#and say there are glass shards all over the backseat

[sleevebuscemii]

like this post if you think joseph from the kia service station at [redacted] blvd in [redacted] should kill himself.

[corvuscryptid]

Last Day of Summer

Word count: 1468

Ford Pines x GN! Reader (no gender specification)

Age 5 (Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey)

          Today was the last day of summer before your first day of Kindergarten. You were quite nervous to say the least. To celebrate your last day of freedom, your mom decided to drag you to the beach to look for seashells. The ride over to the beach, you ride in the backseat, the windows are rolled down and upbeat, dancey music can be heard from the radio. Once you had reached the beach, your mother parks the car and helps you grab the towels, a mat, two matching straw hats, and a bucket.

          “You think we’ll find anything cool?” You ask your mom, doubting your luck on today’s excursion.

          “I am most certain we will,” she says and looks down at you with a smile. “If you believe that we will find something cool, then you’ll find it easy to be amazed by what we find.”

          You take in her words, quietly, both of you taking off your flip flops to begin the trek to the water in the sand. The sand is powdery soft and it almost burns your feet from the sun. The sky is a gentle blue and dotted across the horizon were puffy white clouds. You hear the gentle breathing of the waves grow louder as you and your mom arrive at the shore. She lays down the mat and shifts her gaze to you.

          “Now (Y/N), I need you to stay in sight of me, okay?”

          You nod, heeding her words. “I won’t leave your sight Mama.” You say, grabbing the small metal bucket as you scamper away, in an attempt to find shells. You are walking for a while— gaze trained on the ground before you find yourself smacking into another kid your age. You are met with captivating brown eyes as you glance up gaze at the ground. You jump back and find two identical pairs eyes staring into your (E/C) eyes.

          “Hi!” You say, excitedly. “Sorry for running into you.” You say, sweetly to the pair. The one you knocked into had a bandaid on his cheek. Both boys are flush in the face, as if they weren’t used to being acknowledged in a respectful manner.

          You are met with a silence. “My name is (Y/N).”

          “I’m Stanley,” the one with the bandaid says. “This is my twin brother, Stanford.”

          You peer at Stanley, curiously, and you can see that, without a doubt, the two boys are identical in appearance. However, Stanley makes confident eye contact with you, while his brother, Stanford, sheepishly keeps his gaze on the wet sand in front of you, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

          “It’s really nice to meet you.” You say, a smile finding its way to your mouth. Friends are never a bad thing to be in excess of in Glass Shard Beach. Stanley beams proudly and offers you his hand to shake— mirroring the action you’ve seen countless adults adopt. Stanford opts to not shake your hand, although he offers you a sweet smile, the cleft in his chin adorned by the beautiful grin that finds his face.

          “We’re starting Kindergarten tomorrow in Ms. McGucket’s class.” Stanley says, with the grin still on his lips.

          “No way!” You say, excitedly. “That’s my class! I was worried I wouldn’t know anyone.”

          Now, it is Stanford’s turn to smile. “That is good,” the boy says in a quiet voice. “I was scared that I would only have my brother as a friend.”

          You can’t help but beam. “We can all hang out together and spend recess together!”

          Stanley giggles and Stanford smiles. You look at each brother, carefully. “What are you two up to anyway?”           It is Stanford’s turn to speak. “Well, actually,” he begins. “We are looking for an adventure to embark on.”

          You marvel at the boy’s words, (E/C) eyes locked onto his brown ones. “What kind of adventure?”

          Stanford doesn’t even hesitate before saying, “We’re gonna find the Jersey devil!”

          You pause, looking at both boys. Stanford is beaming, and Stanley is looking away, sheepishly, like he was embarrassed.

          You had heard of the Jersey devil, but thought it was just a rumor, you said as much to the boys. Stanley nods and Stanford is the one who pipes up, “We have heard from friends that their possessions have started going missing. We wouldn’t have started looking into it, but our parents are also missing jewels in their pawn shop.”

          You take in Stanford’s observations, inquisitively, reflecting on your own experiences. “I don’t have any interactions with the Jersey Devil, but I would love to help you both.” You say with a soft smile on your face, especially if it meant that you could keep the two boys around.

          “Technically speaking, the cryptid is supposed to live in the forests, but Stanley here wanted to go to the beach!” Stanford says, and shoves his brother, playfully, as he says his name.

          “My mom took me to the beach to celebrate the last day of summer.” You tell the boys and glance back to find your mom, who is reading a book while lounging on the beach mat. “I wanted to find something cool or pretty shells, although friends are probably better to find, anyway.”

          Both the boys smile widely at this, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Two new friends to march into the school year with was something to be proud of. “Well, if Stanford is right and the devil won’t be here, I suppose we could help look for shells.” Stanley says, with a toothy grin as he eyes your empty bucket. “Whattaya say, Fordsy?”

          Stanford becomes beet red at this, which only caused Stanley to laugh and grin harder. You marvel at Stanley. “You have the brightest smile I have ever seen.”

          Now it is Stanley’s turn to redden. “What?”

          “I just think you look nice when you smile.” You say, laughing. You turn and start looking at the ground, trying to find shells. Stanford chuckles at his brother’s speechlessness. You guess that this doesn’t happen that often. You walk a little way away from the Pines brothers, but you can hear that they both follow you. “Ooo, look at this purple one!”

          You show it to both boys. They peer at the purple lion’s paw seashell that you hold gracefully between your index and thumb. Stanley plucks it from your hands and puts it close to his face, turning it around. He does the same thing for his brother.

          Thirty minutes later, your mom glances up from her novel. There you were in your matching straw hat, eyes on the sandy ground with two young boys. She smiles, happy that you seemingly made some friends in your short time here. Her eyes flit back to her book, feeling more confident in you with your search partners.

          “I think I found a cool one!” Stanford excitedly announces, running over to you. He is holding a beautiful conch shell in near perfect condition. Your eyes catch something else, though.

          “Woah!” you shout. “How’d you get extra fingers, I want extra fingers!”

          Stanford is the color of wine at this point. He drops the conch shell which lands on the wet sand softly. He clasps his hands behind his back again, eyes trained on the ground. You sense the change in his attitude, and you know that you have done something wrong. Biting your lip you walk beside Stanford and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I should have not said anything.”

          Your eyes meet Stanley’s who is looking at his brother with pity. He offers you a smile, but you don’t return it. “Sixer here gets made fun of a lot for his hands. He is already pretty insecure about them.”

          Stanford nods, wordlessly. “I’m sorry. I saw and just was amazed. I have only seen people with five fingers, you must be rare! I just got jealous cause like, I want more fingers!” you say, moving your arm to frame the back of his neck, bringing him closer to you. “I don’t want this to hurt our friendship at all.”

          “You think my hands are cool?” Stanford says, incredulously.

          You snort. “Well, duh! You’ve got to be like real good at holding stuff. Plus like, I wish I was special like you.”

          Stanford meets your eyes, and this is when you notice how close you two are. “You think I’m special?”

          You smile softly, and say matter-of-factly “Most definitely, and mostly because you’re my friends.”

          You didn’t notice but Stanford takes his hands from behind his back. “Thank you.” He says quietly and moves away from you. “Now let’s look for some more shells!”

[annwrites]

⸻ preacher's daughter. part one. ⸻

· pairing: billy hargrove x fem!reader · type: part of a series · summary: after months of being away from your daddy's church, billy & his family—minus one elusive member—return. he seems somewhat changed, somehow. he's still just as cocky and headstrong as ever, but far more a man than boy now. one thing has remained steadfast, though: him having an unwavering want for you. · word count: 1,112

"Is that Billy Hargrove?"

Your brows furrow as you look over your shoulder, clutching your well-loved Bible more tightly to your chest as you watch the young man in-question stroll through the open front doors of your daddy's church, his step-mom and sister trailing along behind him.

At least he's dressed properly for service today, if nothing else, even if no one has seen him in a pew in months now.

He dons a crisp white button-up, a pair of freshly-starched jeans, and polished biker boots.

You turn abruptly back to Kathy as soon as his piercing blue eyes meet your own, a smirk immediately sliding across his lips at the sight of you dressed in a pure white sundress—small sunflowers printed across it—and a light-yellow cardigan, dainty flats on your feet, your curled hair pulled conservatively out of your face, showing off the small pearl earrings you have pinned to your ears, your small signature cross necklace hanging from your neck, the charm resting between your soft breasts.

He thinks for just a moment about how he'd love nothing more than to have you laid out in the middle aisle, legs spread, praying to God for more than absolution as his rough hands slide up and under that dress as he explores every inch of your innocent body—corrupting you, while you sanctify him with soft touches and silent prayers from your perfect lips.

"He hasn't been to service in months," you say. "Not since his dad disappeared."

She gives you a skeptical look. "I think 'disappeared' is a bit strong of a term to use, Y/N. He probably just...ran off. Hit the road. He and Susan seemed to have been... I don't know. Struggling in their marriage for awhile, it seemed like."

Even you can recall the big blow-up they'd had in the church parking lot some time ago, before Billy had filly stepped in—Neil immediately quieting as Billy stared down at him, words spilling from his lips that you couldn't make out from across the way; the both of them clearly seething—before they all piled into Neil's car, Max crying in the backseat while Billy held her.

You tuck your dress under you, sitting with your legs crossed properly at the ankles as you rest your Bible in your lap, fingers gently gripping the gilded edges.

"Daddy offered them counseling," you whisper.

You pause then, knowing it's not polite to gossip.

You sigh, admiring the new stained-glass window that was recently installed—the shards casting various shades of turquoise, purple, white, and orange across the hardwood floor—before continuing. "I feel sorry for her: that she has to raise the both of them all alone now. But maybe not, since they've finally come back to church... I assume, at least. Either way, all she needs to do is ask for help and we'll give it. You know what the Bible says: love thy neighbor," you state with a smile.

Kathy raises a brow at your pragmatism. Always glass half-full.

"I don't know. Billy doesn't really seem like a kid anymore—much more the type to ever ask for help, or take it," she replies, watching as he rests a muscled arm along the back of the pew he seats himself heavily upon, his eyes finding their way—as always—to you, even if he's only getting to stare at the back of your head for the moment being.

She turns to face toward the front. "Looks like a man to me now."

Your head itches to turn in the other direction then, feeling a pair of eyes on you, but you refrain, continuing to look forward as well as you turn your Bible open to a random book, and you feel a bead of sweat slip down the back of your neck when you see just which one—and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him—to which you quickly slam it back shut.

You blame your sweat on the languid summer heat, which wafts into the church through the open door and windows, settling onto your body like a second skin—the slowly turning over-head fans do little to aid in cooling the space. Your nerves on the one book in the Bible's entirety which has always unsettled you more than any other. And the uncertain feeling which envelops you on any other excuse you can find, except the familiar, yet changed presence, which sits across the way, watching you with an unwavering gaze.

"And that concludes our services for today," your daddy drawls in a deep southern accent.

The soft smile on your lips quickly disappears when you hear a deep voice mutter 'finally' from somewhere behind you.

You turn your head, glancing around, and find Billy already looking at you with a raised brow, just waiting for you to speak up about his comment. Challenging you to do so.

You turn frontward again instead, refusing to respond to his rudeness, which he finds to be predictable.

Church mouse, he thinks snidely.

And after your daddy—the whole of the congregation—had graciously welcomed he and his family back with open arms after such a prolonged absence, at that, you think.

Some people are just truly ungrateful.

You stand quietly beside Kathy as she chats with Timmy, her boyfriend.

"You comin' with us?"

"Oh. I don't know... I'd have to ask daddy."

You hear someone snort from behind you. "You still have to ask him permission for everything? What, haven't put on your big-girl panties yet?"

Billy Hargrove steps around the side of you, coming to lean back against Timmy's S-10. "He still wipe your nose for you, too, sweetheart, or did you finally figure that one out all on your own?"

You glower at him.

"You comin'?" Timmy asks him.

He nods, licking his lips. "Mhm. Just need to get the two of them home first," he says, nodding toward Susan and Max, who stand across the way near his Camaro, chatting. "Then I'll be out."

Kathy looks at you. "Pretty please?"

You shift from one foot to the other, gravel crunching under your shoes, Billy crossing his arms as he watches you.

"I'll go ask," you say quietly, walking away.

Billy shakes his head, watching your dress sway around your thighs. "See preacher's daughter still has that stick up her ass. Guess some things never change," he states, going to head over to his car, Kathy calling after him "don't talk about her like that!".

He pretends not to hear her as he lowers himself into the driver's seat, revving the engine in the hope of pissing you off, before peeling out of the lot.

[nico-di-genova]

In My Mind, You are Safe

Chapter 4

Read on AO3

“Be safe,” Lance says, leaning down into the car enough that Fernando will hear him through his helmet. It is a bit like Deja vu, pulls at the dregs of a memory, Lance’s last moments in his own car that are still muddled.

Fernando glances up at him through his visor, nods, “Be back soon.”

It is a promise, soothes at the anxiety that prickles along Lance’s spine. Fernando is exceedingly careful in the car these days, in all the ways he can be when he’s doing 300 kph, because he knows Lance is sitting in the garage waiting for him.

Lance cannot race anymore, he’s prone to migraines, his right leg can’t withstand the force required to push down the pedal, the g-forces are a threat to his body that he’s so carefully spent a year putting back together. The FIA will not clear him, no matter how much money his father had tried to throw at them. Instead, Felipe has taken up permanent residence on what used to be his side of the garage - permanent until Yuki replaces him next year. The number 18 exists now only on the small decal Fernando has added to his own helmet, beside the victory cross. The gesture had only fueled the rumors about them, Lance being the first person Fernando greets when he gets out of the car now hadn’t helped.

