#cringing in lack of smear frames

[ihearnocomplaints]

okya hello we're mutuals now(slamming head into table sound effect here)

-scribby

Hi!!!! I did this super quick so sorry for the low quality but-

Welcome!!!! New moot hehhesjklrt

[flor4de4amor]

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤

click for palestine | read before engaging w my work+acc

warnings: smoking, drinking, party setting

summary: you’re the basketball manager of abby’s team. you hate her, and for why? she can’t help but notice you’re at the same party as her.

She’s a tough player. She bleeds stark crimson, screams confidence, and demands respect on the court. She owns the court and the crowd. As captain of the team and star player, she constantly has girls throwing themselves at her.

“Abby can you sign my tits?”

“Abby can I take a picture with you?” 

“Abby will you go out with me?”

Abby. Abby. Abby.

While, it’s an ego boost, huge, ego boost, she can’t lie and say it doesn’t get boring. Which is why, she absolutely adores you. Team manager, pain in her ass, and absolutely gorgeous. 

Always rolling your eyes at her, cutting her off when she speaks, “forgetting” to film her for the team’s social media. You work overtime to stay out of her way, but that only riles her up more. 

Now she’s got to piss you off. Get in the way of your shots of video, flipping off the camera in group pictures so now they’re totally useless, causing problems so you get in trouble. God, you’re so uptight. Can’t you learn how to have a bit of fun? Fucking stick up your ass. A good time has never hurt anyone.You’re the only one who gets her acting this way. Before you started the Anderson smear campaign, she was a dictator of a captain.

So imagine her surprise, when she sees Little Miss. Prissy at the latest frat party. Miss. Stick Up Her Ass, has quite the tolerance it seems, as she admires you smoking a thick blunt coaxed with a solo cup. She sucks her teeth, closes her hand into a fist, and runs over her knuckles with her thumb. Ms. Perfect, isn’t so perfect after all. 

She can’t help herself. She starts walking towards you, with that stupid smile on her face. “Hey L/N,” she says, looking you up and down. You look upwards at her, glancing away from your phone, and rolling your eyes. You grunt in response and offer a sarcastic smile for supplement. “You really gonna be that way?” She raises her eyebrow and presses her tongue against the side of her cheek.

You gulp down the remainder of your drink, and place the empty cup in her hand. “Yes, I’m gonna be that way with you Abby.” Bitterness is laced throughout your voice. 

She grimaces, though there’s no threat in the sound. “Fuck I ever did to you huh?” She questions, leaning into your frame. It’s too loud in here. Mo Mamba is playing for the eightieth time. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to get in your personal space.  Abby discards the plastic cup while speaking, aimlessly throwing it on the floor. If she had been trying, she probably would’ve landed directly in the trash can. Well, if the hosts had half a brain to even set up a trashcan in this stupid trap house.

You lean further back and fail. The back of your skull hits the dry wood with a soft thump. Abby’s cornered you against the wall. “Nothing.” You sigh. Alcohol glued to your breath. Eyes red and lidded, your lips jutted slightly. You’re too pretty to hate her. It’s a crime!  

“Nothing yeah?” She steals the blunt from your hands, holding it between her thick fingers. “So what’s your fucking issue with me?” She holds the drug to her lips, her arms still boxing you close to her frame.

You look her up and down. “I’m a mandated reporter y’know. I’ve gotta tell Coach you’re smoking.” 

She laughs heartily. Her breath fans against your face, and you smell the Fireball on it. “I get someone else to take my drug test for me, anyway.” She winks at you. You’re attempted to cringe, but maybe it’s the lack of space or your intoxication but you feel heat rushing to your face.

You’re complied to roll your eyes at her comment. “I also have to report that.”

She smiles, licking her lips. “Let me know when you send in the complaint.” The blunt still dangles from her hands and lingers on her lips.  

“Let me know when you’re gonna take a hint and stop teasing me.” You regret the words out of your mouth as soon as you say them. 

She inhales, ghosting impressively. “You wanna be teased?” Her smirk growing, “I’ll show you teasing. Anytime. Just say when L/N.” 

You laugh, tossing your head back, carefully so you don’t hit the wall again. “You’re so not my type,” you state firmly.

“That’s what they all say,” she takes another hit, now blowing rings.

You take the blunt once it leaves her lips. Snatching it from her fingers and capturing it within your own. “You’re being greedy.” You take a large inhale, holding for a minute. Once exhaling, you blow the smoke in her face.

She feigns a pout. You smile and take another inhale. But once ready to breathe out, Abby closes into your face, parting her lips. She gladly inhales your exhale. “That was practically a kiss.” 

“Gross,” you retort, but the smile on your face betrays you. 

“Gross yeah?” She wets her lips, staring heavily at yours.  You nod intensely. Your eyes find their way to her pink lips. “Hm, I’ll show you gross.” She kisses you, softly at first. When you don’t fight her, and in fact moan, she slips her tongue into your wet mouth. You follow suit. Her hand finds its way to your hair. She pulls away, a string of saliva connecting the two of you. “Thought you said I was gross?”

“Cause you are,” you say attempting to keep up your facade. 

“I’ll show you how gross I can really be,” her hand coming up to your face, smushing it. 

You swat away her hand, killing your soul a little in the process. “Absolutely not,” you reply without a hint of conviction in your voice. 

“Our secret hm?” 

When she says it like that who’re you to deny? “Fine. But don’t let me end up on the long list of names of girls you fucked.” You toss your blunt into one of the forgotten drinks. 

She pinches your ass, hand finding its way to your waist, leading you out the door. It’s gonna be a long night and embarrassing practice run on Monday.

divider by: @dollywons

[wild-karrde]

Ok I don’t know if you’re still doing the lines of dialogue + characters so feel free to ignore! But I’m a HUGE sucker for tenderly patching each other up and I’ve have been LACKING in howzer content so what about Howzer + “that looks like it hurts” (LORD need me some tenderness) ❤️❤️

D!! Ok, so I wrote a SFW prequel of sorts to this NSFW Howzer x Medic!Reader ficlet, but I think it could also maybe be standalone (just drew from the specific moment mentioned there). I hope you dig it!

Rating: T (mention of injuries, death)

Send me an ask with a character + one line of dialogue, and I'll write a ficlet!

