass.”Steve laughed as he accepted the small box from Billy.

“You’re a terror.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to Billy’s cheek.

It was Steve’s first birthday since they moved to California.

He tore open the wrapping paper, tossing the lid of the box onto their bed.

He gasped.

“Bill, this is, thank you.”

It was Billy’s necklace. Steve didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing it.

“Wanted you to have it. Since you’re my guy, and all that.” His smile was dazzling, lazy and warm.

Steve turned around, placed his palm over the pendant as Billy clasped it for him.

“I love you.” Billy pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, right over the clasp.

“Love you too, Pretty Boy.”

-

“Uh, here.”

Steve’s cheeks were flaming as he pushed the small box into Billy’s hands.

“Happy Birthday.”

Billy just smiled up at him, taking his time with the neat wrapping.

It was a ring, a simple gold band.

“You know, it’s been eight years since we got together. And I know we can’t get married, or whatever, but I thought, we could, we could have this.”

Billy was fucking speechless.

“Sorry, it’s dumb.” Steve reached for the ring, but Billy clutched it to his chest.

“Do you have one too?”

“Yeah. Matching set.”

“Go get it.” Steve looked nervous as he re-entered their living room with a matching gold band.

Billy took it from him. He took his left hand, slowly sliding the ring on his finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

Steve barked a laugh, happy and bright. He slid Billy’s ring onto his finger in the same fashion.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” Billy’s smile was hurting his cheeks.

“Now with the power invested in me, by the great state of California, and the fact that no one can tell us fuck all, I pronounce us, husband and husband. Now gimme a fuckin’ kiss!”

They both laughed into the kiss, the sun setting outside their apartment, dousing the little makeshift wedding in gold.

[sodone-withlife]

human

@yourlocalheartbreaker thanks so much for your post about Nelson’s Sparrow. I had already started a blurb exploring Hotch’s response to Gideon’s death, but you brought up the fact that he very likely had to ID the body, and I just had to include that in this blurb. 

I’ll be honest: I have done little to no proofreading, and it doesn’t flow as smoothly as I’d like, but I just needed to get this out. 

warning: canonical character death

word count: 2.08k words

“Where did Hotch go?”

Rossi looked up at Morgan leaning against the doorway. “He’s taking some personal time.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Now? It’s barely after lunch, what does he need it for?”

Rossi shook his head. “Didn’t ask.”

“And you aren’t at least a little concerned?” Morgan asked skeptically. “Has he ever up and left in the middle of the workday?”

“Well, I’d ask, but he said that he’s cutting communication and that if he is needed he’s only answering Penelope or Jessica’s call.”

“Jack’s not with him?” Morgan asked, taken aback at yet another out-of-character decision. He couldn’t remember if Hotch had ever taken a personal day without Jack.

Rossi shrugged, though his concern was also obvious. “Even Hotch needs a break sometimes.”

The crisp winter air of the Virginia wilderness was filled with silence, only cut by the sounds of nature. Hotch stood in front of the cabin, staring blankly and letting the ambiance of the place that had been Gideon’s chosen safe haven wash over him. It was a far cry from his once-daily forays into the mind of the scourge of humanity. 

Only now it was tainted with blood, with the murder of the man who had found a refuge in the peace of this forest. 

Is there really a place on the planet that hasn’t seen the vileness of man?

How could he possibly articulate the sheer depth of the grief and resentment that he felt towards the man who had once been one of his mentors, who had left him floundering in the dust to clean up the mess that was left behind?

Insomnia had been keeping Hotch up way past midnight and he was going through paperwork with the hope that it would bore him to sleep when he got the call. Years of getting cases in the middle of the night had left its mark, as the sound of his ringtone cleared his head as it had done so many times in the past. Reaching for his phone, he anticipated the multiple trips to the coffee machine that had replaced the old, faithfully crappy machine that had been there when he first joined the unit.

And he was right—he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night. 

Or the next night, for that matter.

Hotch remembered feeling strangely detached from his person as he put on a coat and, on a whim, pulled out his service weapons from the safe, grabbing his work bag as he left the apartment and headed towards his car. 

In any other situation, he would have worried about falling asleep at the wheel during the long drive.

In any other situation, he would have called the team to assemble.

But this was not any other situation. Seeing the flashing red and blue lights from an emergency vehicle illuminating the cabin and the surrounding clearing proved that something was wrong, and when he approached one of the EMTs, he knew this was something he had to do for the sake of the team. As he always does.

For the sake of the team.

They had gone through too much.

It was a surprise to see his contact flashing on his phone screen after over seven years of no contact, but it was alarming when he heard pained groans and then a series of gunshots from the other end. 

And that was when the terrible thought came into his mind.

And even though Hotch knew what he was going to see when the EMTs exchanged a look and let him into the cabin, it certainly wasn’t less of a shock, wasn’t less of a punch to the gut to see the body, crumpled on the ground with blood pooling around it like a grotesque puppet with its strings cut. 

Hotch remembered staring blankly at the man who had left the job that killed his fire in search of himself, but whose fire was now extinguished. Permanently. 

For the sake of the team.

He remembered snapping back to himself to find that he had knelt down with his own hand near the neck, having just checked for a pulse in hopes that it would make it—real? fake? He cleared his throat before standing up and turning to the waiting EMTs. At the sympathetic looks he was getting, he felt a faint annoyance rising through the ice that froze through his being.

He wasn’t the floundering, young, ambitious agent that probably would have been giving some indication that he was barely holding himself together at the seams

He wasn’t the friend—were they really friends, though?—who hadn’t seen or talked to him in years and would probably be giving some indication that he was grieving.

His name is—

His name was Jason Gideon, he’s a former FBI agent. I will be calling in federal law enforcement to investigate this, please make yourselves available in the next few days to give your statements… 

He had to be the uptight hardass that didn’t let anything affect him. He had to retreat into the cold mechanical mindset that protected him, for the team.

It didn’t feel right, however. How could he put on such a facade in a place that was supposed to be safe? How could he, in the place where Gideon could be totally himself without fear of the demons that haunted him?

How could he treat this like any other crime scene?

For the sake of the team.

The first call he made was to Stephen. It wasn’t the first time he had made a notification of death to family members, and he didn’t let it be any different this time. 

(oh, it was so different.)

It’s Aaron Hotchner, I worked with your dad in the FBI. I apologize for calling so late… 

And then calls were made to the team. They were short—there was no way Hotch could possibly tell them about the murder over the phone, but the team was smart. They all knew something was wrong.

I need you to come to Gideon’s cabin as soon as you can. I texted you the address.

The same thirteen words, repeated six times to six different people, with his same detached, precise tone of voice.

Emily. I, uh, just wanted to let you know that Gideon was murdered. In his cabin a few hours ago. I’m there now, I’ve called the rest of the team, and… Yeah, I just wanted to let you know. I hope everything is going well in London.

Emily hadn't picked up, but she called Hotch back a few hours later. It doesn’t feel real, he had said when she asked after him. He was never really able to lie to her, the woman who he found was just as broken and yet fiercely protective as him, and he knew that as he changed the subject and started updating her on the status of the investigation.

I’m not sure if you’re even going to listen to this, but I thought it would be better if you heard it from me than from an email, or text, or… yeah. 

I just wanted to let you know that Gideon was found shot multiple times in his cabin early this morning; he was murdered. The team worked the case and solved it, the unsub was killed along the way, so… there’s going to be a funeral, and though I’m not sure who his son is planning on inviting, I'll tell you where he is buried when that happens, and… yeah. Just thought I should let you know. Hope you and your family are doing well.

The words had come surprisingly easy to him when he left a message for Elle. Their correspondence over the years was never constant and never for long periods of time, mainly consisting of pictures that kept the other updated on their lives, and they never called.

Now, he wondered how she reacted to getting the message. Did she curse him out for calling for the first time in years only to tell her that her old colleague had been murdered? Did she confide in her partner?

Dave had been the first to get to the cabin, and Kate and JJ followed closely behind. Reid, Morgan, and Garcia came shortly thereafter. Hotch watched as all of them took in the state of the cabin and the sheet-covered body he was standing sentinel over, and no one said anything until Garcia took the first step.

It’s Gideon.

Grief was a terrible feeling, and it cut right through people’s masks and shone a light on the good and the ugly that was within a person. It was a feeling Hotch was intimately familiar with, many times over now, but the team had only seen him ripped open once. He was well aware that he didn’t make for a pretty sight when they got to the house he had lived in with Haley. They had walked in on a fit of explosive, murderous anger that had been immediately followed by pure, unadulterated grief.

He was well aware that the shattering of his infamous control had scared the team.

And so, just like a few years ago with Emily, Hotch watched over his team as they rushed to solve the murder, all driven by the pain of loss. 

He watched as Rossi gave everyone an insight into how the BAU started when it was just him and Gideon before Max Ryan had taken them under his wing.

He watched over them over the next few days and weeks as they all grieved in their own ways, keeping an eye out for red flags.

But now, when he wasn't even trying to keep up the facade, he still felt numb. For how could he articulate the so many complicated feelings he had regarding the man who had guided him, who had taught him to be sure of himself, who had abandoned him without a word?

Hotch looked around, faintly surprised to find that he had walked into the cabin and was simply standing in the middle of the living room. He had only been to the cabin once prior that night, and there was a palpable difference in the air.

Tainted.

A few weeks has gone by since this cabin had actually been lived in. Everything was still in its place, perfectly preserved like a museum exhibit.

Like a crime scene.

Unable to remain any longer, he turned to walk back outside when something on the wall caught his attention. He walked over, only to stop dead a few feet away.

There were multiple photos and drawings of birds pinned to the wall, and near the edge of the collection was a single picture of the team that had been when he had left. Peeking out from under it was a single slightly yellowed envelope.

It was with caution and slight guilt that he moved forward and carefully unpinned the photo to get the envelope. As he walked over to the nearby dining table and sat, he carefully pulled out the contents of the envelope—a single, folded sheet of paper.

When his eyes landed on the first line of that painfully familiar handwriting, he could only be glad that he was sitting, else his legs would have given out from under him at the sight of his first name.

This was written years ago, he thought with startling clarity, why didn’t he send it to me?

If anything, he felt even more numb as he read through the letter. And when he finished, there was still nothing. 

He wanted to scream, he wanted to hit something, he wanted to feel—anything. 

But he felt nothing—nothing but exhaustion. 

You’re going to go weeks—months, even—feeling fine. And then you’re going to have a bad day.

He’s had many bad days before. He never wants to have one again.

He’s spent years chasing after unsubs—psychopaths, rapists, terrorists. He’s spent years trying not to lose himself along with the people who’ve left because the darkness of this job finally caught up to them.

Elle, Erin, Alex, Gideon, Emily… Haley.

But maybe he did lose himself. Why else can’t he bring himself to feel anything, even after finding out that Gideon still remembered that young ambitious agent that shadowed him and Rossi like an eager puppy? 

And if he did indeed lose himself, maybe it’s for the best. 

The alternative is too painful to imagine. And despite outward appearances, Aaron Hotchner is fragile.

He is human. 

[haydnfleury]

Flatline

**MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH DISCLAIMER**

Who: William Nylander, Zach Hyman

Type: Dark Fic

Word Count: 2.4K

Addendum: Title is from the song Flatline off the Hotline Miami soundtrack.

~AO3 Version

 The next morning seemed like any other winter morning in Toronto. Frost forming on the windows from the dropping temperatures, the sound of early morning traffic on the streets below, and the alarm blaring its usual tone. Except, something’s different. Wrong.

 “I love you Zachy.”

 “I love you too Willy.”

 They kissed and held each other closely under the covers, beginning to fall asleep.

 The next morning seemed like any other winter morning in Toronto. Frost forming on the windows from the dropping temperatures, the sound of early morning traffic on the streets below, and the alarm blaring its usual tone. Except, something’s different. Wrong. Zach is usually the first one to get out of bed anyway, but Willy doesn’t seem to have woken up like he always has when the alarm went off before practice- in fact he doesn’t seem to have moved at all from where he was the night prior.

 “Honey?” Zach asks trying to shake him awake.

 Nothing. A little louder and harder this time- nothing. Starting to panic, Zach bursts into the closet digging around for their travel suitcases. After having thrown half of the clothes out, he finds them, and grabs a small hand-held mirror from the toiletries bag. Holding it under Willy’s nose the glass starts to fog up. Good, he’s not dead at least.

 Zach hurriedly throws on some clothes and phones up emergency services, as well as the new coach and several teammates. EMT’s arrive within five minutes of him calling, and rush Willy out to the ambulance, constantly monitoring his dangerously low vitals on the way to the emergency room.

 By the time he was stabilized and Zach was let into the room, the entire team had arrived, bleary-eyed from sleep but still quite visibly concerned. The doctor began to explain that he suffered from a stroke sometime in the early hours of the morning, and that he was stuck in a coma. The rest started to become a blur as Zach got lost in his own thoughts, How did he get a stroke? We’re both too young for-- When is he going to wake up-- Is-- is he going to wake up? Please don’t leave me like this. I don’t--

 The thoughts are interrupted by Mitchy’s hand on his shoulder.

 “Hey, are you okay?”

 When he looks up the doctor had already left, and everyone was looking at him, all with the same question on their face.

 “I. I don’t know,” is all he can manage to say, he doesn’t really know the answer to that himself yet.

 “In light of events this morning, we’ll move practice to tomorrow,” Keefe decides and everyone nods in agreement, “Hyman, take the week off if you need it, I won’t think any less of you if you need more time off.”

 Outside in the ward, they start to hear a growing chatter, and the clattering of equipment. The Media.

 “Oh boy, already? I need to go take care of this. John? Do me a favour and call Kyle, have him restrict the media for injury protocol.”

 And with that the coach goes out and closes the door behind him, and Tavey steps into the bathroom to make his phone call. Zach pulls a chair over to the bedside and sits down, grabbing Willy’s hand. At this point he can’t hold back, lowering his head onto his hand and bed underneath it, as the tears start to break through.

 Mo makes his way over and puts his arm around Zach. Mitchy is suddenly reminded of his own boyfriend, Marty, being suddenly taken away from him when his plane crashed on his way back from the off-season, and starts tearing up. Tys pulls him into a hug and lets him cry into his shoulder. Everyone else in the crowded room just looks on solemnly.

 Zach stays at the hospital for three days. Initially Tavey steps up as captain and visits them first, bringing Zach food each day so he’d remember to actually eat. Everyone else visits in their own time.