They’re not subtle, but Lance has earned the luxury of not needing to be. Silverstone especially owes him this, considering it has tasted his blood, nearly claimed him like Lance was the sacrificial lamb brought to the alter. This was the race they had been preparing for, mentally, since Fernando first sat Lance down and explained he wasn’t ready to give up driving.

——————————————

There is an itch under his skin, one he can’t quite reach, when he sits behind a wheel - even if it is the leather wrapped wheel of his Aston Martin as he drives Lance to his physio appointment. His grip tightens around the brown leather, his foot presses harder on the pedal, Lance shoots him a look like he understands. Fernando thinks it looks a lot like jealousy.

They don’t talk about it, the F1 sized car that follows them like a backseat companion, the silent elephant in the room. But Fernando knows the further he pushes the gas, the more Lance looks like it physically pains him. He eases off, lets the speedometer drop back down to a safe range, grabs Lance’s hand that had been tensing around the fabric of his sweat pants and squeezes reassuringly.

Lance doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, Fernando can see the tick of his jaw out of the corner of his eye and knows they are close to the breaking point anyway.

———————————

“I want to go back,” Fernando says over dinner, when Lance is chewing a mouthful of roasted veggies and cannot immediately bite back. He tries to be gentle about it, even as he sees Lance’s shoulders tense.

They have been toeing this for months, Fernando snapping because they’ve been stationary in his London home for too long and Lance snapping back because it’s his body that is broken, not Fernando’s, as he likes to point out with spitting frustration. There have been fights, small at first, growing in the past few weeks. Fernando tries not to be mean, but Lance is good at cutting to the bone. They’ve been sleeping in separate rooms.

Lance swallows, stays quiet, his grip on the fork in his hand goes white knuckled. He does not meet Fernando’s eyes, but instead stares down at his plate with resolute defiance.

“I have talked with Lawrence-.”

Lance scoffs, drops the fork so it clatters against the glass top of the dining table. It skitters across the surface before reaching the edge and falling to the ground. Last week it had been Lance’s plate, glass shards exploding across the wood flooring. They’d been fighting about something stupid, the dishes Fernando had left in the sink, a distraction from the conversation Fernando is starting now.

“Lance-.”

“Fuck you,” Lance spits, shoves back from the table with enough force it shifts along the floor, scrapes the hardwood. Lance has been leaving his mark on Fernando’s home like he is trying to prove that he is still there.

“Lance, please-.”

He’s speaking to the retreating back of the man, standing himself because Lance is heading for his room and he wants to stop him before he’s speaking to a locked door.

“Lance-.”

He gets one hand around Lance’s bicep, the fabric of his hoodie, before Lance is jerking away and turning to face him.

“Don’t,” he warns, eyes already dark with the promise of a fight, lips already twisted into a pained scowl. Fernando can see the hurt in his expression, hates that he’s the one to keep putting it there.

“Please, let me explain,” he pleads, reaching for Lance again, needing to soothe the pain from him.

Lance steps back, shakes his head, “Fuck you, Fernando.” His voice is thick, clogged, promises tears even if they haven’t appeared yet.

Fernando swallows back the rising tide of his own.

“You said you wouldn’t go back until I did. You said that.”

“I know-“

“So you’re a fucking liar.”

“No-“

“You talked to my dad. Behind my back. To what? Set up another contract? Was it easier to negotiate now that you could hold caring for me over his head?” Lance wants to hurt him, is trying, stabbing with brutal efficiency because he is tired of being the only one hurting. Fernando gets another hand on him, Lance jerks back away from it like he’s been burned. They’re standing in the living room with their dinner forgotten behind them and Fernando can see the tears forming in Lance’s eyes but he doesn’t know how to stop them anymore.

“I would never Lance, you know this.”

“Do I?”

“Lance-“

“Just stop! Stop. I don’t want to have this conversation with you. Go back to racing, I don’t fucking care. Crash your own car into the wall and then maybe you can join me here again.”

Fernando swallows, blinks, sees Lance’s blood seeping between his fingers in the millisecond of darkness. Lance is still bleeding, and Fernando cannot stop it.

When Lance walks away again Fernando lets him go, jumps at the sound of the door slamming and tries not to think of the way it sounds like an Aston Martin crunching into the concrete.

——————————————

Lance does not go with Fernando to his first race back. Instead, he flies to Montreal and cries in his mother’s arms when she opens the door to him.

He couldn’t drive himself here from the airport, the sun had been too bright and his head had hurt too much and so he’d been forced into the backseat of a tinted SUV and dropped off on his mother’s doorstep. He’s wearing Fernando’s jacket, stolen from his closest as a final fuck you, or maybe a promise that he would be back to return it. It smells like the man, makes the sharp stab in his gut hurt even more. When his mother answers the door he crumples.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she soothes, as Lance sobs in her arms and tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg.

Right now Fernando is probably sliding into his race suit. Right now he is thinking of plan A, thinking of winning. Right now he is speaking with Felipe who is driving Lance’s car, with Lance’s team. Lance wonders if Fernando will fuck Felipe too, tell him he’s doing a good job, crash into him and send his whole world spiraling out of control along with his car.

“It hurts,” he cries, unable to tell if he means his body, or his head, or the gaping hole Fernando has left in his chest. It’s all the same at this point, indistinguishable.

———————————

“My son is with his mother,” Lawrence accuses.

Fernando, hair still damp from his shower, skin still flushed from the podium, has the decency to look ashamed. It only makes Lawrence angrier.

“He flew to Canada. Alone.”

“He is cleared to fly, Lawrence-”

“I told you. If you stayed you better mean it. So why is my ex-wife telling me Lance was crying on her doorstep?”

Lawrence can be an intimidating man when he means to be, when Lance isn’t around to make him appear only as a doting father. He makes sure to stand to his full height, tower over Fernando in his temporary office in the Aston Martin motorhome. Claire had told him Lance had only just fallen asleep, after the migraine pills had soaked in enough to make the rest come easier. She’d FaceTimed him while she was lying with Lance in his bed, the brown tufts of Lance’s hair just barely visible from where he was passed out in Claire’s lap. When she spoke, it had been in a berating hush.

Fernando must know about the flight, he doesn’t look shocked to hear Lance is not where he left him.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admits, hangs his head. “Racing, I am good at. It is what I know.”

“Yeah. It’s what Lance knew too.”

Fernando jerks like he’s been punched, looks up at Lawrence with shame and hurt.

“I wanted him to come back. I want him in the car beside me. I thought- I wanted to think he could.”

Both he and Lawrence know it’s a lie, both knew there was no chance of Lance racing again. Delusion could only go so far, and the scar on Lance’s abdomen was too large to ignore. When Fernando had asked for his seat back, Lawrence had given it to him on the condition that Lance agree. Instead, Lance is in Canada and Fernando is alone.

He’s wearing a hoodie that’s too big for him, is clearly one of Lance’s, Lawrence almost demands it back. But he is not cruel, and Fernando is hurting in much the same way his son is.

“I told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Lawrence sighs, “he’s stubborn, you’re hardheaded.”

“He is upset I came back,” Fernando mumbles, “I do not blame him.”

“He’s hurt that you could,” Lawrence corrects, places a hand on Fernando’s shoulder. It might be a comfort, or a threat, he isn’t sure which yet.

On the FaceTime Claire had demanded he fix this, while her hand was soothingly working its way through the tangled strands of Lance’s hair. He’s still trying to decide just how he’s going to do that. Fernando has been his friend, someone who he once would have trusted his son’s life with, and now he is the man who has nearly ripped Lance away from him, who Lance loves.

“You have time before the next race?” He asks, less of a question, more of a demand that he make the time.

Fernando thinks it over, nods.

“Book a flight to Montreal.”

——————————————

Lance sleeps a lot now, has little else to do to pass the time. He sleeps because the sheets he’s wrapped up in smell like home, because when his mom sits beside him he feels small and safe, because when he dreams it is the one place he can still be behind the wheel.

He dreams of winning, and wakes to the soured taste of failure. In the end, everyone was right, Lance is not a victor and he will never prove them wrong.

At some point he falls asleep and wakes to Fernando pressing a kiss to his temple, isn’t sure if he’s still dreaming. The scratch of his stubble, the scent of him, like rubber and pine, is strong enough that Lance chases it. His head lifts, his eyes flutter open, and Fernando is staring back at him.

“Nando?” He asks, groggy, reaching a hand blindly for Fernando and finding himself slightly startled when it meets his chin and doesn’t phase through. Sometimes he dreams of chasing Fernando, in the car, or on legs that sometimes don’t support his weight, watching the man slip out of his grasp when he does manage to catch him.

Fernando grabs his hand with his own, leans into Lance’s touch where he’s cradling his cheek. He’s kneeling beside Lance’s bed, in a position that would have Lance aching in two seconds if he tried it. Sometimes it’s funny to remember that Fernando is the older of the two of them. Ironic that Lance is the one who complains of sore joints now.

“Hey, churri,” Fernando greets, smiles softly. In the morning light filtering through Lance’s closed blinds his smile is muted, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The nickname is sweet, soothes over the cracked edges of Lance’s ripped open chest.

“How was the race?” He asks, as the last bits of sleep keep his mind foggy, makes him forget to be angry. Instead he is focused on how warm Fernando feels, on the fact that he is wearing one of Lance’s favorite hoodies - the one with the string pulled out because Lance had messed with it so much it had become frayed, made more sense just to remove it entirely.

Fernando grimaces, shakes his head, “I will tell you later.”

“Okay.”

“Can I lay here?” He nods at the sliver of empty space on the twin mattress behind Lance.

Lance nods, closes his eyes because his head is starting to ache again and sleep is the only way to stop it. Water too maybe, if he bothered to stay hydrated enough.

Fernando climbs onto the mattress beside him, nuzzles his nose against the nape of Lance’s neck and presses another stubble rough kiss there. His arm wrapped around Lance’s waist is gentle, hand splaying across his scarred abdomen like he’s trying to protect him from further harm.

Lance feels him breathe, the warm press of him along his back. It lulls him quickly back into unconsciousness.

———————————

Lance’s shirt rides up enough in his sleep that when Fernando wakes it’s to the rough edges of his scar against Fernando’s calloused fingers. Gross fascination has him tracing it, all the way up until he meets the end of it just below Lance’s ribs. He can feel the ghost of Lance’s heartbeat here, hear him snoring softly in his sleep. It’s healed now, the wound, which means that Fernando has not seen it since he stopped having to change the bandages. Lance doesn’t like him looking at it, avoids seeing it himself.

They stopped showering together, and they haven’t slept together since Lance’s accident. Fernando blames himself partly for the latter. Despite how much he wants to, he is afraid to hurt Lance further. Instead, he jerks off in the solitude of his room now and bites his hand to stop Lance’s name from spilling out of him.

“You don’t fuck me anymore,” Lance had complained one night, before the fighting had them sleeping separately, and Fernando hadn’t disagreed.

He is scared, afraid of the damage he has already caused, terrified of wreaking more. The scar under his fingers is proof, unfading, permanent, makes him feel sick with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and presses another kiss to Lance’s neck. Lance has told him to stop apologizing, but he doesn’t think he could ever say it enough to absolve himself.

Lance will never race again, and Fernando is already back in the car. Because he is selfish, because he does not know how to sit still, because racing is all he knows and in caring for Lance he is scared he has only hurt him further.

Lance moans in his sleep, shifts back further against Fernando. Fernando holds him, fully, wholly, and hopes it will be enough.

—————————

“If you want me to stop, I will,” he says to Lance later, when they are sitting in the sunroom of Lance’s mother’s house. It’s warm only because of the heater set to high, the snow piling against the windows doing little to help.

Lance, bundled in a blanket and a beanie on the couch beside Fernando, stares at him. Looks hurt for only a second before his brows furrow and it becomes anger.

“What?”

“I’ll retire, if you want me to, I will do it,” he means it as a gesture of trust, as proof that he does not want to lose what they have. Even if not being in the car would make him a little crazy, even if he would always yearn for it.

Lance stares at him. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, ducks down further into the fabric. It’s the comforter pulled from his bed, dark blue with grey stitching. Fernando wonders if it’s the same bedding he slept under as a teenager. Wonders if this is what Lance might have looked like when he occupied this space as a child.

“You mean more, Lance. More than racing, you know this.”

He isn’t sure what to expect but Lance’s response of, “Go fuck yourself, Nando,” certainly wasn’t at the top of his list.

“You don’t get to put this on me. Retire if you want, but don’t blame me for it.”

“That is not what I meant-“

“Yes it is, of course it is, because you don’t want to stop. You know you don’t. You just want me to tell you to and I’m not going to trap you here. I won’t be responsible for that.”

Fernando watches him, watches as the dim sunlight through the clouds catches the shine of tears in his eyes. Watches as Lance pulls the blanket impossibly tighter, like he’s trying to vanish inside of It. He wants to reach out, pull Lance to him, but is scared to shatter the feeble ground they’re resting on. Too many conversations between them have turned to arguments these past few weeks.

“Because it fucking sucks, man,” Lance sniffles, wipes at his eyes with the fabric of the comforter, “being on the other end, knowing you’re done. I won’t do that to you.”

But I did it to you, Fernando thinks. I did this.

Lance’s blood will not wash off his hands, will not stop dripping through his fingers. He is pressing as hard as he can and Lance is still looking up at him with fear blown eyes and a silent plea. He is mouthing Fernando’s name and all that is coming up is crimson that stains his lips.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers into the quiet space of the sunroom. More of you because so much has already been taken by Fernando’s own hands.