His footsteps were heavy in the planet’s dirt as he trudged along, barely aware of where his feet were taking him. He hadn’t stopped replaying the day in his mind. The screams of his men as they lay bleeding and dying around him, the sound of bombs going off around him, the smell of blaster smoke in the air. 

And then there had been you, a calm in the storm around him as you treated everyone you could as quickly as possible. He’d seen the Separatist tank turn towards you as you’d paused to take stock of your med kit, and in that moment, it was as if time had stopped around him. Every moment that your eyes had met, every touch you’d shared, every word and confession that caught in his throat rushed through his mind as he scrambled towards you frantically. 

All that time wasted. And now there may never be a chance.

He’d thrown himself on top of you as the explosion roared around both of you, pulling you against his chest and praying to whatever deity was listening that he’d covered you enough. He may have shouted at you to stay down, but he couldn’t remember. All he could think of was how that might be the only time he’d get to hold you how he wanted to, and he’d unleashed a stuttering breath beneath his helmet at the realization. 

Neither of you had moved as the dust had settled. He’d been holding you tightly enough to feel your pulse racing. Finally, you had shifted beneath him, turning to look up at him. He’d stared at you from beneath his helmet, his eyes scanning you for any visible injuries. 

“Are you alright?” he’d asked. 

You nodded, never breaking from his gaze almost as though you could see his eyes. Your left hand rested against his chest plate, your right clamped firmly around his hand. He allowed his thumb to drift across your knuckles, his mind slowing in the moment, as if you two had all the time in the world to finally say the things that needed to be said. 

In the next instant, the ground shook again, snapping him back to the present. A shout from across the field summoned you, and you slipped from his grasp, casting one last glance over your shoulder as you sprinted away. 

He’d resolved in that instant to not waste another moment. He hadn’t even bothered to stop at his tent or dust himself off. His armor was filthy and he was certain he stunk, but before he knew it, his boots had carried him outside of your tent. There was no door to rap his knuckles against, and he was coming up with the best phrase to let you know he’d arrived when you pushed the flaps open, bumping into him, and the words caught in his throat once more. 

You’d clearly cleaned yourself off, changing into a new shirt and trousers that were meant for utility and yet somehow framed you perfectly. The dust that had streaked your face earlier was gone, your skin scrubbed clean. The shirt had been clean, and Howzer cringed as he saw the dirt he’d smeared on your shoulder when you bumped into him. You found his eyes behind his visor once more before wordlessly stepping back inside, holding the flap open for him in invitation. He steps inside. 

The two of you stand there awkwardly for a few seconds before you finally speak. 

“Captain? Is everything alright?” 

He takes his helmet off, trying to find the right words for the first time in his life and only becoming more frustrated as they continue to elude him. Suddenly, you touch his chin and he stills, every thought vacating his mind as he feels the warmth of your fingertips against his stubbled chin. 

“That looks like it hurts,” you say softly. 

“Huh?” 

“You have a cut above your eyebrow.” 

He reaches up and touches it and winces at the sharp sting. The padding on the inside of his bucket has been thinning and he’d meant to replace it. He supposes one of the sharper edges finally pushed through at some point today, leaving him with the injury. As he winces, he feels the stiffness of dried blood on his temple and cheek. 

I’m a mess. But lucky that's the worst of it.

You gently guide him to your bunk as you rummage in your kit for supplies. Howzer sets his bucket next to his boot on the ground, worried he’s dirtying your bunk as his eyes scan the small space. There’s never time to really make a tent or barracks feel like home during a campaign before they need to be broken down and moved again, and yet everywhere his eyes touch, he sees items that are inherently you: neatly folded clothes piled on the desk, your boots by the door, a bottle of some sort of brown liquor tucked nearly out of view, your datapad lying by your pillow. He imagines you lying in bed at night, scanning through it in your sleep clothes, and suddenly his face feels warm. He shakes his head to clear the thoughts as you straighten from where you were crouched over your kit, coming to stand in front of him. He instinctively spreads his knees, and you smile as you step closer and lean over him. 

“I see you’ve done this before.” 

He huffs a dry laugh. “Try not to, but can’t seem to stay out of trouble.”

You grin as you carefully clean the area around the wound. “If this is the worst trouble you get in, I think you’re doing alright, Captain.” 

“Howzer.”

You pause, looking down at him. He swallows hard. 

“My name is Howzer.” 

“I know. I just figured you’d prefer me to use your rank.”

This was a terrible idea. She doesn’t want me. Why would she ever?

“Howzer.” 

The way his name falls from your lips makes him wish he’d been recording on his helmet. There had never been a sweeter sound. His eyes meet yours, basking in the warmth of your gaze. 

“This may sting a bit. I’m sorry in advance.”

“S’alright.” 

You gently cradle his face as you apply the bacta. He winces at the slight burn, but it’s immediately forgotten when you place the bacta tube down and begin stroking his forehead soothingly as you inspect your work. He feels as if every centimeter of his skin you touch has to be branded with your fingerprints, and he knows it’ll never be enough. 

“Thank you by the way. For today," you say softly. 

He flounders. “Just doing my job.”

“Still. I appreciate it.”

“Couldn’t let you die.” 

You smile at him again as you reach for a bandage to place over the cut. “I do prefer being alive, I think. Too much good food to try and booze to drink, you know?” 

He finally surrenders to the smile that had been threatening. “I suppose. We don’t get much time for that.” 

Your eyes flick to the poorly concealed bottle in the corner, and he follows your line of sight. 

“Well, if you’d ever like to share in some good whiskey, you could always come by here. It’s not the best, but it’s good. At least in my opinion.”

“I think I’d like that.” 

You smooth the bandage over the cut, pausing for a moment before leaning down and pressing a light kiss to it. Howzer’s brain scrambles as you step back, trying to gauge his reaction. He sees fear settle into your eyes, and you pull further away. 

“I’m sorry. I overstepped. It won’t-”

He grips your arm, pulling you into his lap and kissing you frantically, finally allowing the barriers he’d been holding up for every second he’d known you to come crashing down. Your hands fly to cradle his face as you straddle his lap, your fingers raking through his hair as his arms wrap around you, his hands planting against your spine and pulling you closer. His lips work against yours, and he has to fight the urge to sigh as he finally confirms just how soft your lips are against his, how it feels to hold you in his arms.