 After the third day Zach returns to practice, something to hopefully take his mind off of what’s going on. It works well enough, returning to drills and playing on the first line for games. Focus. Focus on something else. The team. The game. Getting that puck into the net. Focus.

 It’s been three weeks since that cold morning. Zach’s thoughts are composed enough now, and they’re in the middle of a game at home. He’s in a face-off when he sees Kyle entering the player bench on the phone, they’ve been discussing different trade opportunities lately- a Marlie or two for a player from one of the other teams- so he doesn’t think much of it. When the play ends though to an off-side, he calls a timeout. Yeah, they’re losing 5-2, but they’re still in the second period, so they shouldn’t need it yet right?

 But when they all come together, there’s no whiteboards, no iPads, no talk of plays or strategies. Keefe seems to have lost his tongue, shuffling in place, so Kyle speaks up.

 “He’s gone. William. He’s gone.”

 It’s dead silent on the bench, aside from the few who had dropped what they were holding, and Zach’s world seemed to be crashing down along with them.

 “It was about four minutes ago, I had just got off the phone with the doctors. We um, we’ve decided to forfeit the game; I don’t think any of you wants to continue playing now.”

 Nobody seems to have the strength to respond. But they all stand up and make their way down the tunnel to the locker room while Kyle radios to the staff to forfeit, and block all media personnel from the Leafs’ sections of the building. When they’ve all dressed and make their way to the parking garage Zach is the first person to even say a word since Kyle told them.

 “Morgan, can you drive me home? I can’t really think straight.”

 He agrees and, and he’s not exactly wrong. At the moment everything is just noise, bright and blurry colours, and the cold air; he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between 60 km/h or 150 km/h, or a red light on an intersection with a car coming from the other direction. Not to mention the fact he couldn’t bring himself to drive in their car, knowing Willy would never be in the passenger seat again.

 When they get to Zach’s apartment, he fumbles with the keys to get the door open. But seeing their home, *his* home now, makes his stomach churn. He bolts nearly through the bathroom door and pukes his guts out in the toilet. Composing himself, he gets himself back up and washes his mouth out in the sink, as his mind becomes a tempest of emotions: anger, frustration, despair, guilt.

 As he looks in the mirror, the anger takes over and he punches the glass with his hand, cracking it, and drawing blood from his knuckles before he collapses against the wall, bending his legs towards him and crying. The sound of breaking glass had Mo rushing over to see what happened, only to see the shattered reflections, and his teammate in tears on the floor.

 “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay,” he bends down and then notices the blood, “shit, we better fix that.”

 Having been to their place enough times, Mo knew his way around, and so he dug through the cabinet to find the first aid kit. First examining the hand, then grabbing the tweezers to pull out the remnant shards of glass. Switching to a piece of cloth and wetting it with alcohol, he cleans the wound. It draws a sharp, pained breath from Zach.

 “Sorry, I know this probably hurts like hell,” once it’s cleaned, he wraps it tightly.

 He manages to get Zach ready enough for bed and sits on the couch, figuring he should probably stay and keep an eye on him for a while. Meanwhile Zach tries to sleep, but his thoughts are racing. He’s gone. William. He’s gone. - I love you Zachy. That’s the last thing I ever heard him say… and I can’t ever hear his voice again, or see that smile of his, the deepness of his eyes, his- his- his fucking laugh that could brighten an entire room. - Why wasn’t I there… Why- why him? Why do bad things happen to good people? It- it should’ve been me, not him, never him. I- I can’t- I’ll never be able to feel his touch again, never be able to hold him- I- I-… his thoughts trail off, and he’s whisked away to sleep.

 In the morning the tears are gone. There aren’t any left. Period. In its wake is just emptiness. A void which can’t be filled. Mo had made breakfast for them by the time Zach got out of the bedroom. They eat in near silence, Mo tries several times to say something, but can’t find the right words to say. All he can think of is “I’m sorry,” which the only response he gets is Zach looking up at him before looking back at the food.

 That night, he tries drinking his problems away. Forget. Just forget. It works for a while, but it always comes flooding back in the morning. The time they visited Niagara Falls with the team, when they were on the Ferris wheel together, the first time they kissed literally during a game, moving in together when his lease on the last place ended, all their date nights, the stroke-- he stopped. What was the point if it was only temporary.

 The funeral services had been arranged by Tavey and Kyle, it was an extremely private ceremony, attended by teammates and the bereaved family. Zach was quite visibly a wreck, but no one was really much better. It had shaken up everyone, he was more important to everyone than they had even realized. Zach managed to speak in basic Swedish that he learned from Willy to his family. David [Pastrnak] also showed up to mourn, on the verge of quitting his career in hockey- he just lost one of his oldest friends.

 Within the week, a joint statement was released by Kyle and Keefe about the death, to a shocked nation. Everywhere, from Los Angeles to Halifax, or Vancouver to Miami, almost every major city in Canada was pouring in support and remembrance. Everywhere Zach went, he would see some calibre of remembrance on a poster, billboard, or bus- a constant reminder, He’s gone.

 Cigarettes was the next thing he tried, but to no avail. He had felt the exact same as before after one, and so he threw the rest back into a drawer to be forgotten.

 The team had taken nearly a month away from playing, but had gotten back to it. But it wasn’t the same. You lose a player they’re usually either traded or retired. Their place in the lineup or their stall in the locker room would be changed out, but they’d still be around, just not under the same colours. Not this time. No team would ever have him again. The players just keep moving forward, it’s all they can do, but the thought always lingers in the back of their minds.

 Mo didn’t intend to, but he effectively moved in with Zach until he thought it was fine for him to be alone, besides Gards would keep their place up until then. It never really improved though. Zach would just go through the motions. Get up, eat, practice, sleep. Get up, eat, play, sleep. Repeat. He could definitely still score, and help the team, but the celebrations never had the same feeling. There was always someone missing that would never come back, and be on the ice, be on the lineup. Life had started to lose it’s luster, and nothing changed that. Get up, eat, practice, sleep. Get up, eat, play, sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

 Time didn’t seem to have a meaning anymore either. It could be seconds, days, weeks, or months, Zach couldn’t tell the difference. It was always the same cold, dark world that it was yesterday. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. He’s gone. He’s fucking gone.

 Was there any emotion left? No one knew. Everyone was consoling each other, but Mo, he didn’t know how to help. He’d never lost someone that close to him, Gards was there and waiting for him to come home. He did what he could, but even before starting to talk to a therapist he could see Zach was a husk of what he used to be. Everything was cold. Cold and dark, all of it a blur.

 Mo was already asleep on the couch, and Zach in bed when the city’s power grid failed and plunged the Greater Toronto Area into darkness. Zach walked out of the bedroom and through to the veranda, and sat on the railing. He looked up. Stars. It felt like eons since he last saw them. There’s something. A memory. Faint, but still there. Willy. When they both joined the Leafs in 2016, Zach was lost. It was a new place, new people, new everything. Willy was one of the first people he met. Willy had been to and from Toronto so many times as a kid with his father, he knew the area well. One of the first things they did together was drive out to a spot Willy would always go to. Since he was a kid, there was always this one place outside the city he would go to. It was a secluded little clearing where at night you could see the stars above. They had become friends quickly after that. It felt like centuries ago now though.

 Zach can’t feel anything anymore. He could be falling, but he doesn’t know. He swears he could hear someone calling his name, but it seems so far away and distorted. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes to check, everything is cold and dark, and the world around him is the same, there’s no point to. I love you Zachy. I love you too Willy. He feels like he hears that being said again, but it’s coming from everywhere, and nowhere. Then, nothing. Oddly, it becomes warm, warmth he hasn’t felt in who knows how long it’s been now. He feels something touch him. It’s familiar, yet completely foreign.

 “Zach.”

 Willy. Zach actually has the willpower to open his eyes now. Willy is pulling him up. He feels oddly weightless, and disorientated. He’s on the sidewalk. He tries to look behind to where he was but Willy holds his head with his hand and stops him.

 “Don’t.”

 He stops. By now he notices they’re both hovering off the ground.

 “Are we dead?”

 “Afraid so.”

 Willy moves over to the side of Zach and holds his hand as they both float away.

 “Where are we going?”

 “I don’t know, but I waited for you. Wherever it is, we’ll find out together.”

 “I love you honey.”

 “I love you too, forever and always.”

[deepweboutlxws]

Familiar Sight (Drabble)

// I wrote this Drabble to develop and kind of show the relationship between Lucas and Michael. While it started out as just a professional relationship encouraged by their mutual employer, Adam, and while Lucas initially didn’t like Michael at all and found his attempts to be friendly bothersome and pathetic, over time, they did end up talking a bit and actually ended up becoming pretty good friends because they have very similar backgrounds and similar interests. But this story goes a bit deeper and focuses more on Michael’s side of it, and Michael’s perception of his relationships not just with Lucas, but with most of the people he knows— and the issues that stem tie into those relationships.

// That being said, this story contains a dark plot. Because it’s going on 2AM and I’m motivated to write angst. Please look in the tags before reading. Enjoy!

_____________

Driving along through a quieter part of Buffalo, Michael couldn’t help but smile as Lucas’ temporary base of operations came into view. It was a modest size home with a fairly large backyard, white picket fencing guarding the perimeter and garnished by vines of catmint that reached purple-petaled fingers through bars of wood and curled upward around the freshly painted surface. Early summer weather yielded bounties of bleeding hearts that bloomed around the edges of the large front deck of the house, creeping slowly up the porch and painting the well-swept wood with purple and white. Hardy geraniums lined the stone walkway up to the front door, complemented by coral bells that grew in the gaps of the deck steps up to the elevated porch. In the yard, clusters of clover and dandelions were beginning to take root, white puffed heads nudged by the cool breeze that blew by. Michael pulled up his mask, giving a bittersweet smile to the plants in the yard. How he wished he could smell them— he would have betted that Lucas was right when he said the air smelled so clean and fresh here. If only he didn’t have a pollen allergy.

As he climbed up the steps, he took the time to wipe his boots off on the welcome mat at the front door. He paused, tensing up for a moment. Something didn’t feel right. Something felt off. Incredibly off. But he could quite place what. His hand rose to knock on the door, but his fingers hesitated to curl, leaving his wrist held up by some invisible balloon. Dangling. He blinked, hairless brows moving towards each other, creating a fissure in his brow line as deep as the growing concern that was slowly sinking downwards and forming a pit in his stomach. He tried to shake it off, but some hot-blooded feeling of dread washed over Michael as he wrapped his knuckles against the door. He called out, announcing himself to the resident hitman inside the building. No response.

That was pretty standard. For as long as he had known Lucas, he had never been the openly communicative type. Not verbally at least. Often he got more conversation out of texts and emails than words. But even knowing this, the silence Michael received did nothing for that looming sense that something was very, very wrong. He knocked again, calling out his friend’s name. Again, he got no response. He waited a moment, before trying the handle. Locked. Though he didn’t quite know what he was expecting of a man who’s business centered around the art of infiltration and security. Something in his right mind told him that he shouldn’t have done it, but from prior experience, Michael knew that was his gut’s way of telling him to act immediately; he pressed an ear against the door and his brows furrowed, eyes finding some blank placeholder on the ceiling above him to focus on as he concentrated on listening. Silence, more silence, and a whine. A dog’s whimper. He could hear an animal whimpering.

Something was terribly wrong and Michael knew it.

As quickly and as subtly as he could manage with a rising panic in his chest, he glanced around for any nosy neighbors standing out on their decks to witness the man emerging from his large white van and looking to inquire what his business in their neighborhood was. No nosy neighbors, no stray dog walkers, no one lurking about in the broad daylight of the lovely summer afternoon. He ran to the edge of the deck and jumped from the short ledge. His landing sent up a wave of dandelion seeds that scattered and danced in the wind around him as he took off, running through the yard and around the side of the house to where there was a fence gate. His mind didn’t focus on slowing down to properly undo the latch— rather, in a burst of adrenaline-fueled frenzy, he rushed towards the barrier and grabbed the rounded top of the short door, vaulting over it without hesitation. The metal latch clicked against itself briefly as if to protest the move but it was blocked out by the sound of wind rushing in Michael’s ears. He raced through the garden in the back, mind having only an ounce of sense within it to avoid trampling any of the fruits, vegetables, or herbs Lucas trying to raise and instead make a beeline to the back door using the neatly-kept path to the back porch. Long legs closed the distance between one end of the garden and the back door in seconds, and after a short hop, he found himself at Lucas’ back door fervently twisting and pulling on the handle to let himself in. The door shook violently on its hinges but did not give: locked.

Furiously, the Breather warped the wire mesh of the screen door, fists stretching the material to make contact with the glass door just past it. He yelled for Lucas to let him in. He pleaded for Lucas to answer him, harping until his lungs burned and he was forced to relent, slumping over with his hands on his knees as he strained to catch what little breath he could. There was shifting from within the house that temporarily made him hold in the air he so desperately craved. A moment passed, and suddenly a head popped out of the doggie door at the bottom of the barrier he’d been so desperate to get past just seconds ago. A large muzzle sniffed at the air before the rest of the Great Dane’s head followed suit. The dog and Michael made eye contact, both seeming to share some common feeling of desperation and anxiety, as the of quickly began whining at the sight of him and scratching at the door, attempting to get its foot through the door clearly too small for its noggin, much less the rest of it. After a moment it pulled back. Michael hesitated, before sinking to his knees and reaching forward. A dithery hand cautiously made its way towards the doggy door flaps. It was made for a large dog. Not quite Great Dane size, but a large breed all the same. Upon raising it to peek inside, Michael saw the same dog staring at him. He could see a service dog vest on it as it stood there, looking away at something, before slowly blinking and looking at him. It barked once, then again. It ran out of sight behind a wall and then peered back around the corner, looking at him. It was trying to tell him something. It was trying to get him to follow.

“How.” He muttered to himself. With these two doors together, he couldn’t possibly kick it in. Suddenly, he looked at the edges of the doggy door, then at himself. Would it be possible for him to squeeze through? There was only one way to find out. The make stuck his head in through the flap, grunting as he hunched his shoulders together in an attempt to get them through. Hands made it through the gap easily enough. Now it was just a matter of getting the rest of himself through. The edges of the hole dug into his ribs, then his sides, squeezing and causing him to whimper and pause to catch his breath. The sound of claws tapping against the ground did not register, but just as he was about to give up, Mike felt his hood rise off of his head and something strong pulling at his jacket. The dog had a hold on his clothing and was attempting to pull him inside. He sucked in a breath, trying to suck in his gut with the air and dug sweaty palms into the floorboards, working with the mutt to get himself inside. With one final tug, he pulled his legs through the gap and tried to sit for a moment so he could catch his breath. The service dog was having none of it though and nearly dragged him around the corner. Try as he might to tell the pet off, he could not find his feet as he was pulled along. When it finally did let go, he noticed three other dogs. An expression of puzzlement turned to shock and horror as he saw what they were crowded around and whimpering at.