“I won’t tell you to retire. Please don’t make me.”

“What do we do then?”

Lance shrugs, muffles his response against the comforter he folds further into, “I don’t know.”

———————————

Fernando races in Jeddah and Lance stays in Canada. His mind is scattered, unfocused, thinking of a kiss in the fresh snowfall that had felt like goodbye. Which is maybe why he taps the wall on lap 6 and ends his race in the barriers of turn 23.

Lance is the first missed call on his phone when he gets back to the garage. He calls him back immediately.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks, answering after two rings, sounding panicked in a way that is new. Fernando hates it, hates how he can hear the hitch in Lance’s voice.

“I’m fine, cariño, don’t worry. It was small.”

Lance sighs, shaky across the line, “you’re sure?”

“Already cleared by medical. About to go to the media pen now.”

Lance should know this, if he’d been watching as he so clearly had he would have seen how insignificant of a crash it was. Barely anything.

“But the wheel snapped hard, your hands-“

“Lance, I am okay. Promise.”

A bit sore maybe, from the straps digging into his chest, but no more than he’s already used to. Lance still sounds worried, his breath still hitching.

“Lance?”

“Sorry- fuck. Sorry,” he sniffles and it’s a wet sound, thick with snot.

“Baby,” Fernando soothes, feels the familiar guilt at the back of his mouth.

“I’m sorry. I don’t- I don’t know what’s happening,” Lance continues, breathing worsening. “I thought- it was- I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Lancito. You’re okay. Breathe baby, is okay.”

He’s standing with his race suit around his hips in the garage, hadn’t even made it to the privacy of his drivers room because he didn’t think this would be much of a phone call at all. His handler is standing in the back trying to flag him down for the media duties he’s probably currently missing. Lingering engineers keep shooting him confused looks. Lance is panicking on the other end of the line though, safe in Canada wrapped in the security of his childhood blanket and it still isn’t enough to quell his choked breathing.

“Lance. Listen to me. Please. I am okay.”

“O-okay.”

“Completely fine. Some bruising maybe, but is all.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to come home, you can see yourself?”

Home meaning to Lance, he doesn’t care whose house it is, as long as it’s Lance who’s opening the door for him.

There’s static on the other end of the line, Lance’s muffled hyperventilating and then, “Y-yeah. Yes, please.”

“Okay, let me finish up here and I’ll get on the next flight. It’s alright. All okay.”

“Okay,” Lance repeats.

Fernando thinks of blood, Lance who’d been choking on it, how Lance wouldn’t have been there to pull him from the wreckage if that’s what it had come to. He wonders if Lance is thinking the same thing.

“Breathe,” he commands one last time, waits until he can hear Lance drawing air into his lungs, and then promises to be home soon. In the media pen he is short, curt, excuses himself with a speed that is unlike him off the track and then rushes back to his drivers room to change. His assistant has already booked him a flight and sent the details to Lance, all handled while Fernando was explaining to SkySports how he had ended his race in the wall.

He thinks about retiring on the plane, has a text to Lawrence drafted, but can’t bring himself to hit send. After all, the crash hasn’t scared him, just made him hungry for the chance to do better in the next race.

————————

Lance doesn’t remember his crash, not outside of the YouTube footage and Fernando’s own account. He doesn’t remember being scared, feeling his body failing him as he bled out steadily on the gravel. But he maybe feels the ghost of it when Fernando crashes.

He tastes copper at the back of his throat, far enough back that it can’t be blamed on split skin when he bites at his bottom lip too hard. They replay the crash, slow it down to discuss the details and Lance feels sick.

He calls Fernando, even though he knows the man is still in the car, only just climbing out of it, and swallows down vomit when it goes to voicemail.

It’s only the front wing that’s damaged, buried in the tire wall. And Lance can see that, but he can’t stop shaking anyway.

His mother sits with him, holds his hand while Lance tries to breathe around his tears. It is perhaps the most vulnerable he’s been with her since he was a child, with anyone, usually trying to hide away on his own before he breaks down. But the panic coursing its way through him glues him to the couch and then keeps him there long after he’s off the phone with Fernando.

He drifts in and out of sleep, takes pills that are offered to him and sips water from a glass with shaky hands when it’s pressed to his lips. At some point someone brings him food, crackers and fruit that he picks at numbly before growing disinterested and falling back asleep.

When he wakes up next it’s with a pounding headache and to the darkness of night. His phone is the only light, bright and harsh, making him squint as he paws for it on the coffee table.

There are two missed calls and six texts from Fernando, the last of which reads ‘here’ and sent two minutes ago.

Lance, barefoot and in a thin sleep shirt, stumbles to the front door with blind relief. Throws it open, despite the snow and the harsh wind, and then flings himself into Fernando’s arms.

“See,” Fernando soothes, cradles the back of Lances head, “All okay.”

————————

“I will retire at the end of the year,” Fernando promises, once they’re back indoors and warming themselves by the fire started by the staff and left running for Lance’s benefit.

They’re curled up on the couch, Lance having stripped Fernando of his shirt so he can inspect the bruises left behind by the straps of the car. Fernando sits with his back sinking into the plush pillows beneath him and Lance sits straddling his lap. He’d buried his face in the crook of Fernando’s neck after inspecting him, ensuring the bruises were just that, and then cried silently while Fernando traced patterns along the ridges of his spine. And then they’d stayed like that because Lance had gone slack against him and his breathing had evened out.

“Give me the year, yes? And then I am done.”

He’d thought about it on the ride from the airport to here, fingers picking at the edge of his phone and biting the inside of his cheek. He’d weighed the cost of his career against the cost of losing Lance and found that F1 would never win in the end. Besides, there was always endurance racing, other series he could entertain himself with. Other things Lance could maybe even take part in. He’s thinking about taking Lance karting, loops around a track, just the two of them, where Lance can maybe start to build back toward something. Because he knows Lance is the same as him, deep down, misses the feel of a wheel in his hand in the same way Fernando had during his brief breaks. When you are raised on it, when it is the only thing you know, you grow to miss the taste of it.

Even if the taste has gone sour with fear.

“One more year?” Lance asks, chapped lips moving against the soft part of Fernando’s neck, “That’s what you want?”

“I want you, Lance. That’s it. It is not the same if you’re not there.” Which is true, Felipe does not race the same, is not as sensitive to the finer bits of the car, does not have the same easy presence that Lance had. It all feels wrong, not at all like the team Fernando had signed on to, even most of Felipe’s engineers are new. And sure, their results are better, but only barely. Lance could drive the car to its limit, Felipe is still too reserved.

The grid is changing as a whole too, enough that Fernando finds himself searching for familiar faces in a sea of strangers. But being here with Lance is easy, feels right, even if the man is heavy against him and the weight of him is making the bruises on his chest ache.

He would hurt for Lance, do anything for Lance, knows that it isn’t the car he wants to be with in ten years time, but the man in his lap. Lance has been here just as long as racing has almost, once as a child who had clung to his father and looked at Fernando with adoration, now as someone who Fernando would consider an equal. He means just as much as a championship might, more maybe.

“It’s you. Always you, okay?”

The car can crash, Fernando will always pull Lance out.

————————

Lawerence has been working his whole life to make Lance smile, and yet it is still Fernando that manages it so easily. Fernando who wins in Silverstone, who stands on the top step of the podium and showers first Max and Charles in champagne, and then turns to douse the crowd below him. It is Lance he aims for, stood beside Lawerence and beaming up at Fernando as the champagne spray showers them in sticky drops.

Lawrence watches his son, the way he cheers Fernando’s name with the crowd, the way he’s sporting Fernando’s team cap backwards on his head, the new one, with the 18 embroidered along Alonso’s number. Because it is not just himself the man is racing for this year, but Lance as well.

The FIA hadn’t wanted to allow the duel numbers at first, but while Lawerence could not buy Lance his health back, he could do this. So 18 finishes next to 14 on the podium, because both numbers are present on Fernando’s suit as well. It is Fernando who will earn the points, but it is Lance who Fernando celebrates.

Lance laughs beside him, and Lawrence cherishes the sound, lets it replace the fading memory of a heart monitor and silence. He lets the champagne soak into his suit, watches it coat Lance’s hoodie and Fernando, and he envisions it soaking away the blood that was spilled here a year ago. Envisions crimson giving way to sweet champagne and the audible sound of Lance calling Fernando’s name.

Fernando is no longer hooking a finger around Lance’s pinkie, praying he wakes up, afraid to touch any other part of him, instead he has slid a metal band onto his ring finger and it glints in the sunlight.

It is nearly as bright as Lance’s smile.

[that-kenlee-guy]

Here he is, S4 Kenny post car-crash because S3 bullshit for killing him still fills me with spite several years later^^ (hair is tucked inside when outside of camps) Thank you to my friend Ditzy for helping me make him

It was all in an instant, a flash one could say. He laid there on the cold pavement, shards of glass lodged in his hand and cuts litering his face. Vision blurred and hearing muffled, yet Clementine cries were still heard clear as day. She rushed by his side and tried to help him, but he panicked. He couldn't feel his legs, his body wouldn't listen to him. She assumed it was a good thing, but in reality, it wasn't.

Clementine tried to summon her strength, begged her muscles to pull Kenny back to the car as walkers surrounded the duo like a pack of wolves. Death draws near, just a few yards away before being devoured by rotting monsters. To make matters worse, AJ's frighten cries attracted some to the car. The situation turned grim as time grew shorter each second that passes.

He pushes her out the way and took a shot at a walker that snuck up on her. He begged her to leave, to save AJ and leave him behind. That angered her, skin turning red and tears stinging Clementine’s eyes. She drew her weapon and fired some shots at the walkers banging on the car window. She screamed, shouted, tore Kenny apart when he told her to leave him behind.

He was certain that his tale ended here, but Clementine claimed he was wrong. She brought up the past. How Kenny escaped dying twice, stared down in the maws of death with frighten eyes, yet proceed to stick his head in the darkness to see the light at the end of the void. She said he wasn't Kenny. The Kenny she knew wouldn't give up. The Kenny she knew stepped over the line of morality and did whatever it took. Rather if it was good or bad, even if some viewed him as a monster, even if some viewed him as a savior. he do it all again if it meant to live the next day, for him and his loved ones. That's who Kenny was to Clementine, not this man groveling on the streets.

He was speechless as the world froze for a second. He saw everything in that short moment. The situation he's in, AJ in danger, Clementine trying to drag him, and his broken legs. He grit his teeth, he balled his fist, his blood boiled as flipped himself over and aimed. He took two more clean shots at walkers approaching the car. He watched them fall as he began to crawl to the vehicle. Clementine was right, this wasn't who he was. Kenny didn't care if he was just a head on a chair, he won't stop until he's locked behind the gates of hell. And even if he was, he'll bust right out. He isn't a quitter and definitely not now.

As Clementine provided cover, Kenny made his way to the car. However, the vehicle will not move, even if he does manages to repair it. Out of options, they locked themselves inside as walkers surrounded them. Windows on the verge of breaking with only a few rounds left. But just when all hope was lost, a roar of another car came. Someone swerved sharp, slamming into some walkers and smacking them away for the windows.

Their eyes couldn't believe what they were seeing. A friend they were sure died came to their rescue, Arthur. He gave them a clear opening to get inside and they wasted no time climbing in the backseat and make their escape. When they made distance, they made a discovery that Kenny was bitten on his leg. Not afraid of losing already paralyzed leg, they removed it before the infection spread. After sealing the wound, Arthur took them to a small camp. In a matter of hours, he returned with a wheelchair specialized for traveling and different terrain for Kenny. It fitted nicely for him as he sat AJ in his lap, promising him and Clementine that nothing will stop him from leaving their side, even himself.

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #6

xxx it's not my blood

Illya is at the kitchen table reviewing the intel from Waverly when he hears the door of the safe house slams open. His hand is halfway to his gun when he hears Gaby's voice.

"Illya!"

She sounds panicked, and Illya is on his feet in a second, standing so abruptly that his chair crashes to the floor. He barely notices. Gaby is in the doorway, eyes wide and wild. There's blood on her hands and on her pale face, and more of it on her sweater.

"Gaby!" Illya is immediately crouched in front of her, running his hands over the front of her top as he searches for a hole from a bullet or knife. She's shaking badly. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," she says, sounding anything but. "But--"

"You are not fine. Where are you hurt?"

"It's not my blood!"

Illya looks up at her, startled. "What?"

There's a desperate look on her face. "It's Solo." Illya's stomach twists as she continues, speaking quickly without looking at him. "It's all his, I – Everything just went to shit, and I don't – got him here as fast as I could. He's in the car. Oh god."

Her knees buckle, and Illya catches her before she hits the ground.

"You did well," he says quietly, guiding her to one of the chairs at the table as she trembles beneath his touch. "You need to sit. I will get him. Wait here."

He hates leaving her there, would at least get her a glass of water and a blanket first if it were anyone in that car besides Napoleon. He barely registers the cold mid-morning air as he bursts out the front door, then crosses the porch in a single quick stride. He bypasses the three steps down entirely, leaping down onto the dirt driveway and running to the car. He yanks the door open, and for a second he can't breathe.

Napoleon is slumped in the backseat, eyes barely open, his face devoid of color and shining with sweat. Blood-stained hands rest loosely on a scarf (Gaby's scarf) that's bunched up against his stomach, the silk that was once light blue now entirely stained a deep crimson. There's more of the dark red covering his shirt and soaking into the seat beneath him.

"Cowboy." Illya's voice is barely above a whisper as he pushes two fingers against the man's neck. The pulse he finds is faint and fast, but the American's heart is still beating and that's what matters.