There’s no hesitation from you, not an ounce of regret, and Howzer knows in that moment, there’ll be no turning back. 

He’s yours.

Tag List: @seriowan @partoftheeternalsoul @rosmariner @misogirl828 @ellichonkasaurusrex @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @gjrain20-starwars @staycalmandhugaclone @redheadgirl @moonstrider9904 @teletraan-meets-jarvis @rain-on-kamino @ladykatakuri

[myficdump]

Love Letters From a Stalker

The Yandere Sam mod gave me the motivation/inspiration to write this. So although I had Sam in mind for this fic, you could imagine the yandere as any Stardew Valley character since I never reveal who it is. Reader/Player is gender-neutral. 

CW: Stalking, Sexual content but it’s more horror than sexy.

Got a request? :)

___________________

Moving to the valley was like a breath of fresh air in the beginning. Although taking care of the farm was hard work, you loved it out here. You loved having a home bigger than the crummy apartment you lived in back in the city and you especially loved all the space up here. Not to mention the quiet and lack of close neighbors. There wasn’t anyone out here to slam their first on your door or the other side of the wall and scream at you for being too loud or stomping a bit too hard on your floors. 

It was great! Until it very well wasn’t. 

Someone was stalking you. You were so sure of it. It was terrifying and you wish you were wrong. But you kept finding things missing. Clothes-  part of you cringes every time you dwell too long on the fact that it’s mostly your underwear that’s been stolen- trinkets like a snow globe or picture frames that contained just you, and some of the gems you brought back from the mines. Originally you had planned on chalking this up to a simple robbery since practically everyone in town knew you weren't home on certain days, but then the letters had started popping up. They started out okay, but quickly deteriorated from innocent to disturbing. 

  "You did amazing at the Egg Hunt! I’m so glad you won. Congrats on the cool hat and for finally beating Abigail. She’s won ever since Alex stopped participating. Which was years ago.”

  “Are you growing strawberries? I saw you buying some at Pierre’s stand during the Egg Festival but they’re going to die soon :(. You planted them too late, you’re supposed to save them for next year so they can be planted at the beginning of spring and give you lots of strawberries.”

  “I wish you asked me to dance with you at the Flower Dance :(. At least you didn’t have to wear one of those dorky suits or the scratchy dresses. I’ve heard Abigail complain that it hurts and really itches. I’ve heard even Haley say the same thing to Alex and Alex in turn complained about how tight the suits are. So you really dodged a bullet. But dancing with you would have been so nice. Your farmer's outfit makes you look so nice :). 

  “Saw you fishing at the beach today! You look so cute, I wish you’d invite me sometime :) <3” 

  “My dear Farmer, why do you keep talking to so many people? I understand that you need to leave the farm to do errands but does getting seeds warrant talking to so many people?” 

  “They don’t know you like I do. I know you better, I know even the things that you don’t ever tell or show anyone. Like your favorite pair of underwear to wear, your favorite seeds to plant, how you like to eat blueberries every chance you get when you grow them. I know more than you might ever know.”

 This was only the tip of the iceberg. You had received far too many letters to show. None of them were ever signed, not even with a “Secret Admirer”. The letters were just written out like notes and the truly long letters just seemed to end when the writer stopped their train of thought. But the worst ones were the sexual ones. Those truly scared you. 

 “ :O Wow you really have stamina! :) Watching you touch yourself over and over was so hot. I promise I’ll make sure to properly please you when we’re together.”

 After this letter, you rushed to buy curtains for the windows in your house. The black ones in your room were never pulled back. You had to buy them from JojaMart and you felt guilty for not going to Pierre, but it had to be done. You felt so violated. No letters like the one above had been sent again. The stalker just expressed disappointment over the curtains but had instead taken to describing their sick fantasies to you. 

You were at a loss on what to do. Pelican Town had no police, only Luis and telling him was certainly not going to help. Not to be rude, but he was a shitty mayor. Besides you, Robin was the only one who tried to actually do anything for this town but there was only so much she could do without the aid of magical beings. 

“Oh Yoba,” you mutter, holding your head in your hands. “Luis would announce to the whole town my stalker problem.”

Definitely not telling him. 

-SNAP-

Hearing a loud noise outside, you shoot up from your couch. Heart racing, you inch over to the kitchen window. Was it your stalker? What would you do if it was? You had your sword but using it on something other than a monster was frightening. Were you really prepared to hurt someone? 

Peeking behind the curtain, you let out a sigh. It was just a wilderness golem. You were safe. For now. What a relief. If it really was your stalker out there you were a goner. Having no close neighbors meant there was no one around to hear you scream.

You sat back down on the couch and once again pondered what you should do about the situation. Eventually, long after your fireplace went dark, you headed to bed. 

****

Your hands shook as you held the note. Would the stalker ever stop? It was Fall and they had sent so many to you at this point. What a great waste of paper. Taking a deep breath, you opened up the letter. 

  “You should stay home tomorrow. I’d make you scream louder than that stupid maze ever would ;).” 

 Oh, that wasn’t so bad. Pretty tame compared to what you’ve been getting recently. Perhaps you really jinxed yourself because what happened next was much worse. As you placed the letter back into the envelope, you noticed a picture. 

Your eyes went wide and a choked gasp left your throat. It was a picture of your underwear, the crotch smeared with cum. Written on the bottom was: 

Can’t wait to cum inside you :). 

 Knowing what your stolen underwear was being used for caused bile to rise in your throat. The picture was quickly shoved back into the envelope along with the letter. 

“Oh shit, oh  shit. What do I do?” You croaked. “Oh Yoba what do I do. I save these as evidence but what can I do?” 

Deciding you didn’t want to be alone you shoved on your boots and dashed to town. You had sprinklers, the crops would be fine. You just needed to hang out at Pierre’s until the Saloon opened and then you could lurk in there, feeling safe with other people. 

A few minutes later, a figure crept out from their hiding spot and stepped onto your porch. A white present in your favorite pair of underwear was left waiting for you on your bed.

[ozarkthedog]

Safe Keeping: Part 4

Summary: Ransom needs you to hold onto his Pinky Ring.