Lucas was laying face down on his kitchen floor. Michael scrambled towards him, gently nudging the dogs aside and slowly rolling him over onto his back. He was unconscious and unresponsive. He looked a mess, clean white shirt disheveled and wrinkled, dress pants hanging askew off of his hip. Thick streams of drool ran down his chin and cheeks. He reeked of vomit. Upon examination, he couldn’t hear him breathing. His eyes were bloodshot and completely unresponsive to light. Michael could feel his own eyes beginning to well up with tears as he progressively began mumbling louder and louder to himself with each check, praying and begging to God for mercy for Lucas. His chest quivered, breaths barely controlled as the urge to sob formed lead bubbles in his chest. It was contained only by a sharp gasp when he brought his fingers up to Lucas’ neck. There, he felt it. Soft, faint, but rapidly beating was his pulse.

There was still a chance.

Without missing a beat, Michael dialed the hospital and declared an emergency. He called for an ambulance and tried his best to give a report of what had happened and what he was doing while holding back tears. Of sorrow or joy, he could not tell. All he could focus on was keeping Lucas alive until the ambulance arrived. The dogs circling him only exacerbated the sense of anxiety he felt as he performed CPR on his friend, begging him between compressions and breaths to stay with Michael, to not go yet. He tried to ask him what was wrong, he tried to ask why he was doing this, he begged and pleaded and sobbed for him not to leave him alone. He tried to get a response out of him for twenty minutes before the flashing red and white lights of the ambulance appeared outside. Help was there, but Michael just couldn’t bring himself to stop. Perhaps it was a feeling of dedication to a patient, perhaps it was because Lucas was his friend. Or perhaps it because he refused to feel insecure and helpless and be just a bystander in someone else’s suffering again.

Whatever the reason, they had to pry him off of Lucas and forcefully pull him out of the ambulance to get him to stop so they could take over, and Michael screamed the whole time. The tears finally broke the dams of professionalism and control behind his eyes, forming rivers on his pale cheeks as a group of strangers carried away someone he cared about once again.

[prettyboiiharringrove]

#3) What about some Harringrove “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” (was anyone else obsessed with this show on TLC)

( alpha/beta/omega masterlist ) 

boy was i ever. my favorite part is that the actors for the reenactment never looked like the actual people. It was amazing television, so chaotic and confusing and great, and if you haven’t seen is there’s full episodes on youtube, please join us on this wild ride. 

also i don’t know if you’ve ever seen the night shift but i’m basing the doctor in this off of tc and the nurse off kenny because i feel like they’d have a good vibe. honestly actually everyone from the night shift would just take in billy and be like must protec and if neil showed up talking shit literally EVERYONE would be ready to square up thanks now i need this completely unlikely and irrelevant crossover i legit have ideas for it but like no one would be into it lolol

lol y’all got two show recs before i even got to the ‘good’ stuff, finally filling your request darlin. let it be known this could have gone a lot darker but i tried to keep it as angst with a semi happy ending (but also with a where the fuck could this go vibe because i just love to do that to y’all) so please enjoy

also i know you didn’t ask for it but i did teen billy just because like idk it’s what was speaking to me so i hope that’s okay 

back at it again with my fav omega son

 😱 😱 😱 

The most surprising part of all of this is that Nancyfucking Wheeler’s the one that convinces him to go to the hospital. The love ofhis life’s shitty ex and newly appointed best fucking friend, the main sourceof all his jealousy, not including his nagging insecurity, is the one thatdrags him to the car and drives him to the emergency room.

Billy and Steve hadbeen in a fight, still are actually, which means that his stupid fuckingfriends were sent to check on him. He still hangs out with Tommy and Carol, andthey’ve kind of made up with Steve for his sake, so it isn’t that bad when they’reasking fucking questions, even though they never really cared, but when fuckingWheeler and Byers are in his goddamn business, it pisses him off.

He’s sitting on thefloor in front of his locker, curled up into a ball as he tries to bite backthe pain pulsing through him, uncaring of the fact that he’s blocking at leasttwo lockers that don’t belong to him.

“Fuck off Wheeler,” hegroans when he sees her tiny little feet standing in front of him. He’s kind ofpissed off that he can recognize her without looking at her stupid pretty fuckingface.

She crouches down toglare at him, every inch of her 5’4” frame giving off judgement and impatience.She clearly doesn’t want to deal with his shit. Good, she’s equally as unhappyabout these little interactions then.

“Steve’s worried,” shetells him, as if he doesn’t already fucking know, as if he hasn’t been dealingwith these fucking cramps for the last three days, as if he hasn’t wanted tocurl up in Steve’s lap since he woke up at four in the morning sobbing becausehe was in so much fucking pain.

“Good for him,” hetries to sound angry, but Nancy sees right through him. She rolls her eyes. Howthe hell she deals with high school boys and their bullshit on a daily basis,she’ll never know.

“You look like crap.”

“You sure know how tomake a guy feel special,” he huffs out a laugh but then he’s doubling over,cradling his stomach as tears burn in his eyes.

“You should go to adoctor,” she sighs, looking sympathetic. Funny, Billy never thought he’d seethat look directed towards him.

“I’ve had worse,” hebarks.

Fucking liar. If heweren’t in so much pain, he’d probably wonder when his conscience started usingSteve’s voice to get to him. As if to prove a point, his stomach and back startpulsing, and he can’t hold back the whimper that bubbles up from his throat.

When her eyes go wide,he can’t help the pang of worry that he feels in his gut. Nancy Wheeler is veryrarely ever surprised or scared, or rather she does a very good job of hidingit. The only person that locks away worry and suffering better is Billyhimself.

“You’re bleeding,” shewhispers, her tone unsettling.

“So, I probablyscratched a scab open, or walked into something, shit happens,” Neil pushes himinto the brick of their fireplace at least once a week, twice this week, it wouldn’tsurprise him if he got cut; he hardly notices when it happens anymore.

“No, look at yourpants,” Nancy’s gone pale, so he takes a while to look down. He’s already inpain, he’d like to live in blissful ignorance for just one moment longer.Eventually, he glances down, his pants wet with both blood and some otherfluid. He hadn’t even noticed, he was in so much pain.

“Shit,” Billy’strembling now, both from pain and fear. That’s never happened before.  Pain so hard to handle that’s he’s in a heapon the floor, that’s happened before, not to this caliber, but it’s happened.Blood leaking through the crotch of his jeans though, that’s completely new.

“Come on, I’m takingyou to the hospital,” she’s already moving to help him up, and when her handgoes under his armpit to keep him stable, he realizes she’s surprisinglystrong. She probably would have had him up in an instant if he were being evena little cooperative.

“Can’t,” he doesn’ttry and say he’s fine, knows she’ll call him out on his bullshit, but there’sno part of him that is stupid enough to think that blood changes anything. Ifhe goes to the hospital and they see all the cuts and bruises, he’s dead.

“Stop being a child,get up,” she scolds him, tugging on his arm once again. He jerks it away, histemper firing back up despite his pain.

“You’re not fuckinglistening. I can’t go,” he tellsher. He moves to get up himself, to stand and walk the opposite direction, butall he manages to do is crawl less than a foot away before he’s practically sprawledout on the floor, leaning on his backpack. “He’ll kill me.”

Nancy furrows herbrow. She’s not stupid, but he’s always been pretty good at hiding this, andSteve wouldn’t rat him out, not even when they’re fighting. She sighs, noddingin understanding when the gears stop turning. So, she knows his secret now,great.

“Yeah, well if we stayhere, you might be dead anyways. Come on,” she’s gentler now, moreunderstanding, but she’s still forceful. There’s no room for argument, and atthis point Billy’s trying his best to stay conscious and keep himself frombiting his fucking tongue off, it hurts so badly; he doesn’t have any fightleft in him.

He’s not sure how theymake it outside, she’s practically dragging him, and he thinks they run intothe lockers a few times. He vaguely remembers her stealing his keys and shovinghim in the passenger’s seat; it reminds him of the few times he’d beenarrested, the way she cradles his head so he doesn’t hit it and slams the dooronce he’s in. If he were more himself he’d mouth off to her about being morefucking gentle with his baby.

He blacks out on hisway to the hospital.

———————————

He comes to in a room, apparently blood, random body fluids,and being unconscious speeds up the wait time. He’s got an IV in his arm andthe sterile smell is making him sick to his stomach. It’s too familiar, remindshim of the last time he saw his mom and it burns.

He thinks what woke him up was the prick of a needle,considering he sees a nurse stepping away with a small vile of his blood. He’snot quite sure, because the sting of the needle is nothing in comparison to thecramping that’s been coming and going all day.

“Tell me you didn’t call my dad,” are the first words out ofhis mouth, desperate and pleading. He doesn’t care about who answers, just whatthe answer is.

“Your girlfriend told us not to. It’s not usually what we’ddo, but considering all your injuries, we figured that’d be the best decision,called social services and the chief instead,” the nurse tells him.

He doesn’t argue with him about the girlfriend comment,although he would never be caught dead dating her. He doesn’t have the time tocare, not when another sharp pain hits him in his abdomen.

He almost misses the scoff that helps him realize Nancy isstill there with him. He’s kind of appreciative for a second before he realizesit’s all for Steve’s benefit, and then he becomes distracted as he realizeswhat the nurse had said. Everyone’s been called and Neil is going to rip himapart.

“Fuck,” he chokes out as he struggles to breathe. He doesn’thave panic attacks often, and these days when he does Steve’s there to talk himthrough it. A nurse looking at him as he hyperventilates, telling him to calmdown isn’t helping, especially not when his stomach is cramping so badly he’scontemplating finding a scalpel to rip himself open, and he has to count downthe minutes until his dad finds out and slaughters him.

“I’m dead, I’m so fuckingdead. He’s gonna kill me because you assholescouldn’t keep your m—” he cuts himself off with a yelp; at least the pain isdistracting enough to have him biting down on his lip and holding his breath.It doesn’t put a full stop to his panic attack, but it does get him breathingnormal again.

The nurse takes his yelling and general shitty attitude instride, and Billy kind of really hates him for it, because he would very muchlike it if he wasn’t the only one suffering. “Sorry kid, I know it sucks, butwe can’t give you anything stronger than some Tylenol until we know what’swrong with you.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you suck?” Billy croaks out,clutching at his abdomen. Nancy makes an offended squeak, as if she expectedhim to have more manners and is hoping the nurse doesn’t take Billy’s attitudeas a representation of her own. Honestly, who the hell does she think she’swith right now ??

“All the time, part of the job,” the nurse answers with asweet smile, and Billy would probably have a crush on the guy if thecircumstances were different.

“No seriously, if I didn’t think I was gonna be dead by theend of the day, I’d spend like an entire fucking hour telling you just howfucking horrible you are, like I want to like you, but you really really suck dude.”

“No one’s letting you die,” he sighs, almost like he kind ofwants Billy to like him. Billy thinks he sees some glimmer in his eye, like heplans to win him over; he kind of wishes he would have the time to. He’swishing for a lot of things in this moment, for pain meds, for everyone toleave before his dad gets here, for them to believe him when he lies about thebruises, for Steve, oh god does he want Steve.

“Doesn’t matter if you let me or not, I’m screwed,” Billysays it more to himself, but he doesn’t miss the nurse pausing in the doorwayas if he were contemplating saying something; he probably couldn’t think ofanything comforting so he moved on. Billy thinks he made the right call,because there are absolute zero words that can make him feel any better rightnow.

He chances a glance at Nancy, who is just looking at himwith concern and disappointment as she sits awkwardly in a hard plastic chairagainst the wall. He doesn’t say anything to her, wants her to be at leastuncomfortable if he has to be miserable.

———————————

This doctor strolls into the room with a chart and Billy hasnever been so upset to see someone that fucking gorgeous. Of course they’d sendin a fucking supermodel to take care of him on the absolute worst day of his life.Does everyone in this goddamn hospital have to be so pretty ??

“Please tell me I’m dying,” the doctor laughs, probablythinking Billy is joking, but he would much rather die in that hospital bedthan at the hands of Neil Hargrove.

“Heard you’re complaining of stomach cramps and vaginal bleeding.”

“Complaining makes it sound like I’m being fucking dramatic,and trust me I’m not. I get the shit kicked outta me all the time, so trust mewhen I say this shit is fucking miserable.”

“You get in a lot of fights?” the doc questions with a glintin his eye, and Billy notices that the guy’s got a split lip and bruised cheekof his own. He wonders if he sees some of himself in Billy. If they’re anythingalike, Billy feels sorry for the guy.

“Something like that,” Billy shrugs, not in the mood forsmall talk. He just wants to get out of here. If they leave him alone longenough he can walk out before people start asking all the right questions andmaybe Neil will go easy on him.

“Well, if it’s alright with you, we’re gonna do an ultrasoundand a pelvic exam, make sure you’re not dying after all.”

“Trust me, doesn’t matter what you find, I’m a dead manwalking, but sure, do whatever you fucking want if it makes you happy,” it’snot like his body’s ever belonged to him, he might as well let them poke andprod, maybe alleviate the pain so he can have a few minutes of peace beforeNeil rips into him.

———————————

“Well I’ll be damned,” the doctor says as he pulls away fromBilly, letting him drop his legs back down into a more comfortable position andcover himself up with his gown and the blanket. “You didn’t think it might havebeen a good idea to tell us you’re pregnant?”

“What? I’m not,” Billy answers as he looks at this fuckingquack. Pregnant ?? He would have fucking noticed. If he was, how far along ??If it’s hurting this badly something must be terribly wrong. His desperatelonging for Steve hits again, knowing there’s not a damn person in that roomthat can comfort him the way he needs.

“Kid, I know you’re probably scared, you’re what, sixteen ??I get it, but no one here’s gonna judge you. You have to be honest with us.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he barksout, unable to even accept this information. This guy has to be fucking insane.

“You’re in labor and you’re telling me you had no idea aboutthis baby?”

In labor. Okay, no, this guy has to be messing with him.That, or he’s fucking insane.

“Look doc, I appreciate a good joke as much as the next guybut I’d really appreciate it if you stuck to your fucking day job right now andfigured out what the fuck is wrong with me because that’s not possible.”