Napoleon isn't a small man, but adrenaline sharpens Illya's focus and physically, he has no trouble getting the injured man out of the car and draped over his shoulder. It's the sound Napoleon makes that almost makes Illya stumble as he carries him into the house, a quiet, rasping whine that sends shards through Illya's chest.

"Hang on," he says.

He's surprised, and relieved, to see that Gaby is in the front room. She still looks pale and shaken, but the far-off, shocked expression has been replaced by one of determination. There's a bag in her arms and she lifts it slightly as Illya enters.

"I found the medical bag. And I called HQ, they're sending a medic."

"Good," Illya says. He moves quickly and carefully as he lowers Napoleon to the floor. "Can you put pressure on the wound?"

Gaby nods, kneeling next to Napoleon and pressing her hands against his stomach. He makes a small sound of discomfort but doesn't open his eyes. Illya opens the medical bag and starts rummaging through, pulling out anything he thinks he may need.

"What happened?"

It was just supposed to be simple reconnaissance. It's why Gaby had been allowed to go in the first place, a way for her to get some experience but without the danger inherent in most field work. Illya had been resistent to the idea (he remembers all too well the panic he'd felt during their first op together, almost a year ago now, when he'd seen Gaby shivering in the mud and rain), but Napoleon had insisted. He likes having someone to teach, and Gaby is a willing and eager pupil. It was meant to be easy. It was meant to be safe.

"The intel from Waverly wasn't complete," Gaby says. "They had somebody with them that wasn't in the files. Someone from Solo's past. We tried to get out of there before he saw us, but..." She draws in a sharp breath, closing her eyes. "There was a fight. I wasn't hurt, Solo made sure of that, but he...The man had a knife, and he..." She looks down, eyes filling with tears. She's trembling again.

"I see," Illya says gently. "You don't have to talk about it anymore right now. I need to take a look."

Gaby moves her hands as Illya uses his knife to cut open Napoleon's shirt and tries not to imagine the cold metal sinking into flesh. There are two stab wounds, side by side, a little above Napoleon's bellybutton, each a few centimeters long and both still bleeding. Illya rips open a pack of gauze and presses it firmly over both of the wounds. It doesn't take long to soak through.

"I need more gauze."

Gaby opens one of the packs and pulls the gauze out, handing it to Illya. "Here."

He takes it, glancing over at her. "Are you okay?"

She makes a sound, short and sharp. "Am I okay?" She looks up at him, then quickly looks away with a small shake of her head. "Are you?"

Illya looks down at the blood on his hands, then at Napoleon's colorless face. No. He doesn't get a chance to answer, though, before there's a knock on the door. He and Gaby look up.

"That was very fast," Illya says. "Were you followed?"

"Of course I wasn't," Gaby snaps.

There's another knock and Gaby stands.

"Take my gun," Illya whispers, pointing to the kitchen. Gaby nods, grabbing the gun from the counter and raising it before she opens the door.

The man on the other side of it raises his hands.

"Whoa, there," he says. "My name's Wade, I'm here to help." He looks over Gaby's head and into the safehouse, pointing at Napoleon. "That your guy?"

"You're American?" Gaby says, gun still aimed at the center of his chest.

"Ex-pat. Left Kentucky after the war. I worked at headquarters for a few years, and then Waverly moved me out here once they got the safehouse established. He figured it'd be good to have a doctor nearby in case...Well in case of something like this, I guess. Can I come in?"

"Illya?" Gaby asks without looking away from Wade. Napoleon has taught her well.

"Alles ist gut," Illya says, and Gaby takes a step back, lowering the weapon.

Wade is carrying a bag that's at least twice the size of the one Gaby had found, and he puts it down next to Napoleon before kneeling on the floor.

"What've we got?" he asks, lifting Napoleon's hand and pressing two fingers to the inside of his wrist.

"He was stabbed twice in the abdomen. I have been keeping pressure to try and stop the bleeding."

Wade nods, opening his bag. He takes out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff and wraps the cuff around Napoleon's arm.

"How long ago did this happen?" he asks as he inflates it.

"About half an hour," Gaby says.

Wade's brow furrows in a way that makes Illya's stomach twist.

"What is it?"

"He's in shock. He needs a hospital, but the closest one is hours away and I just don't know if he'll last that long. I'll give him an IV of Ringer's, which might tide him over. What he really needs is blood."

Illya's heart sinks. He hasn't known Napoleon that long. So why does he feel like his world is collapsing in on itself? Without blood, Napoleon is going to die...

"Can you do a field transfusion?" Illya asks, and Wade frowns.

"Yeah, but he needs his own blood type."

"No, he doesn't," Gaby says, stepping forward, eyes wide. Evidently, she's picked up on Illya's thinking. "He's AB positive."

"Universal recipient," Wade says, nodding. He looks at Illya. "That could work."

Illya is already rolling up his sleeve. He looks down at Napoleon.

"It's going to be okay."

xxx

[heartinajarofpickles]

Dinner Is Not Over

Part 1

You say something's wrong

The engine finally stops after 4 hours of driving carelessly through the London streets, Crowley doesn’t seem to know how, when or why he arrived at their apartment. 

— “Life must move on right?”

No one answers.

The boxes in the backseat have started to lose stability, the more the moisture of the plants is in contact with them, the worse they get, as soon as Crowley notices this he takes them out, one box at a time since he doesn’t have help this time, it’s very tedious really but at least it keeps his mind occupied, although not for long, once all the plants are secured in the second floor of the building he starts spiraling again, thinking about the confession, the kiss, but above all about Aziraphale, they have never been not together, maybe he should’ve gone to heaven, be holy again, just to be with the one that he had forever loved; but then again how could he go to that place after all he had seen, they were the ones that punished him oh so badly just for questioning god and not following her blindly, but wasn’t that the reason that he got into such a high position in the first place? And even worse, didn't god make her that way? Why was she responsible for being the way she was if another person made her specifically that way?

NONSENSE

Worse than all, heaven tried to kill the angel, HIS angel, destroy him forever just for saving life, why if he was so good did Metatron not intervene then? What if they hadn’t changed their bodies? Both of them would’ve died.

Ever since the fall Crowley didn’t care that much about his own life, he never really admitted it, but he knew that god could take anything she wanted away from them, at any given time, that's why they restricted themselves from feeling, from caring, from getting attached, because they knew that if they did it all could be destroyed, it had been once and nothing guaranteed him that it couldn’t happen again, but here on earth they had so much more that she could ever have anywhere else, they were loved and cared but above all they were needed, and that was his mistake, letting his ward down, and allowing themselves to feel, to care, to love, and just like thousands of years ago, all of that was stolen from him, ripped in seconds leaving his word shredded.

But none of that was important anymore, he had all the time in the world just for himself, and he sure could use it.

First thing Crowley did after having such a sad revelation was getting into the Bentley and driving to the closest liquor shop, what a nice sound it was the one of bottles clinking against each other and how nice did it felt to not make the right choice for once, to behave the way that everyone expected him to, to live up to all those nasty comments and beliefs, it was clear as day that the little man chasing him since 3 blocks away was never going to be able to catch him, of course Crowley had the money to pay, but he just needed some thrill, although not positive he surely was feeling something, call him whatever you want but at this exact moment he was doing 1000 times better than when Aziraphale left.

After arriving in an absurdly short amount of time to his flat Crowley decided to get right at it, apparently in such a hurry 3 bottles have broken leaving irregular shards of glass both big and small, sharp and flat; and whiskey splashed all over the suitcase, Crowley’s cold hand starts digging into the bag where the bottles are, hurting himself with a few of the smaller shards, when he manages to take a hold onto one of the bottles his hand were already bleeding, it was such a twisted picture to saw the creature that had once saved the earth and guarded it for so many years from gods oddballs, thrown on the floor drinking a disgusting mix of the red liquid emanating from their hands mixed with the liquor coming out of the bottle all while watching the sculpture that looked so different than him, so ethereal, so triumphant,so elegant, and for that same thing to felt the same way that he did, cold, hard and inert, if u would’ve been there at the time you wouldn’t have been able to differentiate which one was which, same pulse, same temperature, same tint, in fact with each gulp Crowley lost more and more of his humanity until they were nothing more than a bunch of bones and skin, muscles and blood held together by something that didn’t let him live nor let him die, the weight of those 6,000 years began settling in, all those years they had been with the angel, they had felt him sometimes so far that it was very faint, some other times so close that he believe that with a wrong movement they will merge together becoming the same energy, but as of now he couldn’t feel anything it felt lonely, it felt empty, it felt WRONG.

Crowley’s thoughts weren’t stopping and neither was his drinking, more and more time passed and with each minute more empty bottles were filling up the flat, the initial cuts on their hand had already stopped bleeding but with each bottle that he take out new cuts surface his skin, tiny red drops decorating the view with tiny red splashes, some of them were in the floor, some others in the top of the bottles, a few of them in their arms and face, but the majority were mixed with the liquor giving it a new rusty taste.

The booze had  made up effect and the flat felt so quiet, she could quickly fix that, she got up and take the first vinyl that she could grab it was one from Maggie’s shop, rightnow, there were not that many people that know what they sell, but that girl had at least an idea of what she was charging for, her previous generation wasn’t as enthusiastic as her, the dark circle started spinning just like Crowley’s head when he stood up to turn on the music, his head is such a cruel mean place that with just a few sound waves is already thinking of someone, someone that it’s not here, someone who won’t be here.

 He gets up and stops the music, almost falling to the ground due to the fast movement, but that is not enough, soon enough the smell of burnt plastic has filled out the entire apartment, Who even needs music? Or company? Or love?

Crowley takes another sip of the bottle, he feels so tired, this body wasn’t built for this, and after all he’s been through just this day alone he finally sleeps.

[faygodealer]

Stream of consciousness ramble (poem? Maybe? Not really lol) but there’s words in my brain and I need to get them out. So. Here’s this I think only one person will understand this and maybe they won’t still lol

You tell me you've left everything behind for this-

how often do you outrun your own skin?

Roll yourself up like a carpet,

lean over the parapet,

Don’t drop the match even when it burns

because you like the way it smells.

Crucify yourself on your suffering

Let me witness your rebirth

And then try it myself.

How do you replace yourself

atom by atom,

lungs burning smoke and car ride wind

whipping laps around our only eden left

Can’t move away from yourself when she still lives in the back of the van,

lights your cigarette for you

and hands you a beer.

She rocks in the dark,

eyes glowing like embers and watches us smoke

and pretend not to see her.

What kind of a specter haunts herself?

You think she’d find a more inviting home.

Hold her face in your hands,

scrape the kerosene running from her ears

back into her head like it'll hold this time

Don't ask why she stays

If a ghost knew how to move on

Wouldn't they?

Let the silence hang heavy in the air.

Dissolve your fantasy on my tongue,

wash your stories down with a feast.

Cut away the bruises,

either eat your pesticides or let the bugs

make home in your stomach,

not the only ones who are hungry.

Sustain yourself off of memories gone rotten,

go to bed starving when you can't bear to look at them.

Bare them on your own in the dark.

Pick stars out of your foam tile ceilings

Pick at your skin until it goes sore

Train tracks rumbling through your veins.

I'm driving along the coast,

the shoreline holds me close,

stuck at the top of this ferris wheel with you.

Thunder rolls over my hips,

eclipse my view of you

all wind in your hair,

liquid fire on your lips like liquor,

doting on little nothings.

Towns sail past

across seas of grass,

palm trees,

snowcaps.

Give me the director's cut of my own life story,

help me memorize my lines in the backseat.

Read me your bedtime fantasies and I will play along,

make believe myself any role you cast me.

Roll down the windows,

cast away our umbrella to the darkened sky,

distract me from the cold with the embers of your voice.

Let the heat of your cigarette make home on my skin,

scorched earth where there once was a garden.

Melt me down clean, build me up again,

breathe your life into my empty lungs.

Heat before a storm steams our windows,

precipitates down your cheeks,

licked clean by the cool breeze.

I roll over myself in the slow thud of a speedbump under the tires.

Shouldn’t have been walking by the road,

you tell the stain on the pitch.

Black lump in the rearview mirror fades into hindsight.

Shouldn't have been driving so goddamn fast.

When god closes the car door

he turns on the radio

and water pours out like static

but when the chandelier

shatters against the dancefloor

you're the only one still moving to the silence.

Cigarette sparks swirl a constellation over our opium den backseat,

sitting prone and scantily clad on the lap of luxury.

Call hedonism by any name you want,

I’d say if i wasnt too high to speak.

Say something pretentious and circular about

moral ambiguity and

how i dont see with clarity and

ill laugh my way through the bystander effect and

Stare into you like the sun and

let your after image eclipse the rest of my life

Pull the van into the sand and let it fill the open windows,

cover us in what was once the sea.

See stop lights and spot scenery and

throw yourself against the crashing waves

like they’ll hold you gentle,

once they see that its you.

Fall asleep in the night before,

Wake up two weeks into the wrong end of a long drive,

with cop lights

and road signs

and ghosts reflecting off glass

like shards of fire.

Tires leave ash dark stains on the melting asphalt,

you know it like the back of your hand.

Wash it free,

Fight to keep me clean,

take off your lens cap

and shift my world out of black and white,

burning color against the night,

Make love to me the whole way home.

[maladaptive-jcb]

Chapter 7: I See You

Jamie x female!reader

(fluff, safe for under 18)

Click here for chapter 6 if you missed it

Summary: Reader is an independent artist who lives on her own in a small town and meets Jamie, a musician, in an art studio where their budding relationship formed through shared interests of different forms of art.