Pairings: Dark!Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Warnings: NonCon, Abuse of Power, Sexual Assault, Swearing, Asphyxiation, NonCon Drug Use, Ransom being an asshole. You have been warned.

Word Count: 2.9k+

Authors Note: This is the end my friends! 

I had no idea when I started this “one shot”, that it’d turn into a 4 Part fic. I am proud of myself. I hope that everyone who reads this series enjoys it as much as I did.💙

No Beta, all fucks up are my own.

Reblogs and Likes are amazing! Feedback and comments are encouraged!

Safe Keeping: Part 1 // Safe Keeping: Part 2 // Safe Keeping: Part 3

Knowing you can’t be gone for too long; you splash cold water on your face. Your eyes were red and your face pale. Taking a bated breath, you made yourself leave the bathroom. Maybe there was still a way out? Your mind couldn’t come up with anything. You were at a loss.

Just as you were about to leave you remembered the ring. Bending down to pick it up, you clenched it in your fist. You’d never look at gold rings the same way again.

Upon leaving the bathroom, you found Fran in the foyer putting on her coat. “Where are you going?” you ask her. Your anxiety spiking.

She sent you a puzzled look, “Harlan has his weekly meet up at the diner. Did you forget?”

You bite your lip, heart thumping harder in your chest. You were going to have to be alone with him. That thought terrified you.

You tried to not shake from fear, you clasping your hands together. You mentioned to Fran that you could take Harlan instead. Praying she would just let you take him.

“Don’t you still have Harlan’s manuscripts to organize?” she asked, as she buttoned up her coat. You shuffled on your feet; you forgot the rest of your tasks after you saw the murderous look on Ransom’s face when you dropped his ring.

You clenched your jaw, “Oh yeah, right.”

Sending you a smile as she opened the door, “Hugh is still here…somewhere. You might have to make him dinner. We will be home in a few hours.”

The door shut, along with the hope that you’d get out of this unscathed. Swallowing down your fear, you looked around the foyer for any sign of Ransom. The house was silent. You felt eyes on you.

You decided to grab your cell phone from your coat pocket by the door. Feeling a little more comfortable with it in your grasp, you make your way to the kitchen. You also felt safer being surrounded by sharp utensils, should you need one.

Turning the corner were stopped short by a thick mass of muscle.

Ransom.

You ricocheted off of his body, tumbling backwards. Your phone and his ring slipped from your hands as you landed on your ass.

“Seems like you have a bad habit of dropping things.” He tone was deadly.

You quickly reached to get your phone but Ransom was faster and kicked it across the foyer. He picked his ring up and slid it back on his pinky.

He reached down to grab you but you scrambled away on hands and knees, the harsh floor already leaving bruises. You get your footing before he grabs you and you run as fast as you can to the kitchen.

“You’re only making this worse on yourself.” He yells out heavy on your heels.

Your body felt electrified as you dove for the draw that contained the large carving knife. Just as you get the draw open, Ransom slams against your body closing the draw.

Pain ignites in your hips as Ransom smothers your body into the marble counter top. Adrenaline surges making you fight. You throw an elbow back and up, barely clocking Ransom’s chin, but he stutters, not expecting it.

He grabs your hair in his left hand and painfully angles your head to the side. “You little bitch.” He spits out. You yelp at the sting coming from your scalp. Afraid he’s going to rip it out, you bring your heel down into his instep, trying all the ways you were taught. He wasn’t fazed by your futile attempt and spun you around to face him.

“I warned you and yet, you still couldn’t follow my simple order of keeping my ring in your cunt.” He spat out and slapped you across the face. The impact landed solid as his other hand was still wrapped in your hair. Dizziness took over, your eyes having a hard time focusing as your cheek felt on fire.

Too dazed to realize his actions, you slumped forward as he tied your wrists up behind your back with one of his expensive scarves. You shook your head, coming to when your knees collided with the kitchen floor. You heard a belt buckle clink.

Ransom fisted his already hard cock out from his pants, smacking you in the face with the appendage.

You tried to shift your weight to the side but his big legs were blocking your way, “Uh uh, you’re not going anywhere.” He crowded your kneeling frame into the wall below the counter top as you clamped your mouth shut.

He laughed out, eyes brightening at your attempts at stopping him, “You think that’s going to stop me? You’re so stupid.”

You lips quivered under the pressure you were putting them. Tears stung your eyes as he wiped his cockhead across your lips smearing pre-cum all over. He enjoyed watching you suffer.

“Ok, that’s enough” he says as he grabbed the sides of your face and slammed your head against the wall. The flash of white pain to the back of your skull made you cry out, easily allowing Ransom to thrust into your mouth.

You gag around his length as it hits the back of your throat. As if he could sense your thoughts of biting him, he stuck a thumb into your mouth. His thumb pulled your jaw down all the way, giving him more access and sufficiently keeping you in place. His finger nails dug into your skin making you weep.

Pulling out all the way he watched you suck in a broken breath. It made him all that much harder. His cock found its way back to your throat, bottoming out, feeling you heave around his aching member.

He sped up giving your throat quick harsh thrusts that made your eyes water. Your groans were muffled by his cock as he fucked your head into the wall behind you.

“Ah, fuck. I love seeing you on your knees.”

Thrust, “Right.”

Thrust, “Where.”

Thrust, “You.”

Thrust, “Belong.” He growled out the last word sending chills up your spine.

Your jaw ached at the pressure he was holding it down with, and your lips were puffy from the abuse.

He shoved his length into your mouth one more time but held it, cutting off your air with his cock. You tried to shake him but his hold on you was firm. He won’t let you go until he wants to. He feels your jaw trying to shut, but it barely moves with his hand holding it open. His face was dark and wild. Hard lines etched on his forehead.

You choke harder around his cock, throat convulsing frantically trying to gasp for air. He watches with pleasure as your face turns red, wanting so badly to breath. You pull madly at the scarf around your wrists and shake your shoulders trying to get some air.

Blood rushes to your head making the pain in your skull throb.

A deep voice cuts through the fog, “Look at me.”

Your watery eyes meet his even though they were unfocused from lack of air, “See the spots yet? That’s when the real fun beings”. If you weren’t on the verge of passing out his tone would’ve made you scream.