“You tellin’ me you’re a virgin ?? Never had sex before, noteven once ??” the doctor looks at Billy with a raised brow and a smirk. Billywants to punch the look right off his face. The most annoying part is he’dprobably like the guy if he wasn’t in this particular situation.

“Well, no obviously I fucking have, I’m not a nun,” he rollshis eyes, falling back on the pillows.

“So there’s a chance you could be pregnant ??”

“I’m on fucking birth control, and I think I would havenoticed if I was pregnant, I mean do I look—”

“Doesn’t matter how you look.Birth control isn’t a guaranteed deal. It decreases your chances significantlybut it’s not one hundred percent. Sorry kid, but it’s not just a maybe, you’repregnant and that kid’s coming tonight.”

“Fuck me,” Billy groans, leaning back onto the bed andjamming his eyes shut. If he closes them and waits long enough to open them,this nightmare will be over.

“Looks like someone’s already beat me to it,” the doctorsays with a smirk and Billy lifts his leg to try and kick him since the guy’sstanding by the foot of the bed. He can’t quite reach him, and the stretchfucking hurts, but the nurse behind him smacks him upside the head and callshim an asshole. Okay, so maybe the nurse is a pretty good guy after all.

Normally Billy would have a comeback ready, but this timehe’s gripping the metal railing so hard his knuckles have gone white.

“I can’t do this,” Billy’s shaking again, pain and terrorovertaking him as his breathing becomes shallow. Nancy moves from her placeagainst the wall, desperate to think of anything that could get him to calmdown. “I can’t fucking do this. Where the fuck is he ?? I can’t, fuck, I can’t,” he’s hyperventilating now, andat least the doctor has wiped that stupid look off his face.

“Listen, you need to breathe, alright ?? We can help you,but this isn’t going to get you anywhere, it’s just gonna make things worse foryou and your baby, so you need to calm down.”

“Easy…for you…to say,” Billy struggles between breaths, hisargumentative nature never faltering, even as every good thing he’s built upfor himself comes crumbling down on top of him.

“I called Steve. He should be here any minute. It’s gonna beokay,” Nancy tells him, speaking for the first time since he’s woken up. Whythe fuck is she even still here ?? Billy can’t stand her, but the more hethinks about her leaving, the more he realizes he hates the idea.

“None of this is okay,” he argues as he bites back tears,but his breathing finally starts to settle at the thought of Steve. He closeshis eyes, forcing a few deep breaths, and he thinks he hears his doctoroffering up gentle praises for getting his breathing under control, but hecan’t really keep up because he’s not so patiently waiting on Steve while hetries to concentrate on not screaming due to what he now knows are labor pains.

———————————

Billy doesn’t really pay attention to anything anyone has tosay until they’re trying to move him to labor and delivery and Steve’s stillnot fucking there.

“I can’t, I can’t go yet,” Nancy’s never heard Billy sodesperate, and she’s sure she’s never seen him cry. “Wheeler, tell them, tellthem I need him, please, Nancy please!!”

The contractions are getting closer together, and apparentlythere’s a huge fucking chance for complications since he didn’t do any prenatalcare, there’s not much time and he needs to get up there, but if he’s desperateenough to ask Nancy for help, then they both know he can’t go anywhere untilSteve’s by his side.

“Five minutes, come on, just give me five minutes and if he’snot here you can take him,” Nancy and Billy are both looking at the nurses anddoctor with big pleading eyes, and they must be the most charming pair in the entire county,because the group reluctantly agrees.

“Five minutes,” the doctor tells her sternly, and Nancy doesn’twaste any time, heading towards the hallway to try and get cell reception tocall Steve again.

She starts to dial him only to see Steve barreling in, shoessqueaking as he practically slides down the corridor. Social services goes tostop him, although Hopper just rolls his eyes and is happy to let him by.

“He’s the father !! Let him through !!” Nancy yells, and the overdressedjudgmental strangers let him squeeze on by.

“Hey Nance,” Steve answers, panting as he’s hunched over,hands gripping tightly to his knees as he tries to catch his breath. “Wait…father?!!”

“Steve?!” Billy hears his voice, and Nancy decides thatinstead of answering, she’s just going to push Steve into the room to seeBilly, because their five minutes are slowly dwindling down and they can walkand talk.

“Daddy dearest I presume?” the doctor answers with a smirkand Billy, who still has tears in his eyes, groans in both aggravation andpain.

“Can someone please tell him he’s not funny ??”

“Sorry kid, we’ve tried, he just doesn’t learn,” the nurseshrugs, and Billy’s decided that if that nurse leaves his side he’s going tolose his shit.

“Took you fucking long enough,” Billy sighs when he finallyturns to address Steve.

“I’m sorry, someone said father, is no one gonna tell mewhat the fuck is going on ?!!”

“Oh, right. Your boyfriend’s in labor and you’re the dad.Congrats,” the doctor nods and when he’s met with several glares he almostlooks offended. “What ?! Someone had to tell him, and we don’t exactly havetime to draw it out. Rip the fucking band-aid.”

“Your bedside manner is shit,” at least three people saysomething similar, but Billy only has time to hear himself before he turns toSteve, who is a carbon copy of Billy about an hour go, when he was given thesame news. “Steve, baby, I know this sucksand like you can totally be pissed at me later for screwing your life up butcan you just, can you wait until this is over to have your meltdown? I really need you right now.”

“What? Oh, yeah, yeah,”Steve has several thoughts floating around in his head, like how he’s a fewhours from being a dad, maybe less, how he would never blame Billy for this, howhe loves him, how maybe this isn’t actually a bad thing, but his vocabulary isvery fucking limited as he tries to cope with the shock of it all, so he justnods stupidly and doesn’t even notice when the doctor snorts out a laugh.

“Thanks,” Billy croaks, shyly reaching for his hand, unsureif he’s still allowed to touch Steve after dumping this whole mess at his feet.Steve accepts it without question, squeezes it in a comforting gesture, andBilly thinks that despite the pain, he can do this. He can face death so longas Steve still loves him, so long as Steve gets their baby and Neil never getsclose to them.

———————————

Billy spends an hour and a half gripping Steve’s hand sotightly that at one point Steve thinks it might be fucking broken, until heloses circulation in it completely, and then there’s relief as he hearsscreeching, as his daughter is placed on Billy’s chest and he looks at her babyblue eyes and little tufts of hair and loses himself.

Billy finds himself missing the other doctor when the onethat delivered his daughter tells him that this is the easiest labor she’s seenin a while; he has half a mind to rip out her uterus and ask her how she feels.

Billy finds himself daydreaming as Steve climbs into the bedwith him. He rests against Steve and cradles their little girl in his arms andjust pretends, for a moment, that they could be happy. He knows eventually he’llhave to accept reality, that social services and the police are going to wantto talk to him about all the bumps and bruises only for his hope to fallthrough the cracks and Neil to drag him home and beat him bloody, but as hesits in the blissful silence, he lets himself be happy.

“She’s perfect,” Steve whispers and a single tear slips downBilly’s face as his daydream is interrupted.

“I can’t take her home Steve, she won’t be safe,” his voice ishoarse, but his conviction is strong. He needs Steve to hear him.

“What do you mean?”

“You have to promise you’ll take care of her, please, justpromise me,” he begs, holding her closer to his chest, enjoying what littletime he may have with her.

“I’ll always take care of her baby, I’m gonna take care ofboth of you,” Steve tells him, and god does Billy wish he could find comfort inthat.

“He’s gonna kill me, the second he finds out, I’m dead and Ican’t…I can’t let him hurt her too.”

“No one’s hurting anyone,” Steve sighs, leaning in closerand kissing Billy’s temple. “I’m not going to let him hurt you ever again.”

“You don’t know that, don’t make a promise you can’t keep,”he argues, but he finds himself leaning into Steve’s embrace, trying andfailing to fight the hope bubbling up in his chest.

“You’re not going home with him,” Steve says it with suchdetermination that Billy finds himself believing it.

It’s the truth, Steve won’t let them take him, he knowsthat, and even if it’s only their truth for the next ten minutes, he will baskin those ten minutes and hope for a future that may never come, because nomatter what happens to him, their little girl will always be safe in SteveHarrington’s arms.  

[themutantunderground]

Come Running Back Ch. 3

John's brother James is in town. With a tendency toward recklessness, that means his visit starts off with a bang. John and Clarice have to rescue James and his injured girlfriend Alison Blaire, aka Dazzler, after they attack an Atlanta anti-mutant shipping magnate, starting a whole new round of problems for the Underground. Never a dull moment when James is around...

Ao3 | FF.net

Mentions of blood and needles...

The smell of blood was overwhelming. James was covered, streaks of dark red down his arms, smudged over his cheek and neck, a stain across his chest. None of it his. It was smeared on the door, the frame, and now John's wrist.

John pulled away from James' grip and rushed over to the table where Alison was laying, propped up on one elbow and dull lights flickering in the air above her. The lights faded when she sunk back down as John stepped up to the table, his hand automatically applying pressure to the gunshot wound. She winced and weakly jerked to the side, but she looked up at him with blue eyes he recognized from pictures James had sent.

"Hi, John," she said faintly, "Not exactly how I was hoping to officially meet…but hi."

"Hey, Ali. I have to agree." It was hard to pair that bright and happy 'hey, jerk, tell John and Clarice I said hi!' voice in the background of his and James' phone conversations with the faded girl on the table.

"She got shot, I've been trying to stop the bleeding, but—" James fumbled the rest of what he was going to say as he reached over and grabbed Ali's hand. James looked up at John with such desperation that John forgot about being furious at him for the moment. He shoved his anger into the back of his mind, compartmentalizing, and focused on keeping Ali alive. He had some rudimentary medical skills from his time in the Marines, stuff that would help out in life and death situations like this one.

"Cecilia said she'll meet us back at HQ," Clarice said as she hurried over, stopping at John's elbow. A flash of shock crossed her face at the sight of Ali, but she quickly masked it and grabbed the girl's other hand. "Hey, you. You know we would've come to see you guys without you getting hurt, right?"

Ali gave a pained smile. "Yeah." She was starting to struggle to breathe, each breath sucked in through gritted teeth.

"Can't your doctor come here?" James said, "We can't move Ali, she's…" It was bad, but he didn't want to say that. He didn't have to, both of them could tell just by looking at her. "We can't move her."

"Make him go," Ali said, her hand gripping Clarice's, her eyes dull. "Can't stay."

"Would you stop already, I'm not leaving you here," James said, his anger rushing up to mask his helplessness. "So just—stop."

"You're both coming with us," Clarice said firmly, "None of us are staying here, so quit arguing about it."

"Ali, I'm going to take a look at this…" John said, lifting the cloth away from her wound for a moment so he could get a better idea of what was going on. He had seen gut shots like this before on the battlefield and also while out trying to protect mutants, and they were never good. There were too many vital organs that could've gotten nicked or pierced, and she was losing too much blood and her pulse was weak and rapid. She was going to go into shock soon if he didn't figure something out.

She might go into shock no matter what he tried. She was already starting to show the signs. Even as he took her pulse, Ali's eyes fluttered and closed.

"No, come on, baby…" James pressed his hand to her cheek and then shook her shoulder, his panicked brown eyes locking on John. "She did this earlier, she'll wake up again."

John put the towel back in place and applied pressure. "We're going to have to take the chance," he said, "We have to get her back to Cecilia."

"No," James snapped.

"James, look, if we stay, if she stays—"

"She'll bleed out and die if we move her. So no."

This was ridiculous, he was going to get them both killed. "What are you going to do, fight off a whole Sentinel squad by yourself? What about the spider drones?" It was surprising that they hadn't already sent out those drones, but maybe James had crushed them all.

Clarice cut in, probably recognizing the stubborn look on James' face as an identical copy to John's own expression. "She's not going to bleed out, I'm O negative and we brought a transfusion kit because we thought ahead." Unlike some people was the silent implication, but she wasn't going to scold him now either. She looked at James pointedly. "But we have to get to the van first so we can go."

James scowled and then looked back at John. "Fine."

"Pick her up, I'll keep pressure," John said before turning toward Clarice. Before he could even ask, she was already tearing a portal in the air. Through it, he could hear the very first faint, far off wails of the police sirens. James hear it too, and his head jerked up.

"Six cars," he said, "Three are Sentinel Services." The sound on those was slightly different, higher-pitched than a regular police car. Plus, they were heavier, their prisoner areas reinforced to transport people with powers.

"Move," John said, and James immediately lifted Ali off the table. They hurried through the portal and Clarice jumped after them, racing to get to the driver's seat while James and John climbed into the back. The van had been fitted out a long time ago to help them pick up and transport injured mutants, so there was a medical exam table bolted down to the back. They had scavenged it from a junkyard months ago, back when Cecilia joined the team.

"I'll drive," James said, his hand landing on Clarice's shoulder as she climbed into the driver's seat.

"I've got this," Clarice said, pulling the door shut.

"No, if you have to do a blood transfusion, I need to drive." He looked back at John and Ali anxiously before turning back toward Clarice. "C'mon, Clarice, you know it makes sense."

"You're going to be distracted."

"No shit, we're all distracted," he said, earning him a glare from John for talking to Clarice like that when she was trying to help.

But Clarice took it in stride. "I know, but are you sure you can focus on the road? It's not going to do us any good if we get smeared on the pavement."

"I've got good reflexes. This gives me something to do," James said, "I need to do something, Clarice."

John knew that feeling. It always seemed like he and James were so different, but on things like that, they were just the same. If their positions were swapped, if Clarice was the one injured, he would've wanted to do something to help, too.

Clarice nodded and got out of the seat while James slid into it, both of them maneuvering around each other. In the back, John worked quickly, strapping Ali in for safety and setting up an IV as James started the van. Clarice stumbled as James took off too fast, and John reached out to steady her, leaving a bloody hand print on her arm. She grabbed his elbow so she could get her balance and then stepped to his side.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked, taking Ali's hand again.

"Talk to her, try to get her to wake up," he said. He was worried about the blue tinge on Ali's lips, and he wondered if they had resupplied the oxygen tank after that last emergency trip. But first, he needed to get fluids and blood into her. She was going into what Cecilia would call hypovolemic shock, and if he didn't get that under control, she could start going into organ failure.

"Hey, Ali, I need you to open your eyes," Clarice said while John opened the transfusion kit. "You know, I heard John say that heavy metal was better than electro pop. He's got the trashiest taste in music, so what does he know? You should help me insult his music." She rubbed Ali's arm, trying to get her to wake up. "Ali?"