Warning: There will be talks about trauma and PTSD from sexual assault, domestic abuse and dissociative episodes throughout the story.

I haven't felt like visiting the beach in a very long time. I try to avoid any swimming activities mostly so I can hide my skin better. It doesn't matter what kind of swimsuit I'll wear, the vulnerability will always overwhelm me and somehow it makes me believe that people will stare right at me… at my scars. It's now looking right back at me on my mirror reflection. I haven't worn this two piece bikini in so long. I wore it so much when I was back home and spending so many summers with my family. I chose this today specifically to make me feel better. And maybe… Just, maybe, I can make better memories with Jamie with this.

Yet, as I'm running through my fingers on my scars, my mind still flashes back to a certain awful memory. That night…

Aaron didn't notice I was bleeding. He was too drunk to notice much. I had to cover the cuts with pieces of clothes I could find in my closet. He was so full of rage that he turned off the lights in our room and passed out right after all his drinking. While I was wincing from pain, I tried laying next to him silently. It was a sleepless night for me until morning came and I drove myself to the hospital. The doctors told me that they found tiny shards of glass in my wounds and it took them almost an hour to clean them up before the cuts were stitched.

Everything went by so fast that I didn't even have time to process it during the incident. It even took me a while to finally realize how wrong the situation was towards me. And I guess, what hurt the most wasn't the wound and glass shards. It was my broken trust and love I had for him. His love, or so I thought, dissipated. He never looked at me like he used to anymore. I was no longer enough for him.

I turn to look at the mirror again. My lips are quivering.

Ding!

I shake my thoughts away and shift my focus to my phone. It's Jamie. He says that he's 10 minutes away from my apartment.

I grab my light, breezy beach dress and quickly put it on over my bikini. I can't do this again. I'll have to be strong for Jamie this time. With one final big exhale and gulping my glass of water, I calm myself down.

____

Jamie is wearing a slick back ponytail that highlights his cheekbones and jawlines even more than usual. His black form-fitting T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up a little bit flatters along with it. He has a really particular fashion sense and it's always working for him.

"Guess what I brought?" he asks excitedly.

I look at the backseat. "A basket?"

"A picnic basket, darling. Oh, and a blanket too so we can sit together," he raises his eyebrows in glee.

"Jamie, these are wonderful!"

"I hope you like bagels, blueberry muffins and juice boxes. I'm sorry, I… I haven't done grocery shopping yet," he scratches the back of his head.

"Stop, it's perfect! I wished you would have told me though I could have brought something!"

"You brought yourself. That's enough for me," he turns to wink at me.

After all these times, I still get flustered whenever he does that. I immediately turn my head the other way to the window. I hear him chuckling silently and then turning up the music that's playing on the radio. The music fills the air. It's nice. It's an R&B song I haven't heard before which is now followed by a low humming following the tunes. The melody of his voice captures my attention. I catch myself smiling as I silently listen to him, enjoying his sweet, sort of raspy voice that tugs my heart in ways that I haven't experienced before. I stare at him in admiration as he starts singing. He looks so serene.

"What?" He notices and smiles back.

"You were singing. It's… lovely. I love it," I smile at him.

"Really?" He almost looks surprised at my compliment. "Y/n, you're so sweet. Thank you."

"You're very talented. I'd really like to see you sing and play your music sometime."

"Actually, I'd really like to show you something that I've been working on. It's still a work in progress by the way so go easy on me."

"I'd love to hear it," my heart jumps at the thought.

He turns to me and asks again, "Would you like for me to continue singing?"

"Please."

Jamie sings throughout the ride and the sound of his tender vocals sent me into a deeper state of peace. My body sinks deeper into my seat and my eyelids suddenly feel a lot more relaxed than usual. I haven't felt this relaxed in so long.

_____

I feel a warm hand gently touching my face. Almost like trying to move my hair away from my face.

"Hey, y/n. We're almost here."

Shit.

I sit upright immediately. "Jamie, I'm so sorry I didn't mean to fall asleep!"

He laughs. "You're absolutely fine. Look!" He points to my right.

I turn to look and my gaze is met with the beautiful blue ocean that fills the horizon as we drive down the road. The sun is almost setting and the sky is painted with breathtaking colours of orange and blue as the sunlight glistens around the clouds.

"Wow," is all I could say.

"I know." He exclaims back. "I gotta tell you though the view of you sleeping is a thousand times better than this."

I gasp and turns towards him. He's holding his laughter. "Shut up, Jamie!", his arm is met with a smack from me.

"Alright little beast, not too hard. I'm driving here," he chuckles.

I adjust myself and straighten up before Jamie pulls over to park near the beach. We step out of the car together as Jamie holds the picnic basket. The breeze coming from the ocean feels cooler the closer we walk towards it. Jamie is now spreading his arms apart to feel the breeze and just taking it all in. I suddenly notice that my dress starts waving with the wind too. l sense a little panic when I remember what is hiding underneath.

"Let's lay our stuff out there," he points towards a spot with a tree over it. A little further from the shore but close enough to have a good view of everything. The sun is setting and it's such a beautiful view. It's been a while since I've seen a view like this up close. I've missed this.

I pull out my phone and hand it over to Jamie. "Take a picture of me with the view!"

"Alright, go stand over there!" He starts taking photos and gives me directions on how to pose. Jamie even tells me to jump as he counts to three. I start laughing and tell him that I got everything I need.

"Nope. One more!" He runs towards me, puts his arm around my shoulders and holds my phone up for a selfie. He sticks his tongue out and takes the picture.

"No! I wasn't ready!" I try to grab my phone from him but he quickly snatches his hand away. He just smiles and looks at the screen.

"God, you look beautiful," he says and hands me the phone. His clear blue eyes looking down at me in admiration.

"Oh shut up," I shove him playfully to hide the warmth in my cheek.

He just chuckles and finally hands me my phone.

"Well come on, let's sit," he nods his head towards our laid out blanket on the sand.

We both sit and he starts opening up the picnic basket. "Alright, miss. Would you like to see the specials on the menu today?" he says in an amusing manner.

"Aahh yes the blueberry muffin, sir," I say, committing to his bit.

We laugh while we eat and chat as the sun is setting. Jamie's muffins are delicious. Apparently he actually baked it the day before but couldn't finish it so he brought them for me. Of course he also bakes. I look at him, wondering what else has he not told me about?

Everything feels right. The view of the beach. The crashing waves. The warm sand in our toes. Seeing children playing around with the sound of their laughter in the distance. I feel so at peace for the first time in a long time.

"I knew you needed this," he says as if he just read my mind.

"Hmm?"

"The beach. There's… something about it. When you step into one it's like nature's telling you that you need to slow down in life too. The chaos in our minds… just goes away," he says as he stares at the ocean.

I put my head on his shoulder. "Thank you. For this."

He lifts his arm and put it over my shoulder. I just wish this moment lasts forever. Yes, the beach is breathtakingly amazing. The colours of the sky is like a real life painting. However, what makes the moment perfect is Jamie. Being right here with me.

We stare at the sun setting real low as we lean on each other. After a while, I feel his shoulder starts shifting and I look up at him.

He looks at me and asks, "Would you like to swim for a bit?"

My body freezes again. I want to say something but I just start stuttering in my words.

"Hey, hey. What's wrong? Are you okay?" I hear him say as I try to control the tightness in my chest.

I try to control my breathing as much as I can before saying something. Jamie immediately notices my shaky hand clutching on my waist.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're okay. You're okay. Listen to me. You're safe," he keeps repeating in my ears while he holds me.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," is all I can say as I regain my breath control.

"Nothing is going to change the way I look at you. I promise," he calms me again in his low tone voice.

"I'm okay. I'm okay, I'm so sorry," are all the words that come out of me.

"No, don't you dare apologize for this. Look, we don't have to if you don't want to-"

"It's okay. I want to," I cut him off.

"Okay," he stands up and holds his hand out to take mine. I take his hand and pulls myself up.

"Can you… turn around first?" I ask him.

"Of course." He smiles and turns his back. I hear him taking off his shirt as I take mine off too. I take a deep breath for a minute to calm myself. Then, a tap on my shoulder.

"Are you ready?" He checks up on me.

I exhale. I look down to my waist and turn around slowly. I can't seem to find the courage to look up to his expression for the first time seeing me like this. I just can't and-

His fingers. I feel them on my chin.

Jamie lifts my face up to look at his. He beams like I have never seen him does before.

"You look fucking amazing," he smiles. Genuinely smiling.

"What?"

"You are smoking, y/n. That's what I'm saying."

I start laughing and then I feel the stream of tears falling down on my face. He then starts laughing with me as he gently wipes my tears away with his thumbs. I fall to his chest and feel his embrace. He likes me. I know that now.

"So you don't mind?" I ask.

"Nothing will ever change the way I see you."

Chapter 8 ______

Sorry I've been away from writing in a while but I'm finally back on my trip! I'm so glad I could continue this again and I hope you enjoy these really vulnerable moments in the chapter. I'm excited to continue again!

[a-certain-type-of-frog]

By the time you found her, it was too late.

Her phone, flung into the backseat of the car, is pinging the dainty "Find My Device" jingle. The car is barely a car, the front crumpled, the glass shattered. You don't know how fast the other driver had been going. Too fast. You pull over to the side of the road and jump out of your car, leaving keys in the ignition and door ajar.

You try to open the driver's side door, but the impact has jammed it. The passenger door opens with some force, and you crawl over the seat, glass shards stinging your knees.

"Carmin," you say, shaking her shoulder. "Carmin!"

She doesn't respond.

You take a deep breath, trying to quell your nerves and still your shaking hands. You dial for an ambulance. When you're done, it will be needed.

She has no pulse. Blood stains the seat and the steering wheel, dripping down her leg and into the car. You wonder how the other driver could possibly have gotten away, how they could have avoided having their car totaled as Carmin's clearly was.

You place one hand on Carmin's shoulder, the other on her forehead, where the bloody gash and reddened impact from her head hitting the steering wheel is. You shut your eyes, pushing everything away, clearing your mind. You have one goal. You focus on it.

Breathe in. You feel blood run backwards, out of the seat, up from her jacket, into the palms of your hand. It pools there, spinning in cycles, waiting for your command. Breathe out. It floods back into her, running through her veins, waking her heart to start slowly, faintly pumping. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

A few hundred years ago, you wouldn't have dared to use your ability to extend a life. A few hundred years before that, you would have done it in a heartbeat. Keeping the people you loved alive, as long as you possibly could. But it wasn't without its side effects. People changed. You still lost them, in a different way, and they were miserable all the while. So you stopped. All that led to was tragedy, inescapable tragedy, as people were cut down around you over and over again. Now, you've found a solution–a middle ground. Death is natural, just another part of life. Except when it isn't.

Her eyes flutter open.

"Ow."

"Hi, baby," you say, hands still on her head and shoulder. "You're okay. You've been in an accident. Paramedics are coming."

"What-"

"Everything is gonna be fine, just hold tight."

"Mmkay," she says, words slurred from blood loss. Injured, but alive. Breathing. Still here. You relax, just a touch. Sirens wail and approaching lights flash in the rear view mirror. Carmin will recover. The other driver... well, you'll decide when you find them.

You have lived for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Everyone you’ve ever loved has died. You’ve grown to accept this, but you simply cannot accept when someone is killed…

[sab3rto0thed]

you leave your friend’s place at one in the morning going sixty down a road that is thirty-five. normally you are quite adequate when it comes to obeying the law but you are chasing your friend’s truck and something about your friends makes your veins buzz. 

when you get home, you go to the bathroom. resting on the side of the bathtub is a handwritten note. it is from your mother. it details the events of the night that you just barely missed, scraping by because you were at your friend’s birthday party.

for a long time, you just sit there, the paper trembling in your hands. you tell no one, keep it confined to the same four walls of your house, swallow it like a bird. you don’t tell your friends about it. after all, they’re doing other, more important things ― fucking, drinking; all things that you cannot do.

for three years after it happened, you hunch down in walmart, ready to spring. in public places, if you see a man with that build, you are slain on your bedroom floor, hanging blankly. two years ago, when you and your friends went to go see fireworks, you saw a man like that. you thought he followed you. you had a panic attack in the grass. they all looked at you strangely.

baby is a trigger. i’m not sure how the fuck you expect to get into a relationship when you can’t be called baby, when the only way you deal with men is by slicing them from the inside out. last night, pre- mother’s note, new boy said, “i know what you’re doing. it’s not going to work.”

i said, “what am i doing?” 

for six months or so, i never wrote a note to my mother about what was going on. i never wrote her anything. she doesn’t want to hear about it, i don’t want to hear about it. i am so often furious that the word is losing its emphasis. furious. you are always furious with your mother, soph. move on to something new.

i know the majority of my isolation is self-hatred. i know that my friends like me and the only reason i am not there is because i have decided that i will not be there, because sometimes even they cannot see past my inevitable posturing. i know i could be drinking and writing notes and the only thing i really can’t be doing is having sex, but none of us can do that. i’m posturing. i think i’m very special, really. it’s the human condition.

the graveyard is a trigger, and not because anyone died. the park is a trigger. heavy jackets are a trigger. boys i love hugging me or texting me or ignoring me: all triggers. boys in general are triggers. that’s what happens when you don’t tell anyone what happened to you. you internalize it, it becomes a part of you. one half of the beast.

you didn’t want to be this way, but sometimes you can’t help it. you are veering off the street through the guard rails. you are sixteen again, holding that jagged coffee can, in a silent staring contest with your fingernails. the candle wax smeared on the wall of your bedroom is a trigger. your body is a trigger. suicide notes are a trigger. unread messages are a fucking trigger. everything is a fucking trigger and nobody wants to deal with that.

you do your research. you study body language. you know exactly when someone likes you and when someone doesn’t. you don’t take chances. you take the note and rest it on the couch. you don’t tear it up. you don’t burn it. everything about your past is pointedly blurry. nobody knows the full story. you can’t say everything. you are just a human being, one in a billion. nothing about you is important.

friends are a trigger. glass shards are not a trigger but they are a reminder. bathroom floors and garages. the rocks outside of your house. the hallways of your high school. sitting in the backseat. everything around you is a fucking minefield and you can’t fucking explain that to anyone, look at you. nobody likes a wolf. nobody likes a lamb.

when you get like this, you go thirty over the speed limit on the highway. when you get like this, you scramble around your room for glass like an addict. when you get like this, you start pulling up old articles and sticking your finger so far down your throat you touch your guts.

when you get like this, you smudge yourself off of the earth like eraser shavings. 

when you get like this, nothing is yours. your dog died and you knew who would be laughing. you switch new people in and out of your life so fast they don’t know what hit them. they don’t know you because you can’t let them know you.

you got desperate. you gave in. you act surprised when they’re not up to your standards. no one is up to your fucking standards. it’s better if you disappeared, rode the wave, found the sea. 

sometimes, you don’t think you should have thrown away that can.