Drool slipped down your chin making a mess on the front of your dress. Just as the spots he was talking about started to pepper your vision he dragged his cock from your mouth.

You collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. Your lungs burned as you sucked in precious air, coughing after each breath, spit coated your throat with a thick film.

Just as you caught your breath you feel Ransom crouch over you, a warm hand rubs over your head, almost soothing. You shut your eyes and sighed out.

“Ready for Round 2?” It wasn’t a question.

Ransom grabbed at the base of your hairline and pulled you up on your feet. You wobbled a bit but his hands caught your hip and led you over to the island. Your face met the cold counter top as he bent you over it with a firm hand to your back.

Your toes barely grazed the floor as the marble dug into your hips, the bruises would last a while. He pushed your dress up over your ass and grabbed handfuls of each globe. He lifted his hand, smacking your ass then squeezed the reddened cheeks.

The abuse stopped for a beat, as he looked over your pussy. “Did you fucking clean yourself up even though I told you not to?” he bellowed out at you.

You nodded your head, ashamed that you even thought you could get away with it. He “tsked” at you, shaking his head. “What a stupid girl you are. Maybe this’ll teach you to follow my fucking orders next time.”

 Strong hands gripped your hairline, forcing your head back at an awkward angle. You cry out as your neck makes a weird popping sound under the duress. Ransom uses that moment to shove his pinky ring into your mouth.

The ring hits the back of your tongue making you gag at the unusual object. He fastens one hand over your mouth as the other smacks down suddenly on your ass.  

“When I tell you to do something, you better follow through or else I will have your ass until you manage to do your fucking job right.” He threatens you as he brings his hand down again with a harsh smack.

His large hand swatted you forcefully on the ass. Over and over. The pain made you wither in place, struggling to get away as he laid blow after blow on your ass, giving you no reprieve. The ring bounced around in your mouth, clinking against your teeth. The metal leaving an unpleasant taste in your mouth.

You cried out as he bruised and blistered your ass. He stopped after 10 excruciating blows.

Grabbing at your cheeks with a hard grasp, he shoved his fingers in your mouth. His fingers tickled the back of your throat, you whined out thinking he’d make you swallow it. You gagged brutally around his digits as he played with his ring on your tongue. “Clean your whore juices off of it.” After another few ruthless thrusts, he dragged his ring from your mouth.

He draped himself over you, pushing you hard into the marble. He licked a line up the side of your neck making you cringe and whine out.

His lips brushed your ear with a hushed but evil tone, “I’m going to wreak this cunt and you’re going to thank me after.”

You cry out at his words trying to shake your arms free again. The knot was tight, cutting off your circulation. You wouldn’t be surprised if your hands turned purple by the end of this nightmare.

You stiffened when you felt his large cock head swipe through your folds. They were soaked with your unwanted slick. His head fell to your shoulder, relishing in the way your pussy rubbed against his dick. He pulls back and spits lewdly on your pussy. The act made you dry heave.

He gritted through his teeth, “Say please.”

Shaking your head, you cry out in frustration. “Come on, be a good whore and say it.” He accents his statement with a sharp smack to your ass.

You yelp and let your forehead fall to the marble, whimpering out in submission, “Please.”

“Please. What?”

You swallow before spitting out, “Please, Hugh.”

He smiles into your neck before shoving his legs between yours, lining up and shoving his cock deep inside your pussy. He hits your cervix on the first thrust, filling you up completely. You scream out in pain at the stretch and the intrusion.

He drags his cock out and pushes back into your tight hole with a firm thrust. He groans out at your tightness. Your hot cunt swirls around his cock, making him rut into you with fervor. Another deep thrust hits your cervix making you cry out.

Ransom stands up, allowing your crushed frame to finally take a full breath. He grabs your hips and pulls you to meet his thrusts. Your slick trickles down your thighs and makes lewd sounds as he takes you from behind.

You cry out at every thrust; the pain never ceases until Ransom snakes his hand under you finding your clit. You tense up at the feeling, not wanting to cum from the abuse he forces on your body.

His fingers glide around your clit, flicking and pulling on it as your cries turn to mewls. Shaking your head, you will yourself to not cum for him.  

“Don’t hold back from me, bitch. I know you want to come.” You cry out as he smacks your clit hard. The pain shocks you making your pussy convulse around him. He hits your clit again and again forcing you to cum on his cock.

His thrusts quicken as he feels you tense up. Your body going rigged with pleasure as he lands another smack to your swollen clit making you hit your peak. Your body tingles and spasms around his cock as you cum with a shout.

“There you go. Good Girl.” He grunts out chasing his own orgasm.

Ransom pounds into you hard. Groaning with every pull of his cock, his balls slap against your clit as he feels your pussy slicken up more from your orgasm. He drapes his body over yours pushing the air out of your lungs, making it hard to breath again as he fucks into you deeper and deeper.

He bites at your earlobe before gritting though his teeth, “I’m gunna cum.”

Your eyes go wide. All the blood rushes from your face. He can’t.

Trying to get him to stop, you shout, “Hugh, please, no! I’m not on birth control!”

He growls out, hips starting to stutter, “You think I fucking care.” With that he shoves the side of your face against the counter with one hand. His palm is sweaty on your face, crush you down on the marble.

You cry out as you feel him come inside you with a loud groan. His grip on your hip and face tightens as his body goes rigged. His seed floods your pussy, coating every inch. Coming down from his high, he moves his hips in and out watching as he fucks his seed into your cunt.

“Damn, what a sight.” He say as he pulls his cock out of you and steps back. Some of his seed oozes out of you dripping down your legs. He unties your wrists and slides you off the counter top.

Your back to kneeling on the floor, completely wreaked. Every part of you is sore and aching. You sniffle as Ransom stands over you, “Do you job. Clean me up.”

You despise him.

He can sense your hatred and smirks down at you, “I’m waiting.”

Taking him in your mouth, you lick him clean. The mixture of your fluids hits your tongue, making you cringe. Sour, salty and musky. You swallow it down in a hurry trying not to vomit.

Ransom tucks himself back into his pants and stands there waiting for you to get up.

You push your dress down to cover yourself, not that it matters.

He gets a glass of water and hands it to you. You take it in confusion, sending him a look as he takes a pill out of his pocket. “Take this.”