Up front, James took a corner too quickly, and John had to shuffle his feet to keep his balance. He looked at James in the mirror before going back to prepping Ali's arm. "Does Clarice need to drive?"

"Sorry," James said, "Did she wake up?"

"No, now pay attention to the road," John said. He knew that was harsh, but they each had a job to do here, and James had chosen to drive. John slid one needle into Ali's arm and then held out a hand to Clarice. She extended an arm, and he swabbed it with alcohol before looking her in the eyes. She met his gaze and nodded, and he jabbed the needle as carefully as he could into her arm.

This was going to be an awful ride.

[rootindiahealthcare]

Deadly germs; lost Cures! Urinary Tract Infections Affect Millions. The Cures Are Faltering.

Deadly germs; lost Cures!   Urinary Tract Infections Affect Millions. The Cures Are Faltering. As the contamination become progressively impervious to anti-infection agents; some standard medications never again work for an infirmity that was once effectively relieved.

Dr. Lee Riley of the University of California, Berkeley, has been concentrating anti-microbial safe strains of E. coli, which can cause urinary tract contaminations. "We've associated perhaps some with these U.T.I. cases might be sustenance borne," he said. For ages, urinary tract contaminations, one of the world's most normal infirmities, have been effectively and immediately restored with a basic course of anti-infection agents. Be that as it may, there is developing proof that the contaminations, which beset a large number of Americans a year. Generally ladies, are progressively impervious to these drugs, transforming a once-normal finding into one that is prompting more hospitalizations, graver ailments and delayed uneasiness from the unbearable consuming vibe that the disease brings. The New York City Department of Health has turned out to be so worried about medication safe UTI's. As they are generally known, that it presented another cell phone application. This month that gives specialists and attendants access to a rundown of strains of urinary tract contaminations and which medications they are impervious to. The division's exploration found that 33% of uncomplicated urinary tract diseases brought about by E. coli — the most well-known sort now — were impervious to Bactrim, one of the most broadly utilized medications, and at any rate one fifth of them were impervious to five other basic medicines. "This is insane. This is stunning," said Lance Price, chief of the Antibiotic Resistance Action Center at George Washington University, who was not engaged with the examination. The medication ampicillin, when a backbone for treating the contaminations, has been deserted as a highest quality level in light of the fact that numerous strains of U.T.I.s are impervious to it. Some urinary tract diseases currently require treatment with rock solid intravenous anti-microbials. Specialists a year ago detailed in an investigation that 33% of all U.T.I.s in Britain are impervious to "key anti-infection agents." Positively, the everyday experience of having a U.T.I. is becoming less daily practice for some ladies. Carolina Barcelos, 38, a postdoctoral specialist in Berkeley, Calif., said she had a few U.T.I.s as a young person, all effectively treated with Bactrim. When she got one in February, her primary care physician likewise recommended Bactrim, yet this time it didn't work. After four days, she returned and got another medicine, for a medication called nitrofurantoin. It didn't work either. Her torment declined, and a few days after the fact, there was blood in her pee. Her primary care physician endorsed a third medication, ciproflaxacin, the remainder of the three noteworthy bleeding edge meds, and refined her pee. The way of life demonstrated her contamination was powerless to the new medication, however not the other two. "Next time," Dr. Barcelos stated, "I will request that they complete a culture immediately. For eight days I was taking anti-infection agents that weren't working for me." Typically, it is individuals with debilitated insusceptible frameworks or constant ailments who are most helpless against medication safe contaminations, however U.T.I.s have a questionable refinement: They are the single greatest hazard to sound individuals from medication safe germs. Protection from anti-infection agents has turned out to be one of the world's most squeezing medical problems. Abuse of the medications in people and domesticated animals has made germs create barriers to endure, rendering a developing number of drugs insufficient in treating a wide scope of diseases — a wonder that is playing out worldwide with U.T.I.s. The World Health Organization, while taking note of that information on urinary tract contaminations and medication opposition is "rare," said the reality the diseases were so basic unequivocally proposed that expanding obstruction would prompt increasingly extreme ailments and fatalities. The arrangement, analysts and clinicians state, incorporates a proceeded with push for progressively reasonable utilization of anti-infection agents around the world. Yet, more promptly, a fractional arrangement would be the improvement of snappy, shabby symptomatic devices that would permit a moment pee culture with the goal that a specialist could recommend the correct medication for U.T.I.s. Carolina Barcelos had a urinary tract contamination not long ago. Neither of the initial two medications she took made a difference. "For eight days I was taking anti-infection agents that weren't working for me," she said. In any case, regardless of whether to hold up the few days it normally takes to get lab results before recommending presents an extreme problem for specialists and patients, who regularly are urgent for alleviation. Besides, contingent upon an individual's protection, getting a culture can be costly. For the most part specialists still don't structure a pee culture before endorsing an anti-toxin. "In the past times, the rundown of anti-infection alternatives was short yet all things considered they would all work," said Dr. James Johnson, an irresistible illness educator and driving analyst on urinary tract contaminations at the University of Minnesota. A few ladies have U.T.I.s that the body wards off individually without utilizing anti-toxins, while other ladies may have an alternate low-level illness that feels like a U.T.I., however isn't. The most secure course is to see a specialist and settle on an educated choice that incorporates a reasonable assurance of whether anti-infection agents are justified. The science does not bolster the viability of some well known cures like cranberry juice or cranberry pills. 'Gay,' 'Femme,' 'Nonbinary': How Identity Shaped the Lives of These 10 New Yorkers Authorities from the government Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said that U.T.I.s obtained by generally sound individuals were a developing concern and one inadequately contemplated. They are not followed broadly. In more seasoned individuals, urinary tract contaminations can be destructive, yet following in the United States is feeble to the point that there are no dependable gauges on the quantities of passings identified with the diseases. The C.D.C. distributed a gauge of 13,000 every year, except that figure originates from a paper taking a gander at 2002 information and alludes just to U.T.I.s obtained in medical clinics. Dr. Clifford McDonald, partner chief for science in the division of human services quality advancement at the C.D.C., said the administration wanted to grow its examination. "In the event that we don't accomplish something soon," Dr. McDonald stated, "it will push every one of our medicines to further developed anti-microbials that at long last put a great deal of weight on the last-line medications." What makes these diseases so perilous, and ordinary, is human life structures. In ladies, the urethra — the entryway to the urinary tract — is in closeness to the rectum. This can prompt simple exchange of microorganisms in fecal buildup that generally dwells innocuously in the gut. In conceptive years, ladies are multiple times almost certain than men to have a urinary tract disease; sometime down the road, the proportion drops to 2 to 1, as men end up having surgeries on their prostate, or catheters, that all the more effectively uncover their urinary tracts to contamination. There are various germs that reason U.T.I.s, and their obstruction levels to medications shift both by strain and by where a patient lives. By a wide margin the most well-known reason for U.T.I.s today is E. coli, and, all in all, those diseases have seen sharp ascents in protection from highest quality level medications over the previous decade and a half. Dr. Eva Raphael, an essential consideration doctor at San Francisco General Hospital, said one of her patients came back to the crisis room after a medication safe U.T.I. spread to her kidney. "It makes me wonder what the world resembled for ladies before anti-infection agents, and marvel in case we're going to see that now," she said. New research demonstrates that one urgent way of exchange of germs that reason U.T.I.s is sustenance, frequently poultry. The expended poultry ends up in an individual's gut and can get moved through fecal buildup to the urethra. An investigation distributed a year ago by the American Society of Microbiology, supported halfway by the C.D.C., discovered 12 strains of E. coli in poultry that coordinated broadly circling urinary tract disease strains. One of the investigation's creators, Dr. Lee Riley, a teacher of the study of disease transmission and irresistible sicknesses at the University of California, Berkeley, said he was chipping away at a C.D.C.- supported venture to decide if the urinary tract contamination should be ordered and announced as a sustenance borne ailment. Dr. Brad Frazee, a crisis room specialist at Highland Hospital in Oakland, Calif., has been a co-creator of research that includes another disturbing wrinkle: Increasingly, E. coli is demonstrating safe to singular anti-microbials, yet in addition to a general gathering of medications known as beta-lactam anti-toxins. These medications share a method for assaulting disease, and when a germ creates protection from this strategy for assault, it kills a few key treatment choices at the same time. As of late, a lady conveying such opposition appeared at Dr. Frazee's medical clinic, he said. She ended up with pyelonephritis, a disease in the kidney, and must be treated in the emergency clinic intravenously with a medication called ertapenem that can cost $1,000 a portion. An examination found that around 5 percent of U.T.I.s at the emergency clinic conveyed this opposition. Specialists are currently going up against instances of safe urinary tract contaminations in their practices. Dr. Eva Raphael, an essential consideration doctor in San Francisco, as of late gotten notice that one of her patients, a sound lady in her mid-30s, was back in the crisis stay with another U.T.I. that was impervious to various anti-microbials. One of her earlier U.T.I.s had neglected to react to two generally utilized medications and had spread to her kidney, expecting hospitalization to get intravenous anti-infection agents. This time Dr. Raphael counseled with irresistible malady pros. "It very well may be very perilous in this age where there is increasingly more opposition," she stated, taking note of that without viable treatment the disease can get into the blood. "It very well may be deadly." Read the full article

[sumit76652-blog]

Laxatives Market - Global Industry Insights, Trends, Outlook, and Opportunity Analysis, 2018 –2026

Laxatives are chemical substances that are helpful in increasing stool motility and bowel movement, and are thus, used to treat and/or prevent constipation. Increasing incidences of medical disorders such as eating disorders where laxatives are overused and increasing incidences of constipation for which laxatives are primarily used for treatment may lead to increased consumption of laxatives, and hence, can result in laxatives market growth. Exceeding the prescribed dose of laxatives leads to various health complications such as chronic constipation, diarrhea, dehydration, and blood in the stool. In spite of this, laxative abuse is rather common. According to a study published in National Center for Biotechnology Information (NCBI) in 2010, people abusing laxatives can be categorized into four groups. The largest group constitutes individuals suffering from eating disorders such as anorexia or bulimia, and prevalence of abuse in this group ranges from 10% to 60%, according to the same study. The remaining three categories are - individuals who began using laxatives when constipated but didn’t after getting better; individuals who are involved in sports activities such as weight lifting, and surreptitious laxative abusers. .

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Increasing incidence of constipation is expected to drive laxatives market growth

Constipation is one of the most frequently diagnosed gastrointestinal disorders globally. However, incidence rates vary by region. According to a report published by Canadian Digestive Health Foundation in 2014, 1 out of 4 people living in Canada recorded to have symptoms of constipation in 2014. Chronic constipation rates for women were almost twice as high as for men in Canada.

Increasing incidence of constipation were also recorded in other developed economies such as the U.S. and UK. According to a report published by Coloplast—a global leading player in ostomy care, urology and continence care, and wound and skin care, 1 in 7 adults were affected by constipation during 2014 - 2015 in the UK. The condition was even worse for children, wherein 1 in 3 were affected by constipation during 2014-2015.

The scenario is similar in emerging economies such as India, Brazil, and China. According to Abbott Gut-Health Survey, around 14% of the urban population in India suffered from chronic constipation in 2015. As these people are living in urban area where access to healthcare services is rapidly improving, the number of diagnosed patient will increase which in turn will result in laxatives market expansion.  

Increasing incidence of eating disorders and increasing availability of over-the-counter laxatives are expected to drive market growth

Developed economies such as the U.S, UK, Australia, and Germany have witnessed continuous rise in incidence of eating disorders. A report commissioned by Beat in 2015, estimated that over 725,000 people were affected by the disease in UK. According to South Carolina Department of Mental Health (DMH) around 8 million people, including seven million women and one million men in the U.S. were recorded suffering from an eating disorder, in 2015. .

Patients suffering from eating disorders are more likely to overuse laxatives. Also, laxatives as over-the-counter (OTC) drugs, have influenced in the excessive overuse. This overuse of laxatives has significantly contributed to growth of the laxatives market.

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Negligence and/or unwillingness among patients to talk to doctor about constipation has limited the growth of laxatives market

Majority of the people suffering from constipation are embarrassed to consult their general practitioner (GP) regarding constipation, even in developed economies such as the UK. According to the study released by Coloplast in 2015, around 1 in 5 (i.e. 20%) people in UK, reportedly felt embarrassed to talk to their GP about constipation. This has resulted in underreporting of the people suffering from this condition.

Majority of the population, especially in rural areas of emerging economies such as India, do not feel the need to consult a doctor for constipation. This negligence is due to lack of literacy, low accessibility to healthcare facilities, low per capita income, and higher self-medication practices in such regions. This has proven to be detrimental to growth of the laxatives market, as people who really require laxatives for treatment are not actually taking it.

Key companies operating in the global laxatives market include AstraZeneca plc, Boehringer Ingelheim GmbH, Bayer AG, GlaxoSmithKline plc, Abbott Laboratories, Takeda Pharmaceutical Company Ltd, Teva Pharmaceutical Industries Ltd., Mylan N.V., and Purdue Pharma L.P.

Global Laxatives Market Taxonomy:

By Drug Type:

Bulk-forming Agents

Emollients (Stool Softeners)

Lubricating Agents

Stimulating Agents

Hyperosmotic Agents

Saline Laxative Agents

Chloride Channel Activators

Others

By Availability:

Over-the-counter (OTC)

Prescription

By Drug Type:

Generic

Branded

By Route of Administration:

Oral

Rectal

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Also, Coherent Market Insights has a proprietary database of pipeline biologics and biosimilars, called PHASE-XS. This database provides analytical data in addition to the clinical information of ongoing trials for biologics and biosimilars. An amalgamation of more than 30 parameters, PHASE-XS helps biotechnology and pharmaceutical companies to analyze the market trend, competition, and market potential. For more information or to access this database, kindly click on the below link or contact at sales@coherentmarketinsights.com

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[cajunquandary]

House of the Rising Sun

Characters: Sam, Dean, Hunter!Reader

Warnings: Canon level violence, poltergeist activity, angst

Word Count: 5300

Summary: Sam and Dean run into another hunter while working a case at a haunted house in New Orleans when they get trapped. With time working against them, they are surprised to discover the deep history of the house and the nature of its inhabitants and are forced to make a hard call.