[egipci]

The Solutions to Sam’s Problem

Solution #1

Just stop thinking about Dean. Just Stop. Whatever you do, don’t look at his fingers fiddling with the ammo or tapping against the wheel. Always pretend you’re sleeping in the backseat. Keep distance between you. Walk five to six feet ahead. Shove him hard when he tries to curl his hand around the back of your neck, because you’re too fucking old for this. Never, ever watch him shave. Resist the urge to write gross love-poetry for your English class, even though you’ll be gone in weeks and no one will ever remember you in this town.

Solution #2

Do whatever it takes to make sure Dad never leaves again. Beg him to take you with him. Cry and stomp your feet. You should know better than this, you were raised on drifters’ etiquette. Your motel neighbors will start banging on the other side of the wall and then they will come knocking on the door, more annoyed than concerned. But you must scream yourself hoarse, throw yourself in your father's arms, swear on everything that no, Dean can never protect you from this thing. Maybe, miraculously, you'll all get kicked out.

Solution #3

Run away. Head west and don’t look back. Make something of yourself. Find yourself a girl, because no girl has ever hurt you. When you find that girl, marry her. Take her name and never think about ghosts or wendigos or demons again. When your kids ask tell them you never had anything or anyone for yourself in this world.

Solution #4

The thing you must not forget about your brother is that he will do anything you ask him. He will let you and you will love it. You will bite at his neck and shove your cold hands flat against his skin. He will let you but then this thing will turn charred and vile, like everything ever in your life, and he’ll resent you. You’re dead either way.

Solution #5

Kill yourself in some cruel and dramatic way. Jump into Lake Michigan in January. The water gets so cold it freezes into shards and the ice will feel like glass against your skin, but apparently the hypothermia numbs you quick. Try not to fight it. Make sure you leave a letter, say you’re real sorry and you wish it could be any other way. Dean will dream about you every night forever, like in Titanic. He will never know because he fell asleep next to you half-way through the movie. You walked alone to the Block Buster’s that night, thinking about all the things you could do in the back of a car, all the things you and Dean could do.

Solution #6

Dad has sent you on a ghost hunt, real softball, and you and Dean are waist-deep in a grave and the back of Dean’s t-shirt and under his arms are soaked through with sweat. You can hear the soft huffs of his breath. In the faint torch light, you can see the goose-bumps on his arms, the muscles under his skin working the shovel and now is as good a time as any. Tell him. Dean, I’ve dreamt about you since- and he will just give you a confused/amused/hurt look, red cheeks and devastating mouth. But at least now he knows.

Solution #7

Make some cross-roads deal. Cut your face out that picture of the three of you in the pool from centuries ago and shove it in the hole you dug with your bare hands. Just wait. You’d be a devil’s dream; all give and no take.

Solution #8

Next time you’re in Minnesota, after you’ve taken your fill of the snow on Dean’s lashes and the cracked pink-red of his chapped lips, confess to Pastor Jim. Father, this terrible thing has taken hold of me and I can’t cut it out. I think it’s been inside me since before I was born. Father, is this original sin? And Pastor Jim will not judge you. He will absolve you and give you some spiritual exercise, like five Hail Mary’s after you’ve worn your brother’s oversized hoodie again and pulled it over your mouth and nose so you could fill your head with the smell of his soap and sweat and skin and wrapped your hand tight around your dick and jizzed yourself so hard you had to weep.

Solution #9

The only real problem is Dad. No one knows you. No one would care if every last Winchester disappeared off the face of the earth. When he gets too drunk one of those nights, just leave him. Don’t push him onto his side. Take your father’s keys and his cash and his first son and drive. Destroy the SIM cards in his phones. Buy some fake ID’s and you were never brothers, no more Winchesters. It was always going to end like this.

Solution #10

Run away and become a real fuck-up. You’ve been trailer trash since the day your mother died. You’re full of alcoholic’s blood. Throw your eight Spider-Man comics into a plastic bag and run far. They will look for a while and then stop. There are always things to hunt, people to rescue. Pick up a habit or two to fill the time, like heroin or meth or ketamine. The possibilities are limitless. What a joy it is to be American.

[writerwhowritesao3]

🎨 and 🚑 !!

Ahhh thank you so much for the ask!!! This turned out...longer than expected. Most of these HCs have been written about/ mentioned in Shout At The Devil. Angst under the cut (tw for trauma, child abuse, SA) 

🎨 

Billy writes. He’s not serious about it, but yeah, he has a notebook that he writes in. Usually just tiny short stories. Horror stories, science fiction stories, black comedy stories. He also writes random sentence fragments that spontaneously pop up in his brain.

And when things are too much to handle, like when he can’t stop thinking about the things he never wants to think about, he free writes and it’s always so frantic and sloppy and he doesn’t stop until the entire page is so filled with his scrawly handwriting that it’s hard to make out the individual words. 

Billy doesn’t share his writing with anyone. He never lets anyone read or even touch his notebook (and he’s gone through quite a few). 

But then one day, he says fuck it and types up one of his stories and makes a bunch of edits and adds to it. He doesn’t ask Steve to read it. He asks Nancy to. Because she’s a writer and Billy trusts her to be completely honest. He trusts Steve, but he also knows that if the story sucked, Steve would still think it was good. 

So Nancy reads it. 

Turns out, Billy is a really good writer. He starts writing a column in the school newspaper that’s a serialized weird fiction story. People actually like it. Billy’s English teacher likes it and gently coerces him to join her after-school creative writing club. He does. And he starts to take his writing more seriously. 

He still never lets anyone near his notebook though. That’s something that he wants—needs—to keep for himself.

🚑

Weirdly enough...no, Billy has never been inside an ambulance. Every time he’s been hurt badly enough to need medical attention, he’s always had a ride. And even though Neil is an abusive parent, he’s only been the cause of one of these injuries. 

When Billy is 7, he’s at the beach with his parents, running around barefoot (because it’s the fucking beach) and he steps on a shard of broken glass that was just under a layer of a sand. Cuts right into his little 7-year-old foot. His dad carries him to the car and drives them all to the ER while his mom sits with him in the backseat. At the hospital, it takes both of his parents to hold him still so the doctor can dig the glass out of his foot, clean the wound, and stitch him up. 

Later that night, Billy hears his mom and dad get into a screaming match over the tetanus booster he had to have. His mom doesn’t think that vaccines are safe/necessary, and she didn’t even want Billy to get the shots you’re supposed to get when you’re a baby. On the opposite side, his dad’s younger brother almost died of polio when they were kids and now Neil is hyper-vigilant about infections and diseases...particularly when his son is involved. That night, his mom learns that Neil had taken Billy to get vaccinated when he was an infant and like...totally loses her shit. 

When Billy is 9, his mom accidentally shuts the car door on his index and middle fingers on his left hand. Hard. Both fingers are broken and he needs four stitches on his middle finger. It sucks even more because Billy is left-handed. His mom tells his dad what happened when he gets home from work that night. His dad is furious at her. He starts yelling at her even though Billy is in the room with them. His dad accuses his mom of being careless, of being negligent. Accuses her of taking something called “Bent Sews” (a few years later, Billy realizes that his dad was saying “benzos” and remembers that his mom always had an orange pill bottle in her purse). 

His dad inspects the metal-and-gauze braces that the ER doctor put Billy’s fingers in, gently holding his wrist with one hand and resting the other one on Billy’s back. Billy forces himself to stay still even though he kinda wants to pull away. The day before this happened, his dad gave him the belt for the first time, and Billy is still pretty upset and mad about it, and doesn’t really want to be around his dad. And he’s still sore from it, so on top of having two broken fingers he had to sit on a hard exam table in the ER for way too long because his mom broke his fingers because she might have take Bent Sews, and yes it was an accident but Billy still can’t help being mad at her.

And he’s also mad at her because she let his dad hit him with a belt the night before, and yeah, she did comfort him afterwards, she did let him rest his head on her lap and rubbed his back as he cried his damn eyes out, but she also didn’t even try to stop it from happening in the first place, like she didn’t even try to talk his dad out of taking his belt off, and while Billy was sobbing into her skirt she reminded him that his dad had warned him several times that this would happen if he didn’t stop whatever 9-year-old thing he was doing and she told him that he needed to watch his behavior better around his dad because he knows what he’s like. 

When Billy is 14, he breaks his right wrist during basketball practice. It’s just one of those “trip and land badly” type of deals. Susan takes him to the ER. It hurts enough that Billy cries in the car on the way, but it’s nothing traumatic.

When Billy is 15, his dad breaks his collarbone. The week before, Billy had gone to a frat party because he was trying to meet up with the college guy he was hooking up with. Instead, some other guy spikes his drink and r*pes him. 

A week after it happens, Billy finds himself cruising and getting cruised by random older men and hooking up with them because he desperately needs to feel in control of his body and he desperately needs to push the assault as far away from his mind as possible (it doesn’t work). The last time he does this, he goes with a man to a party and ends up staying out all night, drinking, doing coke, and engaging in sex acts that he’s deeply ashamed of even years later. He’s out all night and doesn’t get home until the next morning. 

Susan, and Neil, are out of their minds worried about him. Susan drops Max off at a friend’s house and goes driving around the neighborhood looking for him while Neil stays home in case Billy shows up. Billy comes home exhausted and coming down from a night of doing coke. Neil’s relief that his son is alive and in one piece quickly turns to anger. He demands to know where Billy was—he says he was at his friend Ryan’s house and he forgot to call to let them know he was spending the night. 

Neil is fucking pissed. He grabs Billy. Billy jerks away from him and yells “get the fuck off of me!” His dad grabs him again. Billy pushes him away. His dad grabs him again and shoves/throws him to the ground in a fit of blind rage. Except he misjudges the force he uses and Billy lands badly enough that his collarbone breaks. Both of them hear the bone snap. Neil is visibly horrified at what he’s done. He tries to help Billy stand up. Billy doesn’t want Neil to touch him. Neil takes him to the ER. Billy tells the nurses and doctors that he had been fooling around on his friend’s trampoline and fell off. 

When they get home, Billy tells Susan and Max the same lie: that he had been at Ryan’s all night and that morning they were fooling around on his trampoline, and that’s how he broke his collarbone. When Billy’s out of the sling, Neil matches the money Billy had been saving up to buy the Camaro and helps him the navigate the processes and paperwork involved in registration and insurance. He’s still a week away from his 16th birthday and so he doesn’t even have his license yet. 

When Billy is 16, he’s bitten by a strange and horrifying creature in their backyard. Neil and Susan are both out. He and Max get a ride to the hospital from their neighbor. They tell people that Billy was bitten by a coyote. He needs a few stitches in his arm and also needs to get a series of rabies shots. Their parents meet them at the hospital as soon as they get the message from the neighbor. Later, Billy and Max learn that the creature is called a demodog...and there are a lot more of them in Hawkins.

When Billy is 16, barely 3 weeks shy of his 17th birthday, on July 4, 1985, he is stabbed multiple times by the Mind Flayer after, like, 3 days of it possessing him and making him drink bleach and other corrosive chemicals. He doesn’t ride in an ambulance—he’s airlifted to a military hospital and is in surgery for almost 7 hours. 

[torikengel]

Thomas Hewitt x Reader (Part 1)

a/n: thank you so much for your support <3 you make me motivated to continue, parts 2/3 and 4 are already on my profile <3

You were traveling with a group of friends across Texas. You were all from a big city, so they decided to go on a road trip. There were five of you in total, two girls, two guys, and you. At first, you refused to go and wondered why they even bothered taking you because they were two couples and you were just the fifth wheel. Well, you weren’t very familiar with one of the couples, but you knew the other one. At least you knew the girl, cause she was the one to invite you to this trip. It was known that you were well off and they desperately needed more money for gas and food on this trip. You weren’t dumb and it was very clear soon enough that the sum of money you were required to bring was much higher than the one of your so-called friends. So why you decided to go? You thought some adventure in your life wouldn’t hurt and you were yearning for some fresh air outside of the city. And it wouldn’t be bad to make some friends along the way, you thought. But soon you realized that wasn’t going to happen. The boys were eyeing you up and down and the girls weren’t happy about you. You would like to think that you were fairly pretty with an attractive face and a nice body. And since Texas is hot you were simply wearing a tank top and shorts. You were sitting in the back seat, buckled up, and looking out of the window as your companions didn’t seem keen on talking with you. “Hey, Emma, can we stop for a while, I need to go… you know,” said Chloe who was sitting next to you in the back seat with her boyfriend Matt to the driver, Emma. “Sure,” Emma responded slightly annoyed. You stopped in a remote town in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t seem that many people were still living there. Emma drove to the nearest shop and parked. The place was swarming with bikers and as soon as Chloe stepped out of the vehicle they whistled at her. “Wait babe, I am coming too,” Matt said as he spotted their sly smirks and how they hungrily looked at his girlfriend. “Y/n? Are you coming too?” Emma scoffed, “I am definitely not stopping again just because of you.” And she vanished in the shop as her boyfriend Chris followed right after her.