“What is it?” You ask, not trusting him as you look the pill over in your hand.

The look he shoots you is deadly. “Do what I say.”, His tone heavy with command.

You put the glass down and shove the pill back in his hand, “No. I don’t know what it is. I’m not taking it.”

He shakes his head, “You fucking stupid bitch.”

He lunges at you, taking you in a headlock. He pried your mouth open and dropped the pill in. Clamping your mouth shut with his hand. His threat is simple, “Swallow the god damn pill.”

You try to shake him off again, but it was pointless. You whimper as you swallow the pill, horrified at what you just did.

He lets you go with a shove. Turning to face him you see the irritation painted on his face. “Why can’t you just follow simple directions?” He sighs out at you, “It was a Plan B pill. I certainly don’t want to knock you up.”

You slump to the floor feeling lightheaded. What had you done to incur his wrath?

Standing over you with hands on his hips, full of arrogance, “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

You wrack your brain, other than “fuck you” or couldn’t imagine what he wanted you to-

You remembered now. Your face full of anger. “Ah ah, say it nicely.” As he raises his hand up in warning.

Huffing out, you take a deep breath calming yourself down, “Thank you, Hugh.”

Smiling at your submission, “You’re welcome.”

He points with disdain to your pitiful form on the floor and says “Clean this place up, it’s a mess.”

As he walks out of the room, he reminds you, “Remember, you still have to organize Harlan’s manuscripts.”

You watch him leave with a spring in his step. Not sure if this was a one time thing, or if this was the start to a whole new life working for The Thrombeys.

[bettabluetown]

~A Memory Away ~

(since I don't feel like making a new ao3 account, I'm just gonna post this stuff here. Oh btw, I tried something a little different with the perspective since I haven't written in forever. Another side note, the reader is non-binary.)

[tw: mentions of suicide]

Ch.1

With every breath, pain followed. Blood spilled into the soft blanket of snow beneath torn boots. Vision blurry, nose bleeding, fingernails encrusted with red and speckled with dirt.

The crash.

Dry, drawn out heaves echoed into the breeze. Air kissing every open wound-- their right leg ripped and mangled making it unrecognizable. Snow buried into a fingerless, burgundy oozing hand as it grasped at the ground. Every blink becoming more and more unbearable as the hole where an eye used to be started to fester and burn.

The man.

Ice cloaked stones pressed into aching feet. Sensitive, bruised skin flinching with each tickle of scarce grass. Another bated breath. Another slow, painful movement. Steady.

The journal.

Control. Breathe. Blades of dead grass had brushed under each and every tear. The closest thing to comfort being the chilly touch of wind caressing exposed flesh. They closed their eyes; death was on the horizon, they were ready to give up. They felt trapped, wanting to let go but the fear of what came after made them hold on.

A house appeared just a few inches away. Its door torn off the hinges and buried in dirt. They approached cautiously, stumbling inside and slamming against the interior. Old wooden, abandoned walls propped them up, the fingerless hand hugging the violently ripped apart muscle and tissue that was once their leg. They were lost, far from home, no memory of why or how they ended up in such a place. Dying. All that barely scratched the front of their brain were recent events. The car crash. The man and his chains. The journal.

Agony and anger ran through their veins, knuckles paling, palms bleeding from too much pressure. They gritted their teeth, banging the wall in defeat with a clenched fist. No one wants to die...Not like this anyways.

Soft, warm, tear drained lids slowly closed. The cold had never felt so welcoming like it did in that moment. Giving up wasn't so...bad, if the pain went away then maybe...something clicked in the distance. Loud static echoed in the withering house they sat in. The sound of a radio buzz and a cleared throat snapped their (working) left eye open.

It felt like a fever dream. Some kind of strange saw scenario that they just so happened to get stuck in the middle of. Something began to rumble through; a thunderous, exhausted, showy voice crackling out of the speaker.

"You're tough kid, I'll give you that." The audio stuttered, the sound peaking every so often. The voice that grated pass the radio sounded tired and pained, a forced theatrical tone painted over it.

"You know, I thought you were as good as dead when mega bitch got her hands on you." The voice, it was clearly a man's; It was rough and sounded like it hadn't been used in ages. They suddenly grew worried, the realization that someone or something was watching their every step. "Wh-who..-" They groaned out, the words coming out more painfully than they expected, deciding it'd be better to cut the question short. The decrepit floorboards had creaked with each movement; wood groaned as they assiduously dragged their body to the other side.

Their bloody fingers collided with the desk, smacking the surface as they tried to reach for the radio.

Everything hurt, each bone cracked and shifted; blood had flowed like a river in a storm. A harsh wind hit the decaying house, their body cringed from the chill, a whimper escaping ice cold lips.

"I'm feeling generous, pipsqueak." it sounded like he talked with a grin, like this whole situation was just a normal event for the week; "Make it towards the woods just past that little village you're in and follow the trees with yellow paint. Quite simple isn't it?" Exhaustion and panic grew in the pit of their stomach from those words. The sick game that the man was trying to play illustrated a terrible outcome.

"I- how can I tr-trust you?" An amused chuckle ensued, a pleased response followed. "Well I'll leave that to you, trust is a gamble after all." His smile could be heard with each word that passed him. "Remember, follow the trees with yellow paint..there should be a little surprise waiting for you there." The radio crackled, static cutting abruptly, the sound of his entertained chortle faded with the noise. The silence waded in like the snow outside.

Small clouds of warm breath pushed through purpled, frozen lips; teeth grinding against one another. It took one step--one movement and then the motor could start. Sliding up the wall, they whimpered and held down the anguished groans that were desperate to break free from the confines of their throat. Blood spilled down their chin, dull teeth Nibbled in concentration, the soft flesh of their mouth breaking. Just One step. Another.

Their ankle screamed with each step, the bone Grinding aloud. Snow covered their exposed toes, one hand gripping onto the splintered door frame that welcomed the outside.

Despite the lack of an eye, they could just about make out where the forest stood. A low, dead tired sigh escaped them. The journey was long and to be realistic, they most likely wouldn't survive the trip-- sheer luck and willpower would be the only things that keep them alive. So with a sharp inhale, they began to walk. They weren't even sure if the whole idea was smart, but death was knocking at their door and they decided in that moment that they weren't quite ready to open it.