A/N: House of the Rising Sun is an old folksong and many people have done covers of it, but The Animals did my favorite version. It’s one of my top three favorite songs. While listening to it a few days ago, the ideas for this fic came flooding to me. I hope you enjoy it! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2oKRKZnEoA

The doors of the Impala squeaked open as Sam and Dean slowly emerged, not once taking their eyes off of the two-story Victorian beauty that stood before them. While her many layers of paint were chipped and falling from her like snow every time the wind blew, her boards moaning in protest, some spindles and a few bricks missing here and there, she still stood tall and magnificent. Sam wondered what she’d looked like in full glory back in her day, knowing that the smudgy black and white photo clippings from news articles hadn’t done her justice. Dean shivered involuntarily when his eyes followed her dips and curves to the big golden sun amulet suspended on the second story balcony, and the weathered sign dangling from it that said “Rising Sun Casino.”

As massive as the home was, it was a blip compared to the giant casinos the boys had passed on their drive down. The neighborhood around her was just as empty, most just lots with mangled foundations where businesses and houses once stood. Chain link fences and trash littered the area, and grass grew in patches, thick and full, but not near the house. No—the entire acre was nothing but red clay and black dirt. The house itself bleached from its former vibrant blue, purple, and yellow to a white-washed gray, except for the golden amulet. Somehow, it seemed to glow, possibly even vibrate if you stared hard enough.

“Dean… maybe we should get back up.”

“What, Sammy, afraid of a few ghosts?”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, who had broken his eerie concentration and began to gather the necessary tools. “I’m just not so sure we should be doing this alone. We don’t know how many ghosts are in there, or how old and angry they are. You know like a hundred people or more have died here?”

“Yeah, yeah. You gave me the speech already. Prostitutes, gamblers, drunks, a few unlucky city workers, etcetera etcetera.”

“Not just that, but weird things have been happening here since it was made into a casino a century ago. Before that, it was a plantation home.”

“I get it Sam. Hey,” Dean slammed the trunk closed, arms full of extra salt and the usual duffle bag. “The other hunter should be here. She called and asked for help, so we’re her backup. What was her name?”

Sam helped take some of the boxes from Dean’s arms before they all toppled over. “Y/N, I think.”

“Yeah, Y/N should be here already. That’s probably her car.” Dean nodded towards the little diesel Volkswagen, grimacing slightly at the shape it was in. Sure, maybe it ran, but one of the tires was newly flat and the windshield was nearly shattered, not to mention the various dents on the body and missing front bumper. He glanced back towards the Impala lovingly, “I’d never treat you like that, Baby.”

Sam turned on his EMF reader, and they slowly approached the porch, watching all the windows that weren’t boarded up carefully as the last rays of the day shot through the shadows behind them.

“Here we go. Remember, the city is coming in to attempt demolition again. Last time, the entire crew was slaughtered. We have to get this done, and we only have three days.”

Dean eyed his brother cockily. “I’ll do it in one.”

The EMF reader went wild, the air around the boys dropping suddenly. The floorboards of the porch groaned beneath them angrily and the house seemed to move on its own. Just as they were fumbling for the salt guns, everything stopped as quickly as it’d begun. Sam swallowed hard and Dean flinched as you spun around the corner and stood in the doorway, facing them.

“Well don’t stand there all day, get in here, Winchester!” You put your hands on your hips in irritation, oblivious to the previous drop in temperature and quaking. You’d been in the house for a few days already and were in absolutely NO mood for tomfoolery, dried blood on your face and arms from wounds sustained during the stay so far. “And you can put that EMF reader away, the place is crawling with Death-Echoes and possibly a poltergeist.”

Sam and Dean, wide-eyed and worried, stepped over the threshold. Dean asked if you were okay, but you shrugged him away with a cold “I’m fine.” Sam tried to shake the feeling of hopelessness and dread that washed over him. There was no doubt that this place was evil—the boys knew real evil, and some of it was here with them in this house.

There is a house in New Orleans

They call the rising sun

And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God, I know I’m one

 Day One

The three sat huddled around the small flame in the grand fireplace at the center of the house, a salt circle around them. “Man, you couldn’t pack anything better than tuna?” Dean griped at Sam, sniffing the can suspiciously and pouting.

“You’re lucky I packed anything at all.”

“Well, we’ve been here for eight hours already, the sun’s gonna be up soon, and I haven’t seen a single ghost! EMF is still going crazy though. I’m hungry and bored, man.”

Dean offered you the can of tuna, but you held up your hand and graciously passed. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

Sam scooped the last of his can into his mouth, chewing twice and swallowing. “So what got you started hunting, Y/N? You’re pretty young.”

My mother was a tailor

She sewed my new blue jeans

My father was a gamblin man

Down in New Orleans

 “I’m twenty two, thanks, and I’ve got the soul of an old man. My mom was a teacher, and my dad was in the air force, both for thirty years. A vamp got them downtown one day after an anniversary trip to a casino. My sister and I got out, but my sister went into the system and I lost her, she wouldn’t talk to me anymore. Somehow their deaths were my fault. She needed someone to blame, and I was convenient. I chased the truth though, and here I am. She’s off at some fancy college now, and that’s where she should stay. She deserves a life.”

Dean looked to Sam, the guilt there he felt for dragging Sam back into the life evident even though he knew it would’ve happened anyway. “So where were the death echoes? What were they?”

“A few were service ladies here and there, murdered by their bosses and clients. A few others were gamblers gutted over debts, servants beaten to death, a few hung themselves in their rooms, you know, a normal spattering considering the history of this place.”

“And you said there might be a poltergeist?”

“Possibly, I think there is one seriously pissed off Egyptian ghost trapping everyone here. There are so many… sometimes it’s quiet, but others… it’s like hundreds of them all at once.” You remembered back to the first time you’d seen them. It had come all at once—one, two, four, twenty, two hundred, maybe more. This truly was one of the most haunted places you’d ever seen in your hunting career. Caught off guard by the sheer immensity of the moment, you’d been thrown backwards by an invisible force, hitting your head hard enough to pass out after a moment more of watching the echoes, vision blurring to black. When you’d come to, you’d called for back-up, the number Garth had left you for “just in case” some years ago. Your head pounded the whole time, and it was a wonder your message had been audible at all through the slurs of pain. Not but an hour later, you’d attempted to get to your feet when the echoes began again, this time with your iron rounds loaded and ready to take out the invisible ghost that’d thrown you. You aimed the direction it had come from before, shooting when the air began to whip around you. The force didn’t even flinch, and you looked around in horror as you realized that the force filled the entire house, radiating from every wall, door, window, floor, and ceiling. You went flying again, dragged all the way to the basement and tossed against the damp stone wall. It was there that you laid still and silent, hiding until you heard the Impala roll up.

Sam brought you back to the present. “Egyptian? Does it have something to do with the amulet outside? It looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out where it’s from.”

You sighed, pulling your legs in closer, careful not to disturb the salt line. “It’s the amulet of Akhenaten, or originally, Amenhotep IV. He was an Egyptian pharaoh who ruled for seventeen years, known for abandoning many traditional views like polytheism and introduced worship around Aten, a solar deity who was supposed to bring great bounty.”

Dean scooched closer to the fire, the light reflecting beautifully off of his face and casting curious shadows across his eyes. “I take it not many people liked that.”

“That’s an understatement. They tore down his monuments, destroyed everything he’d done and built. All of his symbols and legacies. It’s rumored that he sold his soul to have the power of a god. He wanted to strike down his enemies, make them suffer. He lost his mind though, and I think he is still linked to the amulet outside. The problem is, every time anyone has tried to steal, vandalize, move, or adjust it, they die. Instantly. It’s made of pure gold, so many have tried.”

Dean nodded along, muttering a sarcastic “Great.”

Sam actually looked somewhat excited. “That’s cool! We’ve never come across an Egyptian pharaoh. How do we get to the amulet, though? If Akhenaten has become a poltergeist, does it matter? Is he keeping the ghosts here? Because there’s no mentions of hauntings until that amulet got here.”

“I think he is. I mean, they destroyed everything he worked for, he just wants attention. I haven’t seen him, but—“

Dean interrupted, “Wait, wait, wait. Poltergeists are attached to places where big evil has manifested, right? Like old demons? So what? Were the ‘ladies’ here summoning demons?”

“It’s possible, Dean. The people who came here were desperate, they came hoping for better lives but only found corruption, pain, and death—sin and misery. There’s no telling what could’ve gone down under this roof.”

As if on que, the fire flickered nearly out, causing Dean to jump back in concern. Sam whipped his head around, searching for the source. The three of you slowly got to your feet as the salt circle around you dissipated, seeming to melt into the floorboards. You gulped hard, the Winchesters already shouldering their shotguns. Just as it’d happened before, the death echoes appeared. One, two, four, twenty, two hundred. “Get ready!” You shouted over the growing din. You sunk back behind the large men, already in fear of what was to come. The wind in the room picked up, whipping the jacket around you, the boys shooting into the fray wildly, reloading faster than you knew anyone could. You were flying through the air again, the invisible force tearing at you violently and you screamed, struggling as it whipped you from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and down the hall and to the basement.

When you woke, the sun was shining through the cracks in the boards on the windows. Carefully, you picked your way up the stairs back to the first level of the house, then up to the second, where Sam and Dean were trying desperately to break open the windows, doors, walls, anything to get outside.

“What’s wrong?” Your voice was small, quivering.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean exploded, sending the iron crowbar flying across the room until it lodged into the wall only inches from your head.

“Dean! Watch it! You nearly killed me!”

“We’re trapped. There’s no way out. How the hell are we supposed to kill this thing?”

“Well, if we could get one of the death echoes to realize that it’s dead, release it from its cycle, but convince it to destroy itself and attack the poltergeist, maybe. But even then, it might take several echoes to be strong enough to do it.” Sam looked exasperated, leaning against the wall and staring up at the ceiling that seemed all too close now.

“That’s not a bad idea, Sam. Tonight, let’s stir them up and see what we can do,” You offered, but Sam never looked up. Dean walked towards you and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” as he pulled the iron from the wall.

You smiled at him, unable to remain angry. You were far too tired for that. Soon, the boys were leaning together in a corner of the room, weapons across their laps at the ready, powering down for a nap before the sun set. Dean gasped and tensed, looking just over your shoulder, and you jumped to follow his gaze.

“What?!” You startled.

“I thought I saw something.” Dean shrugged it off.

Sam traded a sad look with his brother, and offered to stay up. Dean obliged, knowing that the best way to protect Sammy was when he’d had at least a few minutes of shut eye. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake here.

“Sam, I’ll stay up and keep watch. You guys get some rest, I think I got enough earlier. Get some sleep.” You settled down next to Sam, who began to shiver lightly, pulling his coat tighter around him. It wasn’t long before he was asleep as well, the brothers wrapped up in each other’s warmth.

Day Two

For nearly four hours, the house was silent, except for the occasional creaks and whispers of the old boards. The sun had set, and from what you could see outside, there wasn’t so much as a star in the sky. You could see nothing beyond your fingertips as you held them out. You struck a match and lit the old oil lamp close to you, not wanting to disturb the boys by reaching for their flashlights. What had happened to all your own gear? You couldn’t remember. No surprise really, after the beating you’d been through in the last few days.

Dean stirred with a gentle, tired moan with the illumination, and opened his eyes slowly at first, then wide when he looked at you. “Y/N…”

“What’s wrong, Dean? Are you okay?”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenching and eyes red-rimmed.

“Hey, I promise we’ll get out of here soon. Let’s try to talk to the echoes from here tonight, okay?” You tried to sound more reassuring than you’d felt, suddenly upset with yourself for bringing them into this and not leaving when you had the chance.

“I-I’m okay,” He whispered, amazement in his eyes. He gently shifted Sam from his shoulder to the wall and moved closer to you, his eyes not leaving you once. “How… How are you?”

“Alright, I guess. I got thrown pretty hard again. Honestly I’m surprised that my head doesn’t hurt as bad as it did the first time.”

“Why?”

“Why, what, Dean?”

“Why did you start hunting? I mean, I know why, but why did you keep going after you killed the vamp? You were so young…”

Now the only thing a gambler needs

Is a suitcase and a trunk

And the only time he’s satisfied

Is when he’s on a drunk

“Hey, I know I’m young but that doesn’t mean I’ll be doing this forever. I just wanted to help out around town. I had friends that needed help, then they had friends who did, too. I guess I just kinda got sucked into it. I’ve got plans though. I’d like to travel a little, I never have gotten out much. I don’t need any big life, just a little one. Me and the open road, fighting the bad guys. Yeah, I like that. Like you.” You gazed into the distance, eyes full of hope and longing. When you finally turned back to face him, Dean had a tear streak down his face.

“Trust me, that life ain’t nothin special.”

“Maybe not, but it’s better than what I’ve got here. I’ve always loved the open road, it’s the only time I’ve ever felt… satisfied, you know? I’ll fight anything any day, but I like to run, leave everything in the rearview. Just, bust into town, save the day, and out again.”

Dean just nodded grimly. From Garth’s description, the Winchesters seemed larger than life, maybe a little brooding, but mostly powerful, like they could take on anything and win without hardly breaking a sweat. To see the boys looking so small, so human, compared to the legends they were made to be put a dull ache in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t be hopeful of an escape.

“Sam. Sammy!” Dean shouted as the temperature dropped lower, enough now that he could see his breath in the air. It was mid-summer, so none of you had dressed for the frigid atmosphere of the house at all times of day. Really, it only ever seemed to get colder. Still, the drops were a reliable warning. Dean crawled quickly to his brother, shaking him awake. Sam gripped his gun and pulled it to the ready out of reflex, catching your gaze and holding it, a loud gasp leaving his lips as he looked around, clearing the rest of the room. “Sam, no…”

The brothers traded a look you couldn’t decipher and Dean tapped his temple and shook his head slowly, helping Sam to his feet. The room was still. Too still. You could hear the brother’s heartbeats, racing, as yours must be.

The echoes began, but this time, you and the Winchesters were able to release a few before the invisible force of Akhenaten found you. The boys were thrown first, Dean recovering more quickly than Sam, screaming above the noise, and you were flying through the air again, the boys chasing after you. Before you knew it, you were back in the main room, ashes from last night’s fire scattered and suspended like snow in the air. You fought back, but once again, the poltergeist got the better of you and threw you down the stairs to the basement.

It wasn’t long before you’d come back around, choking in the mustiness of the moldy room. Worried about the other hunters, you bolted up the stairs, searching for them in the usual places, but finding them locked in a bathroom on the first floor. You opened the heavy door and tried to step over the threshold, but something was keeping you at bay. Before you could think of why, Dean stepped forward, Sam right behind him.