Someone should stay in the car and guard our stuff, you thought for yourself. But you really needed to drink something, so in the end, you grabbed your purse and walked in the store as the bikers kept catcalling you on your way. On your way there you saw Chloe and Matt whispering to each other, well if it could be considered whispering, cause you heard them. “Look at that old hag! Bet she never stepped out of this hell hole. Jeez, this town smells bad.” Chloe laughed and Matt added “Yeah, disgusting, now imagine living here babe, I bet they are all diseased.” You turned to the elderly woman behind the counter, you intuitively knew she could hear everything. You grabbed a soda and went to the counter, “I am very sorry.” You said with your head down as you didn’t dare to look her in the eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout that darlin’, my family is used to this.” When you finally dared to look at her, you could see that her eyes were traveling up and down, scanning your body. Oh well, your clothes weren’t the most appropriate for this traditional part of Texas. “My name is y/n…” you said giving her the money for your soda. “Please keep the change.” You added as you wanted to vanish into thin air from embarrassment. The change you were talking about was like triple the price of soda. “Oh no, m’dear, I can’t accept that.” She finally smiled at your generosity and politeness. “Please, I insist… Mrs.?” You stuttered. “Luda Mae,” she helped you out. “Mrs. Luda Mae”, you repeated, smiling back at her. “Come already, we don’t have the whole day to wait… or we will leave you here!” Chloe shouted from the car and Emma honked. You jumped up and rushed to them while waving at Luda Mae, cause who knows, they might actually leave you there.

Emma was driving and chatting with her friends, not paying attention to you, even though it was she who invited you on this trip. And not only she wasn’t paying attention to you, but to the road as well, because she didn’t notice the spike strips across the road. Everyone yelped and held their breath when the van slid across the road and fell to the pit on its side… on your side. In the brief moment of despair, you regretted not being buckled up for the first few minutes of the trip. Your cheek smashed on the window that broke into shards, cutting up your skin. The worst part was that both Chloe and Matt fell on top of you as well. You squirmed under their weight but to no avail. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Emma screamed as she lost control of the vehicle and saw her boyfriend falling head forward on a sharp shard of glass, piercing his flesh. After a few minutes of shock, Emma got out of the car, seemingly okay, and helped Chloe and Matt. After that, they all hurried to help Chris. Nobody cared about you. You could feel the blood gushing out of your wounds on your arm and cheek. In the end, you managed to scramble the last bits of your strength and got out of the car without any help… Emma was in utter shock as she felt that her boyfriend didn’t show any signs of life. You didn’t know how to react, because you didn’t feel any pity. They didn’t help you and wouldn’t mind letting you die there on that backseat. You just shook your head and turned away, confused at what’s about to happen. “What’s wrong with you y/n! You look completely unphase by all this, explain yourself!” Emma screamed at you suddenly, letting out all of her anger on you. Before she could insult you any further you heard police sirens. “Thank god,” she calmed down a bit. Chloe was just shaking in Matt’s arms. The hope you all felt as the police car made its way towards you was slowly exchanged with fear. An older man with a sheriff’s uniform stepped out of the car with a shotgun. “So what do we have here… a bunch of lowly cowards it seems.” He spat on the ground and aimed the gun at you. “Get into the car, now!” he pointed at the police car, “The big guy in the back with two girls and this sexy babe in the passenger seat.” He aimed the shotgun at your head. “Wait, mister Hoyt, there’s my boyfriend still in the van!” Emma walked up to him trembling, apparently not grasping that this man isn’t here to help you. “My, my, do you think I care about your fucking boyfriend, bitch?” he turned down her request and took her by the wrist, “Maybe I will just take you next to me since you are so dumb, you need a lesson.” He tightened his grip on her wrist. “W-wait m-mister.” She stuttered, fear enveloping her. “T-take her instead… I swear we won’t tell anyone; you can do anything you want with her, even kill her, we will make something up, please just don’t hurt us.” She pointed her dirty finger at you and looked at Chloe and Matt, still in a tight embrace. “R-right guys? We won’t tell…” she desperately looked for a sign of approval from them. “Y-yes! We definitely won’t tell! I mean look, she’s way prettier for you sir!” Chloe added, throwing her pride behind her, Matt followed with a quick nod. “My, my what a friend you have,” Hoyt nearly died from laughter. He threw her aside on the hot ground. She slowly exhaled as she thought this was his way of saying yes. “I don’t like these types of bitches.” Without any hesitation, he shot Emma in the leg. She squealed and held her leg close to her, “You old bastard! We had a deal!” He only laughed a bit more before turning to the rest of you. “Now get in the car if you want to live. NOW!” he shouted and aimed the gun at Chloe and Matt who protectively stood in front of Chloe. “We have another hero here it seems.” Another shot followed, straight into Matt’s shoulder. He dropped to his knees in pain. “Who else?” he looked at you. After thinking for a few seconds, you dropped your eyes to the ground and went to the passenger’s seat of Hoyt’s police car. You decided to be smart about it. You didn’t dare to look back at him, all you heard were screams until everything was quiet again. Hoyt dragged your so-called friends’ bodies to the backseat. They were all breathing, just unconscious, their heads bloody. He probably hit them to make them easier to transport. He dragged Chris’s dead body out of the van as well, putting him into the trunk. After that, he sat in the driver’s seat next to you. “Come on, look at me. I don’ bite.” He licked his lips as you turned to face him. “Good girlie.” He said as he pressed some cloth over your nose and lips. You struggled for air, but then finally gave up and passed out as well.

You open your eyes to an unbearable headache which made you wish to never wake up at all. Where am I… shot through your mind as you tried to recall what led to your current situation. Right, your so-called friends tried to use you as their ticket out of this, as a bribe, as if you were a piece of meat. Your eyes were swollen and weak, so it was awfully hard to keep them open. You tried your best to inspect your situation a bit more. You couldn’t move your limbs, that’s for sure. So, you looked around again, adjusting your eyes to the dark atmosphere. It must’ve been a basement of some kind as there were no windows. You could see other metal tables except for the one you were tied to. There were various shiny metal tools around you consisting of cleavers, knives, and other stuff. Then you glanced above you to the ceiling. What you saw made you gag in disgust. Meat hooks, and on them two bodies hanging… Matt and Chloe. Then it hit you… out of confusion and tiredness, you didn’t pay attention to it before, but the whole basement smelled like death, rotting flesh, vomit, blood… everything mixed. Matt was missing half of his body and under him was a pool of blood, he was already dead. Chloe was missing one leg and one arm, seemingly still breathing, but not for long you thought for yourself. Sure, you were scared, because the same thing was going to happen to you, but you felt slight happiness in the back of your mind, no pity to be found. They abandoned you, they emotionally abused you, they used you for money, they would let you be raped and killed in exchange for their pathetic lives. They didn’t care about you. And now, despite their best efforts, you were here, alive, with all of your limbs, breathing while they were all almost dead. You couldn’t help to wonder why you were the last one to be butchered. You smiled for yourself “That’s what you get… even though I am going to be next, I still outlived you for long enough to laugh last.” And also, you didn’t know them before this trip except for Emma who wasn’t there right now. After these thoughts dispersed in your mind, you realized you could hear voices from above you. When you woke up, you were a bit groggy and didn’t pay attention to all of your senses right away. You recognized the female voice; without a doubt, it was Emma squealing in pain and disgust. “Let me go, let me go you ugly old bastard!” she screamed so loud it was piercing your ears. Instead of pitying her, it was more annoying to you, because you wanted the last minutes of your life to be as peaceful as possible. “Shut up, stupid bitch, or I will make you!” a familiar voice shouted back. Hoyt. Yeah, it must’ve been that guy, Sheriff Hoyt. Even though you assumed he wasn’t the real sheriff. You figured out what was happening upstairs. From the moment you met this Hoyt guy, you knew he was a pervert and a violent one. Even though he spared you in a way when he didn’t shoot you, well, you complied so he had no reason to. Then you realized that you checked your surroundings to the best of your ability while you didn’t even look at the state you were in. Your wrists and ankles hurt real bad. The leather cuffs were rubbing tightly against your sensitive red skin. Your cheek hurt as well as your arm. You weren’t sure if the glass shards were still in your arm or if someone took them out. You tried to position yourself in a way you could see the cut. It was deep and your skin was all bruised. Your whole body felt squished and sore, because of how Matt and Chloe fell on you during the accident. You were so tired… the screams above you got quieter and quieter each second as you fell into sleep again.

Loud footsteps in the basement woke you up and when you managed to lift your eyelids a huge man was towering over your lying body. He was wearing a bloody apron, shirt, and tie… very neat you thought for yourself. He smelled bad and there was a human-like mask on his face. He had greasy black hair that reached to his shoulders and partially hid his face. What captured your attention were his piercing blue eyes. He was scanning you, but you did the same as you stared deep into his eyes. He expected you to try to jump up, squirm, or make disgusted faces. He was used to it. All his life people called him names and bullied him, from his childhood to his teen years, and while he worked in the factory as an adult. He was always a monster, animal, disgusting freak in their eyes. Women made gagging noises when they saw him and then laughed in his face. Men picked on him, tried to fight him to get him in trouble. He suffered through it all until he finally unleashed all the pain and anger. Since then he saw people as either family or food, there was nothing in-between. You could see it in his eyes, the awaiting of your scream. But it never came, even after you noticed the cleaver in his hand. You had a neutral expression on your face while watching him. The pain was undeniable in his eyes. He wanted you to scream as it made it easier, so much easier… if you just called him a freak, if you tried to spit in his face… too easy. Finally, your lips parted, air leaving your mouth as you exhaled. He hated it, everything you did, he hated it because you made it hard. You had a beautiful face, perfect skin, attractive body, silky h/c hair, and shiny e/c eyes. You looked like one of the girls that would make fun of him and kick him again when he was already down. All the memories kept flooding into his mind as he raised the cleaver and prepared to swing. Now he expected you to squirm, shout and plead for your life, to at least cry or call him something nasty. But you peacefully smiled at him. “This is my end isn’t it?” you accepted your fate from the moment you woke up for the first time in this basement. You closed your eyes and prepared for the pain that would inevitably come with the blow. The man was confused like never in his life. Your sweet smile towards him melted his resolve. Here he was standing, all bloody with a cleaver ready to end your life and your perfect form was just lying under him in a dignified position without regrets. His eyes were full of sorrow. Nobody smiled at him before, laughed yes, mocked him too, but he never got that smile, smile without any prejudice in your then open eyes. There was no pain, just a wet feeling on your hurt cheek. For the first time, you yelped at the sudden touch and shot your eyes open again. There he was, standing over you, wiping the dry blood off your face with a wet rug. He stepped back, startled by your reaction. You could see how hurt he was… you couldn’t believe yourself. In this situation, with a murderer in a room with you, your instinct was telling you to pity him more than the couple hanging from the meat hooks. ”Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that; I just didn’t expect it… thank you.” You murmured under your breath. His eyes widened, first that innocent smile, now the honest tone in your voice as you apologized for being held captive. “My name is y/n. But I guess you don’t need to know that as you know…” your eyes pointed to the cleaver that was on the other table now. He didn’t say anything, but he shook his head. You didn’t know if that meant you would be spared or that he was content with knowing your name, you figured it was the latter though. After he calmed down, he stepped up again to clean your face and arm. You hissed a bit, but he knew it wasn’t at him, but at the pain. You didn’t know why he did all that when you are certainly going to be killed, if not by this man then by that Hoyt.

“What’s your name, if you don’t mind?” you broke the awkward silence. He shrugged, not replying. “You can’t speak?” you figure it wouldn’t hurt to ask and you wanted to know if he couldn’t or simply didn’t want to talk. You got a slight nod from him. “I see… But I can try and guess if you help me.” You came up with a solution. “I will say the alphabet and when I will get to the first letter of your name, you should touch the palm of my hand.” He seemed unsure but nodded again in the end. “A, B, C…” you continued until you got to T. He softly put a finger on your palm. “T…” you repeated, “That could be Tim, Tony, Thomas.” You wanted to continue, but he grabbed your finger when you said Thomas. “Thomas… Tommy.” You smiled at him. You didn’t know what got into you, but you were enjoying this sweet, tender moment. He was very gentle with you and didn’t kill you yet. Maybe it was because of how different your behavior was from everyone else.

He didn’t believe it. What was he doing, what were you doing, what were you doing to him? You were supposed to be another meal, just food, a piece of meat. But he couldn’t treat you like that when you were the first person outside of his family who treated him like a human being, without disgust and hate. Even Charlie and Monty sometimes treat him like a dog. He could sense that you were sincere. Some girls tried to seduce him before to save their lives and then stab him in the back. Once he fell for it, only for the first time though, he learned his lesson. But you didn’t try, you accepted that you were going to die here, and he couldn’t bring himself to end your life on his own.