←–––→

The woods held an untamed darkness. They stood just outside of it, the entrance luring them in with the hushed sounds only the trees could make. Yellow paint smeared on the nearest tree being the only indicator that someone had braved the forest before them. Wind whispered through the dead branches, crows cawed in the distance, and echoed low growls dripping from starved predators waiting for their prey.

Blood smacked the ground. It spilled from every wound they could see. They panted, clouds of breath painting the air. Everything was slowly becoming harder and harder to see. Through half lidded eyes, they could barely make out the next yellow mark, their good hand gripping whatever tree that stood nearby.

The enticing idea of giving up slowed the journey. They entertained the thought the whole way there; thinking that whatever waited for them at the end of the paint trail, might just be as bad as falling to their knees and letting death's cold digits steal away the final breath. It was a serious thought, a question that would be left unanswered, for a soft orange light reflected off the snow. The sun was beginning to set and, like luck being the wonderful bastard it is, a cabin appeared in the distance. A can of yellow paint resting just outside of the little home.

Upon reaching the small cabin, it looked pretty old, made sturdy with care by most likely whomever lived inside. They knocked, cautious. They awaited a trap or rather hoped it was just a hallucination. If it was real, then meeting the homeowner might not be for the best. Although, once bloody knuckles rapped against the aged door, it opened without much hesitance-- it was as if a force pushed the door open for them. There was no turning back, no doubt would cloud their mind anymore. With careful breaths and a final glance back to the forest, they stepped in, the aged cabin door slamming shut as soon as they entered.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

The Crucible (part one)

[UK Tour]

not to be confused with the play The Crucible...this is yet another Carrie AU because i still have ideas, but i swear everything is wrote differently! and Kitty is the good guy (Sue) because Jodie!Howard would NEVER. okay, well, she’s a little mean at first, but she gets better!! also there is Katanna, which kills me to write, but i love imagining Anna as Tommy. and Jane is insane! so...enjoy!

oh also Hans Holbein is the principal lol

Word count: 7380

TW: The r-word is said once, blood, bullying

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

-Hail of Stones-

  “What can you tell me about Joan Seymour?”

Eighteen year old Katherine Howard leaned back in her chair, arms crossed firmly over her chest, eyes set on the detective in front of her. He was a grizzly man named James Mulaney, with wide shoulders, neatly combed brown hair, and hazel eyes. He looked at Katherine like he wanted to open up her brain and read through all her thoughts and memories.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Was she a friend of yours?” Mulaney asked.

  “Joan didn’t have friends.” Katherine answered without a beat.

Mulaney quirked a brow. “Really? When I was in school, even the losers had birds of a feather.”

Katherine scoffed at his assumptions and gazed down at the doughnut she had been given when she came in for questioning that morning. She scratched at crusted pieces of glaze with her pointer finger; the paint on the fingernail is vibrant pink and peeling. She had chewed off most of her nails during all the funerals that had filled the past two weeks.

  “Joan wasn’t a loser,” She said. “She just didn’t belong.”

  “And why is that?” Mulaney pressed.

  “It’s not rocket science.” Katherine said. “We are talking about Joan Seymour.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to belong.”

  “Everybody wants to belong,” Katherine said. Her dark amber eyes flickered as she lifted her head to stare at Mulaney. “Anybody who tells you they don’t is lying.”

------

The early afternoon was glorious. Sunbeams glinted off dewdrops clinging to blades of emerald green grass and the sky was a clear bright blue for once, letting the sun rain down on the high school campus.

And that was exactly why Miss Aragon’s fourth period gym class was inside.

The sound of splashing echoed loudly throughout the indoor pool, the smell of chlorine thick in the air. Girls donned in black or blue or red one piece swimsuits and black swim caps were wrestling and romping in the water as they waited for the ball to be served so they could continue the game of water volleyball. Miss Aragon, clad in a yellow and black tracksuit and her usual shiny silver whistle, watched over them from the sides of the pool, eyes sharp and focused.

  “Come on, ladies!” She shouted. “Let’s try to keep it in the air three times, alright?”

Katherine got into a defensive position, eyes narrowed into slits and hands out. Her sharp-tongued, gremlin-like older cousin, Anne Boleyn, got into the same stance at her side and flashed her a smirk before lunging up to hit the ball that flew over the net. Katherine copied her when it came back over, and this process repeated until a girl on the other side missed and the white ball landed in the water with a loud plop.

  “Yeah!!” Anne cheered. She and Katherine locked hands and twirled around in the water, giggling. “We are graduating this year, Miss Ar-a-gon!!”

Katherine leaned her head back and saw Miss Aragon chuckling fondly at their antics. She signaled for the girls to get ready and Katherine and Anne parted, ready to get their team another point.

But they didn’t. 

Because the ball was hit far and the girl who was supposed to be occupying the back space was standing at the edge of the pool, dry as can be, and staring dumbly at the ball that splashed below her.

All eyes turned to Joan Seymour, the frog amongst swans.

She was an undernourished, stunted mess of a human being. Lanky and gaunt, with a narrow chest, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes that were so bright ice blue that they seemed to glow in the overhead light. Her limbs were too long for her thin body, while her body was too thin for her long limbs. She was pale, like she rarely ever went outside during the day and bathed in moonlight instead, and wiry platinum, almost white, blonde hair fell around her lean skull. The black swimsuit she wore did not compliment her frame very well, hugging tightly around pudgy thighs and forearms with tufts of brown pubic hair sticking out from the crotch area, and the lack of protection revealed dozens of cuts and bruises in various stages of healed to prying eyes. There was one in particular on her left shoulder that was crusted in bubbles of dried pus and blood; it made Katherine’s nose curl in disgust when she saw it.