Sam’s mouth was pressed in a tight line. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine! Would y’all quit asking me that? I’m more worried about you two. Garth gave me the impression that you knew what you were doing and could handle a tricky situation like this.”

“Trust me sweetheart, there’s not much that could’ve prepared us for this.” Dean pushed past you, ever careful not to touch you, as you’d made it pretty clear you didn’t want to be touched in the first five minutes of meeting them. Now though, you almost craved the touch. When was the last time you’d been warm? When was the last time you’d had some human contact? Surely it’d been weeks. Maybe you could steal a lean at some point. Something—anything—to ground you and remind you of the warm world waiting for you outside those doors. Somewhere beyond this House of the Rising Sun was the sun rising and spreading its heat, and oh, how you longed for it, more than food, water, or anything you’d ever craved, you craved that.

You sighed, lost in thought, the boys already back in the main room, voices raising in argument. Curious, you resigned and followed. Sam stopped mid-sentence, unable to continue in your presence.

Oh Mother, tell your children

Not to do what I have done

Spend your lives in sin and misery

In the house of the Rising Sun

Dean turned towards you, nothing but hurt and anger in his eyes. “You want to fight monsters?”

“I do fight monsters, Dean.” What was he getting at?

“You sure? Okay. Then you sure as hell better be willing to become one yourself, ‘cause you know what? At the end of the day, somebody gets eaten. Somebody dies. Me and Sam? We’ve both been monsters. We’ve both died. Several times. And you know, I’m not totally sure that I ever stopped being a monster. That’s what this life does to you. To everyone. There’s no escaping it, not really.”

He was almost nose to nose with you now, and you could smell the whiskey on his breath. He must have more than holy water in those canteens.

“Dean, I know! Y—“

“No, you don’t, Y/N… not really.” Sam’s quiet interjection drew your and Dean’s attention, and the tension dissipated into something more morose, thickening the air.

“What don’t I know, Sam?” You whispered, suddenly afraid of the answer.

“You’re a death echo, too. You’re a ghost.”

The air seemed too stale now, stifling. The room was too small and too big, too hot and too cold, too bright and too dark. “What do you mean? I don’t understand?”

Dean took a step toward you, but you jerked away from his touch. “Y/N… We found your body in the basement after the first day. You’ve been dead for a few days, your body was already cold and stiff by the time we arrived. You’re the reason the EMF is always going haywire.”

“No… no. You’re lying.” You shook your head, backing away slowly.

Dean continued softly, “Then, you disappeared after the first echo event we saw. You reappeared right before the second, but I could tell you didn’t know you were dead. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… We should have been here sooner. I should’ve driven faster. I didn’t know…”

Your voice sounded foreign and distant, “So all this time? When you threw the crowbar? You apologized for almost hitting me.”

Dean looked up then, knowing that you must have thought you were part of the conversation. “We couldn’t see you. I apologized because you died before I could save you.”

It was then you realized that in all the times you were thrown into the basement, never once had you looked down, never seen your pale, broken body crumpled and tossed to the side.

Day Three

“Okay. We’re going to destroy this thing. Let’s start in the basement.” You’d had a little while to try to come to terms with your predicament.

“Are you sure? Maybe you should stay up here while we dig around.” Sam shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“I can handle it. Besides, I’m probably the only one here who is fluent in old Egyptian hieroglyphs AND Cajun voodoo. You need me.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I used to do a lot of things,” You snapped.

“Okay, just don’t… ghost out on us.” Dean shouldered the bag of weapons and opened the door leading to the basement, flashlight at the ready to reach the edges where sunlight couldn’t. The brothers had tea tree oil dipped bandanas wrapped around their faces in preparation of the rancid smell of the lowest level of the house. If there was ever one true smell of death, this was it, the masks hardly able to make it bearable.

You tried to avoid looking at your remains, knowing that if you lingered too long, you would lose too much humanity and would be unable to complete your mission. And as your last, this was arguably the most important.

You nearly walked through Sam, making him shiver and jump slightly, but the boys’ eyes never left the wall. You followed their gaze to find old sigils, broken demon traps, but most of all, GET OUT written in what appeared to be your own blood. Even as disturbing as the image was, you couldn’t help but to scoff at the unoriginality of the threat. The brothers slowly turned to look at you, brows furrowed and Dean’s mouth slightly open, as he breathed “Really?” in response to your nonchalant reaction. You shrugged.

“What? I’m already dead. What do I have to fear?” You crossed your arms. You didn’t remember being this grumpy in life, but hey—you were freakin dead so who gives a damn? You wouldn’t be around long enough to become a vengeful spirit anyway, you all knew what had to be done. You had every right to be pissy and sarcastic.

While the house was largely void of any furniture or proof that people had ever actually lived or worked here, there were a few books still scattered about the basement, along with spell-casting ingredients, from feathers, bones, bowls, knives, and other nefarious items.

“Witches man,” Dean grumbled under his breath, beginning a rant that only he could hear.

Sam sighed and started flipping through one of the leather bound spell books. “Hey, get this, so they summoned demons here all the time to make deals, and even tried to put a leash on Akhenaten, often making sacrifices in his name.”

“Well that backfired.” Dean joined his brother’s side, eyes narrowed as he tried to see what Sam did. “And let me guess, when the sacrifices stopped, the angry dead king got pissed and started killing and trapping the souls here.”

You paced around the room, trying to remember the hieroglyphs of protection and purification. It only took a moment, and you picked up a small bowl and searched through the ingredients, finding sage, salt, griffin feather, and finally holy oil from Dean’s duffle.

You’d caught their attention and they watched you closely. You stood before them, not wanting to ask for the final ingredient. Sam nodded first, blinking hard and reaching for his knife, positioning it over his forearm. Dean grasped his hand, stopping Sam before he made the cut.

“I’ll do it.” Dean took his own knife and opened a vein into the bowl before Sam could protest.

“Thanks, Dean. I’d use my own, but… You know.” When there was enough of the foul mixture, you stood to begin destroying the current sigils and replacing them with new ones—some that would hopefully weaken the poltergeist enough for you to destroy it. You tried not to think about what might happen after the fight. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed; rather, it transforms from one form to another. You held onto this knowledge, hoping that there wasn’t just nothingness or pain on the other-other side.

The sun was beginning to set again.

The house was covered in sigils and protection symbols now, and lined with salt to keep anything from escaping. You stared at the Winchesters, drinking in their apparent strength and beauty. You wanted to memorize them, as they would be the last warm thing you’d ever know. You were quiet, locked within yourself, chest full of icy cement. Your eyes stung, but remained perfectly dry. The house was silent, air stale with the weight of your coming sacrifice in the room. No one wanted to talk about it. Dean had already made it clear that he would do anything else if he could, but understandably, protecting Sam was his priority, as well it should be. When Dean felt your eyes on him, he lifted to meet your gaze, eyes sunken and red rimmed from lack of sustenance and sleep. You knew the men were running on empty. You prayed that you’d be strong enough to beat this thing.

The moment the death echoes started, Sam jumped to his feet and slapped his bloody palm to the nearest sigil, dissipating the ghosts temporarily, along with you. You faded from their sight, but remained in the room, suddenly face to face with the pharaoh. You swallowed hard, taking one last glance at the Winchesters, who were looking all around, searching for the source of the wind that whipped about them. With a flick of his hand, the old king sent the men flying backwards. A deeper rage than you’d ever felt before ignited within you, and you surged towards the evil entity.

Well, I’ve got one foot on the platform

The other foot on the train

I’m going back to New Orleans

To wear that ball and chain

The Winchesters looked on in a heap on the floor together, arms over their faces as your bright white light spun twisted and neutralized the black wiry smoke of the poltergeist. The house quaked, dust and debris beginning to fall from the ceiling, pieces of wall collapsing. In one last violent shriek and flash of blinding light, everything was over. Even though it was the middle of the night, light from outside the house finally filtered through, illuminating the damage. The brothers helped each other to their unsteady feet, blinking and adjusting. They could hear the wind and crickets outside now. Dean ran to the front door and found that it had swung open. At last, they were free. Dean smiled then turned to look back at Sam.

Sam stood in awe, watching little orbs slowly find their way through the roof and on towards heaven, Dean joining in his wonder. You were gone, but your sacrifice freed hundreds. Dean wiped at the tear forming in his eye and patted his brother on the back. “Come on, Sammy, our work’s not done.”

Sam nodded, following Dean to the basement to collect your remains. Just as the sun crested on the horizon, Dean lit your pyre. The boys stood there just long enough to make sure you had a proper hunter’s funeral, then moved to leave. “Wait Dean.”

Sam pointed to the sun amulet. He ran back into the house and came out to the balcony, easily unhooking it from old weathered hooks that nearly crumbled in his hands. He planned on adding this to the Men of Letters inventory of possibly cursed objects and lost artifacts. The Impala growled to life below him, and he sprinted back to the car, knowing Dean would make him walk for a few miles if he didn’t hurry.

Sam jumped in Baby just as Dean put her in reverse. “Man, I never wanna come back here again. Let’s go get some grub and a bed. What say you, Sammy?”

Sam looked at the golden tablet in his hands. “Yeah, I’m pooped.”

Dean leaned over and turned up the radio, so ready to have some tunes after the ordeal. It was a familiar tune, and Dean began to back out of the driveway, slamming the brakes when he recognized it.

“Well there is a house in New Orleans

They call the rising sun

And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God, I know I’m one”

Dean and Sam both reached for the radio, racing to switch it off. They looked at each other and swallowed hard, then turned to catch the last glimpse of the dreadful house.

The House of the Rising Sun.

@supernatural-jackles @jensen-jarpad @wheresthekillswitch @aseasyasdeanspie @bummblebeeblue @nothin-after-79 @docharleythegeekqueen @fangirl-writing-fiction

[renaroo]

Double Time (1/24)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence Pairings: Tuckington, Chex Rating: T Synopsis: [Hero Time Sequel] After the events of Hero Time, the city and Blood Gulch are prepared for the true return of superheroes in a big way. But while Washington is attempting to adjust to a new relationship and a new living arrangement, the call of new heroes and a new mayor mean major changes for his professional life as well as his personal one. How will the balance of values fare when his new partners come to test everything he’s made of.

A/N: We are finally, finally back to this AU that has been the start of just so much in my fandom experience here with RvB. I adore this AU and while I needed the short break it’s fantastic to be back in the swing of things and getting back to the part of the story that captured so many people’s hearts to begin with: the relationship between our hero and our civilian. Hopefully everyone’s as ready for some high octane hero romance as I am!

I want to once again thank my collaborator and the just all around awesome artist @ashleystlawrence who helped inspire this AU as well as has provided just amazing artwork and costume designs throughout the installments. And also to @goodluckdetective for being a huge inspiration for this AU as well. This series is a labor of love dedicated to the inspiration of the two of them.

Startlingly Routine

Cities were never really quiet, and in that way, a hero who worked in a city was never really done. 

Washington wondered, somewhat idly, if that was the reason behind never exactly hearing about superheroes in the more sprawling wilds of rural country land, but he also supposed that a simple counterpoint was that heroes didn’t look nearly as cool prowling on tree limbs as they did on rooftops.

Clearly. 

He looked to the police scanner that Church had built him at the behest of Tucker and tuned into the several frequencies. Really, it was any wonder he was able to patrol without the little device on his wrist formerly -- it made finding trouble and being able to assist that much easier. 

And it had only been a few months since the entirety of the Blood Gulch Crew had entered into his never-completely-simple life. 

“Still nothing?” he asked the air around him, aggravation clear in his sigh. “Though, I suppose that’s better than something. By someone’s book.”

As a professional superhero, Wash knew that not every patrol was met with intrigue, but he was far from ready to call it a night either. 

Not until he checked in on his... work in progress. 

With an aggravated sigh, the catlike superhero began to change his patrol path and race instead toward the mechanic’s shop where his second longest rehabilitation attempt was stationed.

The Red Dead Blood Gulch Gang had long been operating out of Lopez’s garage -- their mechanic the ever befuddled and seemingly unhappy member given the unfortunate codename Brown. It was the kind of information which Wash would have given an arm and a leg to know when he was hunting down their crime patterns as the newly returned superhero Washington. 

Instead he gave them practically every other part of their body when he bounced off their hood and windshield.

For being a former criminal organization, even if did fancy itself to be more akin to Robin Hood than straight up debauchery, the Reds were not a particularly intimidating bunch to drop in on.

Stealthily as he might have been, Washington couldn’t help but think that former criminals sitting around  a mechanic’s garage and drinking beer while the reminisced should have been at least a little aware of his presence. Then again, he was obviously giving the Reds far, far too much credit on nearly every account.

“What’s got Lopez all pinched up and pissed off?” Grif asked, throwing a used can toward the garbage and missing, earning an annoyed look from Simmons.

“I think that’s just his face, guys!” Donut stage whispered to them, using his arm that was still in a brace. Wash tried to take some solace in the fact that it was no longer a cast (there was little to be had).

“He’s turning blue on us, just wait!” Sarge howled. “He’s all in a pissy mood and whatnot because we scheduled this meeting for the Gang on one of his precious date nights with our newest getaway driver.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, old man, I’m still your driver!” Grif snapped.

“Probably until you actually start driving again,” Simmons said with a roll of his eye.

“Even so, Sheila hasn’t agreed to be the getaway driver,” Grif argued.

“Oh, she will be! Her time will come, and she will see what her true calling has been all along,” Sarge chuckled.

Lopez sat in the back corner, arms crossed angrily over his chest as he released a long, aggravated sigh but otherwise didn’t even contribute to the conversation.

“Believe me, Sarge, getaway driver is not a calling anyone feels happy to answer to,” Grif huffed.

Having heard more than enough, Washington stepped more fully into the garage and partially into the light, tilting his head. “Strictly speaking, if you’re not doing things illegally anymore, you wouldn’t be a getaway driver at all. Just a driver.”

Nearly all at once, the Reds jumped up in surprise, causing more spilled beer cans than Sarge would have ever allowed in his poker basement. A fact that it pained Wash to know after the time he was drug down there by Tucker for a way to ‘relax with the guys.’

“Wow! Wash! Don’t jump out of the shadows like that!” Donut cried out. “Makes people think you’re about to shake them down for information they don’t have or something!”

Incapable of escaping the flinch that caused him to make, Wash merely sighed. “I’ll make note of that for the future, Donut,” he offered before looking more specifically to Sarge. “But I did promise to make more casual drop ins to see how you guys were doing with keeping the neighborhoods safe instead of taking on the system. In… utterly counter productive ways.”