“Damn what’s taking you so long down there, boy?” Hoyt opened the door to the basement and threw something on the stairs. “Don’ tell me you were able to finally man up?” Thomas seemed to be a bit lost, but you knew what he meant by that. “Anyhow, I am finished with it, it’s all yours now.” Hoyt pointed on the floor. You weren’t sure what he threw in the basement until now. It was Emma and she was still alive. Her mouth taped shut and hands tied behind her back. Hoyt descended into the basement and got rid of the tape on her lips. “You liked it bitch, didn’t ya?” he squeezed her cheeks and put a finger into her open mouth. She bit him as soon as she got the chance. A loud slap followed and he walked back up cussing her out. Hoyt was so focused on his finger, that he didn’t seem to care about why you were still alive. “Oh y/n! Help me, help me, please!” she trembled and smiled at you in disbelief. She obviously thought you were dead. Then she looked around to see her dead friends and screamed. Thomas grabbed her with his huge hands ready to hang her on the meat hook next to her friends. “You ugly fat bastard, let me go, stop it, you animal!” she kicked him wherever she could with both of her legs as they were tied together. You couldn’t hold back your laughter. However, your laughter stabbed Thomas in the back. So, you were the same after all. He thought about it and then realized it was for the better. But then you spoke “She looks like a fish out of the water, doesn’t she?” you giggled a bit more and then finally stopped. Thomas smiled under his mask before he realized what were the consequences. You indirectly stood up to him and it was funny and clever as well. “What… why would you laugh y/n? We are both going to die you dumb slut!” as the last word left her lips a shriek of pain echoed as Thomas stabbed the hook into her back. With the last strength, she spat in his face. “F-filthy animal, m-murderer, you and your damn fucking family can all burn in hell…” she mumbled. “I bet he would be a better friend than you.” Before she could come up with a comeback of any kind, he slit her skull with a cleaver. He grabbed a chainsaw and started dismembering her. You actively watched, fascinated by the situation. You weren’t a sadist, not at all, but it just all seemed like a weird nightmare to you. Maybe you passed out during the car crash and you are still dreaming. However, the smell of blood brought you back into reality. After Thomas was done, he turned back to you, freshly bloodied. He expected to see a disgusted face, tears, fear. He did it on purpose… to make you scream, to make you hate him like everyone else. “To be honest… she deserved it. Imagine, she tried to give me to Hoyt to save herself. She wouldn’t mind killing me.” You shrugged as you were very stiff from holding your head on the side. 

No, no, no, no, no… it was all wrong. Thomas’ heart raced as he looked at you in disbelief, your e/c eyes piercing his soul. You saw him kill your friend, well at the very least your companion and then you also witnessed al the gory stuff that came with it, but you looked unphased, maybe a bit satisfied with his work... you didn’t scream, didn’t curse, didn’t hate him. He grabbed the cleaver and held it above you, then swung and…

[newtonsheffield]

So @primrosesjemma asked me what I thought of a Kathony Marvel AU and

Now this exists!

✨Midgard ✨

The Anthony and Kate Thor AU that no one asked for!

It's also on Ao3!

✨✨✨✨

“Mother, Please!” Anthony’s voice had broken through the clamour of court, pleading with her up on the dais. His mother’s eyes looking sadly down at him, her mouth a tight line, his siblings avoiding eye contact, regret etched on Colin’s face as their mother spoke.

“I’ve tried to teach you, Anthony. And I’m sorry that I’ve failed you, but something has to work.” Her voice had been grave as the hammer was snatched from him, her voice whispering “Whosoever holds this hammer, if they be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.” Her arm shot out the hammer flying away from the throne room, spinning through space.

“I’m sorry, Anthony.” And then Danbury’s staff tapped against the floor sharply, and Anthony was surrounded by colour, falling through space, panic gripping him, and everything went dark as he crumpled to the ground.

___________________

“Why do we have to be out here so late?” Edwina’s voice groaned beside Kate, from her position in the backseat, her legs hanging from the window. “The beach look exactly the same at night as they do during the day.”

Kate sighed, her paintbrush moving over the canvas in broad strokes. “You know that’s not true.” Edwina rolled her eyes again, returning to her book. “And I never asked you to come with me, you piled in the car before I could stop you.” Her voice dry.

“Someone has to make sure you have some fun!” Edwina tutted, her book hitting Kate on the back of the head.

“You know, Eddie some of us actually enjoy our jobs.” She swatted at her sister. “Not all of us are boring professors.”

“I enjoy my job very much thank you, I’m moulding the minds of tomorrow.” Edwina said primly.

“Oh and how well moulded they must be by you and Indiana Jones Jr.” A smirk rising to Kate’s face as Edwina’s hand swatted at her.

“Matt’s a nice guy! And he’s really sweet. You could stand to meet a nice guy Kate. How long has it been since Jack?” Kate made a noncommittal noise. “That means too long.”

Kate sighed, eyeing the storm rolling in on the horizon, standing from the easel and packing her equipment away.

“Well Edwina, some of us don’t have handsome men fall out the sky for them.” Kate said dryly flicking her sister on the ear. Laughing as her sister’s beautiful face crumpled in a frown, sitting up, pulling her legs from the window.

“Well at least we got to see that.” Edwina said suddenly, her face a little awe-filled as a bright beam of light shot overhead, all the colours on the spectrum woven together lighting up the sky. Kate felt her mouth drop open in surprise, at the sudden beauty of it.

“What do you suppose that was?” Edwina’s voice shook a little. Kate cleared her throat.

“Probably the aliens coming to reclaim you.” Kate said sarcastically, snapping the boot of her car closed. “Come on, Let’s get home.”

Thunderclouds crackled over head, causing anxiety to bubble in Kate’s stomach as rain started to beat down on the roof of her car, the windscreen wipers swiping against the glass, still obscured. Kate shifted her glasses nervously.

“Well this came out of nowhere.” Edwina said quietly. “Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Kate replied quickly, ignoring her mounting panic.

“You know why.” Kate’s eyes shot to Edwina’s only momentarily, but apparently it was long enough.

There was an odd cry outside the window, a shard shout of “DANBURY PLEASE!” And a man appeared directly infront of the car. Kate swore loudly, spinning the wheel quickly, the tyres sliding across the road, too much water, Kate’s heart pounding as Edwina screamed, and then the back of the car collided with something with a sharp Thud!

Silence engulfed the car, Kate and Edwina breathing heavily.

“Did you… fuck,Kate did you hit him?!” Panic climbing in her voice. “Oh my god, you did. We’re gong to have to tell Mum that we murdered a man. How is she going to face the aunties?!”

Kate took a deep breath, and forced down her own mounting panic. “I didn't hit him! I tapped him. Lightly! And he was in the middle of the road! He nearly killed us! And he might not be dead.”

“Well we’re going to have to check!”

Silence engulfing the car again, as Kate took a deep breath, the thunder crackling overhead again, as she stepped out into the rain, her glasses covered instantly.

“Stay here, Eddie.”

She made her way slowly across the road, the headlights of her car illuminating the man’s form laying in the road, as she rushed forward. The man was tall, she could tell his long legs crumpled beneath him as she knelt over him, her hands reaching to touch his face.

“Sorry, Sir?”

His eyes flew open, brown eyes pinning her in place, his wet hair falling over his brow.

“Where are we?” His voice like rough velvet. Relief washing over her. Her victim was conscious and responsive, at least Mary wouldn’t have to discuss her jail sentence over tea. Though he was blinking very confusedly.

“Burnham?”

A frown settled more throughly on his very handsome face. “Where’s that?”

Nerves settling in her stomach again, “Somerset. Sir, we need to take you to the hospital.”

“Midgard.” He seemed to groan, Kate felt her brow furrow.

“England.” She said slowly. “Sir can you just get in my car so I can make sure you aren’t going to die. My step mum doesn’t really need to see me get arrested.”

He shook his head, looking at her curiously. “Your human medicines won’t work.” He said abruptly, standing pushing his hair back from his face, stretching.

Kate felt confusion grab at the edge of her consciousness. “Right. Well, I’m really going to have to insist.”

“You hit me with this contraption and now you’re concerned?” He questioned.

“You walked out into the road!” Kate said indignantly, taking hold of his arm and attempting to drag him towards the car.

“Madam unhand me!” He said, his eyes wide with surprise.

“No! I don’t know who you think you are, but we are going to the hospital.”

“Anthony. God of thunder.” He said, smiling brightly, disarming Kate as she slipped on the wet tarmac surprised by his statement, his strong rms steadying her. “And you are, human woman?”

Kate’s mouth fell open a little.

“Cleopatra.” She said sarcastically, a little in disbelief. Anthony regarded her carefully.

“Why do I not believe that?”

Kate had opened her mouth to respond when a tap to his shoulder cut her off. He turned politely in the direction, his eyebrows raised.

“Hello, Sir, Anthony, God of Thunder. I-” Edwina started

“Hello!” He responded politely. Edwina looked baffled.

“Hi. I’m Edwina. Sheffield. I’m really sorry we ah… hit you with our car. But if you could just unhand Kate and get in the car so we can make sure you aren’t going to die that would be amazing.” She smiled charmingly.

Anthony looked between them carefully. “Why do I not think I have any say in the matter?”

Edwina smiled again, taking him by the hand and leading him towards the car. “Oh you don’t.”

“If I come with you, will you help me find my Mjolnir?” He said suspiciously, the rain still beating down on them as the three of them got in the car.

Kate looked at Edwina confusedly What the fuck is happening? Edwina shrugged, bemused.

“Sure, Anthony. We’ll help you find your Mjolnir.” Edwina said placatingly, the same voice she used with the neighbour children when they fell over.

“Excellent! Let’s go to this hospital then!”

And as Kate pulled back out onto the road, she couldn’t help but wonder if aliens really had come.

[crashescars]

stop. rewind.

for @walkmanned. i apologize in advance.

“and that’s all he has.”

          Vaughan’s not accustomed to driving by himself these days. He’s become so used to Dae by his side in the passenger’s seat that when Dae needs to recharge, a day feels like a week, & time drags on. He counts down the minutes until he can see him again -- though, most of the time he’s wrong, and Dae’s reappearance comes as a surprise. The happiest of surprises. Throughout the past months that they’d known each other, Vaughan felt -- say, fonder -- of Dae, and especially when he was gone. Whoever said out of sight, out of mind was wrong. Dae was always on his mind. Dae was comfort. Stability. Company.           But when Dae wasn’t there, Vaughan kept that Walkman safe. He had to. Dae warned him -- if it breaks, I’m gone. And Vaughan promised. Promised Dae that he’d keep it safe and he did, in a case, fastened tight, usually in the lockbox on the passenger’s side. There’s a key to get into it and when Vaughan had to leave his car he made damn sure to lock it. No one was taking it. Not that anyone would, but paranoia over losing it -- not knowing where Dae was, essentially -- set in often. Sometimes he’d take it out to look at it, or to play a tape -- one that Dae got him as a gift.            The tape was playing when the crash happened. High-speed T-bone collision to Vaughan’s passenger side. And Vaughan wasn’t thinking. Only of the crash. The excitement of the impact overtook any other feeling and when the other driver stepped out to check on Vaughan and ask him if he was alright was when it hit. Where was the music?           Where was the Walkman?           Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It can’t be far, right? Take a deep breath, Vaughan, it’s probably on the floor of the car. And it wasn’t. Vaughan scrambles to the backseat and the other driver kept asking him if he was okay and no, he’s not okay, because he can’t find the fucking Walkman and he can’t find Dae. He can’t find Dae and all because he left it in the fucking seat and where is it? Where the fuck is it? Vaughan grabs hold of the door handle and shakes it as if to try and open the door and when that doesn’t work he jumps over the side and onto the road and prays to whatever the fuck is up there that it’s not --           Behind the Lincoln. In pieces. And Vaughan goes cold.           His hands go cold and he doesn’t remember walking over and the other driver yelling that there’s a car coming but he doesn’t care right now. He doesn’t and the tape isn’t playing anymore. The back wheel had crushed it. His back wheel. He kneels on the wet pavement and stares at the broken plastic and catches a glimpse of himself in a shard of glass from the window of the player.            The other driver is at his side and when Vaughan looks at him the driver sees Vaughan’s eyes filling with tears. “Are you okay?”           Vaughan doesn’t answer and he’s shaking his head and picking up the pieces of the Walkman from the pavement -- he has to fix it. He has to fix it because it’s his fault and he wasn’t being careful and he promised! He promised to take care of it -- of him -- and he’s holding small pieces of plastic in his hands and there are tears running down his face.            The other driver goes to put a hand on Vaughan’s shoulder and Vaughan jerks away, and he stands up and runs to his car with all the pieces that shouldn’t be pieces and drives away as fast as he can and he doesn’t want to stop but he has to fix it. He has to find someone who can fix it and bring him back but there’s no fucking use, it’s completely shattered. The tape along with it. His heart along with those. Fuck, it’s his fucking fault and Dae is gone, he’s gone and Vaughan can’t fucking do anything about it. He has to pull over because his tears are clouding his vision and as much as he doesn’t care about the road he just feels like screaming.           He can’t get Dae back and he spends days wandering to fix-it shops and it’s no use, everyone thinks he’s out of his fucking mind & maybe he is. He tries to glue parts of it back together himself at his apartment & nothing is working. He lays his head on his dingy kitchen table & closes his eyes. Maybe he’ll wake up.           Maybe he’ll wake up & everything will be okay. And Dae will be there, in his passenger’s seat as always. Right?           He opens his eyes to pieces of the Walkman. And that’s all he has. He grabs a piece between his fingers... and holds it to his chest.            That’s all he has.