“Yeah, well, at least painting stoplights and getting back at dumb bakeries was fun,” Grif huffed. “People barely thank you when you work on improving the community. Stupid community. What the fuck has it ever done for us? Nothing. That’s why we became a badass gang to begin with.”

“So eloquent, Grif, no wonder you’ve not been moved up to leader of a mission yet,” Simmons scoffed.

“I know it’s a… difficult adjustment to make,” Wash offered. “But for what it’s worth—“

“Not a hell of a lot, son,” Sarge harrumphed.

“But for what it’s worth,” Wash pressed on, “I think together we’re actually doing something to improve Blood Gulch. I’ve been on the police scanner all night and I’ve not heard anything. That’s the second time this week we’ve had a quiet night.”

“Second time this week you and Tex have had a quiet night,” Simmons corrected.

“Yeah, you’ve still not had us helping out with the actual crime fighting stuff,” Donut whined. “When’s that going to get started? I’d love to start on that stuff! I mean, planting a new community garden and cleaning up the park are great—“

“No they’re not,” Grif retorted.

“But we thought recovering from former villainy would involve more hero-type stuff,” Donut explained with a wide smile.

Wash put his hands on his hips and forced a smile. “I’m afraid I can’t really force crime to happen. And if I could, I wouldn’t. It’s good for our city to have a downtick in dangerous activity. But as soon as we start having emergencies again, when heroes are needed, I’ll know when to call you… So long as your community service hours are being kept up on.” He squinted at them. “They are being kept up, aren’t they?”

The Reds all glanced to each other then back to Washington.

“Oh, yeaaaaah, sure, Wash! We’re right on those!” Donut called out in what was bound to be his least believable voice.

“No,” Lopez voiced.

“See! Even Lopez agrees about how well we’ve been doing!” Sarge chuckled.

Washington scowled. “No is still no even in Spanish. I understood him perfectly.”

“We’re fine, stop moaning and groaning about the number of hours we have left to our community service,” Grif huffed. “You’re literally the only person who cares.”

“Technically the law cares,” Wash reminded them.

“And we’re only a few hours behind our projected capita, Sir,” Simmons bit out nervously. “We’re good on them, promise!”

Wash sighed. “I know going straight is hard—“

“I’ve never even tried it!” Donut rang in almost instantly.

“Yeah, like you’d know the first thing about going straight,” Grif laughed at Wash’s face.

“You know what?” Washington sighed. “I’m just going to go home. Don’t forget to clock in your community service hours this week. I’m serious. It’s important that you do that.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Mister Fancy Pants in a new costume. All blue and disgusting — you should be ashamed of yourself,” Sarge grumbled.

“I’m far from it,” Wash said, heading out of the garage. “Seriously, keep up doing the good work and I wouldn’t have to pay you surprise visits.”

There was some garbled resentment, but Wash was far from caring about it.

With the Reds taken care of for the night, he was on his literal last stop of the night, and couldn’t be happier to finally get there.

Home was still a seemingly normal flat overtop a seemingly normal (because it was) laundromat. But behind such normal doors was security, protection, and — newly added — people waiting for him on the other side of it all.

Coming in through his bedroom window, Wash was at least a little disappointed that his room was empty. He never liked it when he kept people waiting, but living with said people had really made that gut reaction turn up to eleven.

Quickly dispensing with his patrol uniform, Wash changed into some boxers and a tee for comfort before going to the door and hoping that he was only keeping one person waiting instead of two.

In the main room, Tucker was preoccupied with a laptop and wearing pajama pants but not much else. Which, considering his usual bedroom attire, was a bonus, Wash supposed.

There was no Junior which meant the little quasi-alien was in bed and not waiting for the superhero role model to return home safely and give adventurous tales he could draw out and further cover the fridge with.

Standing in the doorway for a moment, Wash leaned against the frame and just looked at the sight set out before him. At his life — so different and new from what he had known just months before. And all because he had, by complete happenstance, ran into Tucker. Tucker and Junior and every remotely wild and obtuse friend and family that came along with them. From Reds to former evil geniuses to old not-so-dead fellow Freelancers, and landlords that Wash was more than happy to never deal with again.

It was all because of Tucker, and Wash’s heart swelled in his chest at the very thought of him.

That was, until Tucker happened to glance up from his laptop, get spooked and scream, and react by throwing a television remote Wash’s way.

Surprised, Wash moved out of the way and let the remote to the new television crash against the wall behind him and shatter. “Tucker! What the hell—“

“Wash!? What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you have to sneak up so quietly everywhere you go!?” Tucker cried out, bewildered. “If you were a cat I’d put a bell on you.”

Wash looked through the darkness at his partner and raised a brow. “Hilarious.”

“It’s not hilarious, it’s a valid threat,” Tucker said, sitting up on his knees and leaning over the back of the couch. “Any trouble tonight?”

Wash walked toward the couch. “Unfortunately no.”

“Unfortunately?” Tucker mocked. “I’ll never understand superheroes, I swear.”

“Unfortunately in that there won’t be a whole lot to tell Junior when he forces us both awake for breakfast in a few hours,” Wash said, leaning against the back of the couch, just inches from Tucker. “And for someone who will never understand superheroes, you’ve done a fairly decent job of getting together quite the crew of superhero tropes to surround yourself with over the years.”

Tucker shrugged passively, a smirk on his lips. “Eh, I’ve got my own power of magnetic personality. I just draw them all in.”

Tilting his head, Wash couldn’t help the fond smile across his face. “You certainly do,” he said. “I just hope it makes you happy.”

“What does?” Tucker asked blissfully, shutting his laptop.

“Being surrounded by bigger than life issues, living here with me, being friends with almost-nearly-convicts, pretending I didn’t see that it was porn on your screen before you shut your laptop,” Wash listed off almost wistfully.

“Make me happy?” Tucker laughed. “Wash, it’s like the definition of what makes me happy right now. I’m staying up late not because I had to pick up extra late night hours at the diner to cover the appliances. I’m staying up late watching porn in a living room I share with my superhero boyfriend who has a bankroll due to the kinda sketchy government coverup stuff that people on Blood Gulch couldn’t even dream up.” He then raised a brow of his own. “You ever going to tell me the full story of that someday?”

“I’m sure I will,” Wash said. “Just not tonight. Not when I can spend that time sleeping next to you in bed instead.”

Tucker waggled his eyebrow, as to be expected. “That all?”

“Well, I did have a slow night,” Wash lamented before leaning in and meeting Tucker for the kiss the man had been very obviously moving in for the entire conversation.

His life was becoming startlingly routine, but Washington had learned to very much love that.

And he truly did. It was the thing in the world he loved third most of all — right after Tucker and Junior.

At the back of his mind, though, Wash knew to be anxious, even if he wouldn’t dare show it to his partner. Because for a hero, slipping into routines, having things one loved most of all in the world, always seemed to have a price to be paid.

Sooner or later.

[tripstations]

3 Outrageous Singaporean Travel Stories

Top image from Unsplash by Roberto Nickson.

Singaporeans are a crazy adventurous bunch.

Our claustrophobic city state leaves us yearning for the wider world. More sights! More food! More experiences!

You might think: what could possibly go wrong? Well, we have three stories from Singaporeans on their cross-continental escapades in search of the most intense, sublime highs. Just what dangers did they get tangled up in?

Jason, 25 years old.

Thank god I had my seatbelt on.

I mean, which coward buckles up? But my girlfriend insisted, so I relented.

Imagine: it’s autumn in Iceland, an island of brown basking in the Midnight Sun. We wanted to have a road trip from Reykjavik to the glaciers of Jökulsárlón. After a night in an AirBnB, we set off on our journey. There were 4 of us—my girlfriend and I in the back, with two of our friends up front.

The two-way roads were perfectly straight. They tapered off into a gentle slope, placing us on elevated ground. It’s common for cars to hit 120km/hr because otherwise you feel like you’re crawling at a snail’s pace.

It’s about one hour into the drive, when the service light on the dashboard started blinking. The driver joined us in diagnosing the problem, scrambling for the instruction manual, being clearly distracted.

He looked up. The road was narrow, and he saw himself cutting into another lane.

Remember, cars were traveling in the triple digits on the speedometer. A blip in the distance could reach you in seconds.

Panicked, he overcorrected.

And we swerved off the road.

We screamed, swore as the car tumbled once, twice, thrice. It’s like every Hollywood car flip except it’s real. None of us knew what was going on.

Airbags inflated. The car landed. We hung from our seatbelts, and dropped ourselves down to the roof. Fear was pounding in my heart and flowed into my head, and I was giddy with realising what had just happened.

By the good grace of the Icelandic public, the police and ambulance arrived within minutes. They shuttled us to the nearest town so we could sort ourselves out.

The car was wrecked having landed upside down and had to be completely scrapped. Our insurance ensured that we had to pay only $2,900 split among the four of us—an incredible relief as the last thing we needed to be burdened with was more crippling debt.

Though shaken, we came out miraculously unscathed. Even our belongings stayed intact… except a single baguette.

It had snapped into two.

Story continues

Amy, 24 years old.

When a woman travels solo, there aren’t many things she can do. No hitchhiking, no camping in the desert, no exploring seedy bars without pepper spray on hand.

But I could totally go to the beach.

Welcome to Santorini, sun and sand eclipsed by a backdrop of Grecian beauty. Couples sashayed past clean white walls, while others giggled and clinked their wine glasses. The pastel-hued Cycladic village perched atop russet cliffs offered one of the most iconic, romantic scenes, and I sighed with contentment gazing at it.

I decided to take a swim, letting the salty ocean slip past my skin. The nearby rocks looked straight out of The Little Mermaid, and feeling a sense of silly nostalgia, I decided to climb atop them.

Dripping wet as I hauled myself onto the boulders, I marveled at the ocean view. Standing upright, I mused on how I could never get this in Singapore, with the deep blue yawning open into the horizo-

Something gave way. One moment, my slick feet were no longer on the rocks. The next second, they crashed into them. I felt my skin split and I seethed in pain as the blood started to seep out. A chunk of flesh hung from it, and I felt faint, almost nauseous.

This far out, there wasn’t a soul to be found.

After bleeding out for 10 minutes, with nothing on hand to stop it besides my pink-stained hands, I decided I had to go back to shore. Each stroke was excruciating as the salt entered my open wound, but I kicked for dear life with my one good leg.

When I got on land, I felt like a victim from Jaws, hobbling and shouting. Grains of sand clung to my wet feet, and stabbed at my wound as I held back tears. I darkly wondered if I would need an amputation.

The tourists were baffled, unsure and ill-equipped to help me out. After a few minutes, a brave woman stepped up to attend to me, pouring bottled water on my cut and delivering preliminary first aid. We could only get a plaster from the minimart, and had to dig out the sediment by hand.

I didn’t have insurance, which was annoying. The injury wasn’t critical—I would be healed up within a month—but in the moment when I was screaming on the beach I was preparing for the worst. My wound could’ve been infected, and I would’ve had to fork out a lot more money without the appropriate coverage.

Next time, I’ll bring a partner along—and make sure we’re both insured.

Gabriel, 22 years old.

It started out as an innocent photoshoot.

The Seven Sisters at Sussex were arresting in their beauty. The peaks and troughs looked like a fossilised wave carved out of chalk, which I further preserved as photographs.

Barely an hour passed by the time I was done with the shoot at the foot of the Fourth Sister, but the stones I had been balancing upon were submerged. I watched the tides creep in, land slowly reclaimed and disappearing beneath me.

I packed up and rushed back to where I came from, but the path was cut off. Water was rising fast, and the exit on the other end was getting cut off too.

There was no one in sight.

Thinking fast, I wrapped my belongings in my jacket, carrying them over my head. The waves had a rhythm: every three crashes, they would recede further, and I timed myself to rush across during this gap.

I waddled along the cliff walls, waist deep, salt foaming at my mouth as the waves collapsed into me. I held my ground, gasping as I made it completely drenched to the foot of the Third Sister.

Now, the path was completely gone. My phone had no signal. I contemplated rushing to the Second Sister when a wave slammed against the cliff wall, the splash two storeys high. My body would’ve become ragged against the rocks.

I saw tiny people at the edge of the first cliff—hope! I jumped and waved to them, straining my body as though I could will them to respond. They jumped … for a jump-shot.

After minutes that felt like hours, someone waved back.

Time melted as the sun and wind beat down on me. Faith was the only poultice to my increasingly erratic desperation. A whistle came from above, and I watched a crowd gathering. We communicated over frantic gestures we couldn’t quite make out. I chose to interpret that help would arrive.

Eventually, an orange boat docked nearby, and a dingy with three men was lowered and made its way to me.

“Are you alright mate?” one asked. My saviours were from the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI).

As I got onto the lifeboat, the tension seeped out of me, and I became eerily relaxed. Watching the facade of the cliff felt surreal: I would’ve perished escaping to the Second Sister, and if I hadn’t made it to the third; I would’ve been alone.

If things had gotten worse I might’ve required an emergency evacuation, or if the unthinkable happened … I was too stressed to think about insurance at the time but in hindsight, greater coverage for more severe incidents would’ve helped give an ease of mind.

I came out scuffed—nothing too serious. But the event taught me how unpredictable travel is and how quickly things can go south, especially in a foreign country you’re unfamiliar with.

When you’re overseas, it’s impossible to anticipate what might go wrong: it could be an accident on the road, or falling critically ill, or missing a flight because of natural disasters. As the above stories have shown, getting tangled up is far more common than you think.

Good travel insurance is going to give you the peace of mind to live your best life on your travels. And if you want coverage that’s worth your dollars, MSIG offers the best overall value for its price, offering up to $250k in coverage for medical expenses and accidents.

Their TravelEasy plan offers comprehensive coverage from personal accidents, medical related expenses, travel inconveniences, along with lifestyle benefits including adventurous activities like hang gliding, riding snowmobiles, and even marathons. Enhanced benefits even include maternity related overseas medical expenses.

Having comprehensive coverage ensures that when Murphy’s Law comes knocking, you’ll be able to answer the door safely.

So to those with a hunger for adrenaline and thrill-seeking in their blood—go forth and prosper! Just remember that it’s always better to have protection.

This piece was sponsored by MSIG Insurance.

MSIG is offering a promotion for their TravelEasy plan—60% off Single Trips Plan and 20% off Annual Trip Plan till 30 Nov 2019. You can sign up for it here.

Wish you had the guts to YOLO across the globe? Me too. Fantasize about your travels with us at community@ricemedia.co. 

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