Joan was only 15, Year 11 and two grades below Katherine, but Katherine had known her since Primary School. Everyone did. Everyone knew about Ol’ Prayin’ Joan and her crazy mother. And that made her a target for even the lowest of losers. There’s been years worth of teasing and messing around with this girl. School days full of pinching and tripping and knocking books over. Peanut butter smeared in too-light-to-be-natural hair when she was sleeping in Algebra and inappropriate notes slipped into her binders. Scorpions put into her shoes, thumbtacks poised on her chairs, lunches dumped over her head. Dozens of games created to see who could make Joan cry first or who could make Joan get down on her knees and pray to God or who could dunk Joan underwater the most at summer camp. Slurs and rude nicknames were tossed her way, worms were put in her food, and spit was spat on her as she passed by. People laughed when she presented, people begged the teacher to switch partners when they were put into a group with her, people destroyed her work so she would have nothing to turn in when she got to certain classes.

Everyone made fun of Joan Seymour, and if she knew this, she never did anything about it.

Joan lifted her head like an impeded cow and blinked slowly at Miss Aragon, who was frowning pitifully at her. She looked back down at the ball, then the water, and then she took a shuffling step backwards, hugging her arms tightly around herself.

  “Do you think she’s retarded?” Maria de Salinas not-quite-whispered to Katherine and her friends. Her golden brown eyes were scrutinizing Joan with great distaste that she didn’t bother hiding on her face. At her side, bleach-haired Bessie Blount giggled softly. Katherine shrugged.

  “I bet she is,” Impish Maggie Wyatt said, glancing back at Joan, who was slowly inching further and further away from the edge of the pool. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Does she never take that necklace off?” Bessie said, staring at the silver cross necklace coiled around Joan’s gangly neck.

  “Doubt it,” Maria said.

  “I bet she thinks she’ll die if she does,” Maggie tittered. “That God will strike her down if she does such a disgraceful thing!” And then she does a dramatic reenactment of what that would probably look like and the group burst into giggles. Miss Aragon glanced at them, eyebrows furrowed.

  “Alright, let’s get Joan Seymour in the game.” Their coach announced, much to everyone’s dismay. But nobody looked more dismayed than Joan, who gave Miss Aragon a miserable, fearful look. Miss Aragon frowned at her again. “Sorry, honey. You can’t sit on the sidelines forever.”

Joan stared nervously down at the water, then glanced one last time up at Aragon. When she must have realized that she wasn’t getting out of this, she put on her swim cap and slowly eased herself into the pool, pulling her arms close to her chest and cringing at the temperature. The other girls watched her impatiently.

  “Good,” Miss Aragon said, smiling at Joan proudly. “Joan, serve.”

The ball is tossed to the girl and she goggled at it with wide pale blue eyes. Tentatively, she picked it up and held it as if it were a fragile dragon egg.

  “Yeah, Joan!” Anne suddenly cheered. “Go, Joan!”

Katherine and her friends glanced at her and then began to mimic her. Joan blinked at them in delight.

  “Come on! Do it! Serve it!” Anne encouraged. “Throw it!”

Joan shook herself out, tossed the ball up, and hit it directly into the back of Katherine’s head.

  “OW!!” Katherine yelled. She reached around to rub the back of her head and glowered at Joan as giggling exploded around her. “What the hell?” She snapped her head to her cousin. “Oh, hahaha! It’s so funny, Anne!”

Everyone in the pool was laughing, now. Joan watched them in silence for a moment before giggling softly, too, and smiling apologetically. She looked just like a stupidly oblivious bovine.

  “You eat shit.” Anne said to her, throwing the ball to Maria.

Like that, Joan shut up. Her smile contorted into a frown in an instant and her eyes lost the slight glow they had before. She lowered her head and didn’t raise it for the rest of the class as she tried to sink into the background.

Katherine’s team ended up losing the game seven to sixteen because the other side kept hitting the ball to Joan, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hit it back or make it over the net. Everyone kept glaring at her and shooting barbed remarks her way each time she missed, and Aragon did her best to ward them off, but not even their coach could catch every insult hurled her way.

  “‘Oh, I can’t serve the ball! I can’t serve the ball!’” Maggie cried woefully in an awful imitation of Joan’s voice. She whacked the top of Joan’s head with her knuckles as she waded by. “Serve the ball, stupid!”

Joan flinched back so hard she nearly submerged herself in the water. She backed against the pool’s rough edge, watching everyone climb out from the ladders like a plaintive calf waiting to be herded into the slaughterhouse. Anne wrinkled her nose at her, while Katherine rolled her eyes. The girl was so pitiful that it was just pathetic.

  “Come on, Joan,” Miss Aragon said, peering down at the misfit child. There was something in her voice that gave the impression that she spent a lot of time managing this particular student. “Hit the showers.” She tilted her head at her, noticing creases of affliction on Joan’s face. “Is everything alright?”

  “M-my stomach…” Joan whispered so quietly Miss Aragon almost didn’t hear her over the sound of chitchat and splashing water. “It hurts…”

Miss Aragon frowned. “I’m sorry, Joan.” She said. “You can go to the nurse after you get changed? I can write you a pass if you’d like.”

Joan shook her head, then slowly walked over to the ladder and squabbled out of the pool. She was shivering instantly from her lack of body fat, despite it being quite warm inside from all insulation, and awkwardly shuffled her way to the locker room.

Lavender and rose-scented steam billowed throughout the showers. White bars of soap were passed between hands and loud conversations were made over the sound of sputtering water from stall to stall. Wet swimsuits were peeled off and replaced with regular school clothes, jewelry, and expensive shoes. Girls pinched and poked one another playfully, but no one dared to touch the gangly, emaciated girl who stepped inside and looked around dumbly.

Joan passed everyone with a lowered head, not daring to look up as she hobbled her way to the showers. She shifted from foot to foot anxiously, white-knuckling a cream towel against her flat bosom. Prying eyes watched her with cruel interest.

A stall opened up and Joan slipped inside. She shed her tight bathing suit, dropping it onto the tile floor with a soggy blop. She grasped the faucet handle and cranked it until the shower head groaned and shot out a torrent of hot water.

Slicking her hands with white soap, Joan began to tentatively scrub her body clean of chlorine. She rubbed her palms down over her flat stomach, sensitive chest, and around her narrow neck. Her nails raked over her breasts; the nipples were dark and dull and warm. An uncomfortable shiver went down her spine when she scratched them. Mama said touching the body like this was wrong, and she could see why. It hurt to put too much pressure on them, like her breasts may burst like balloons if she pressed too hard.

Joan shook herself out, scattering droplets through the shower. She moved her hands down, caressing her waist and lower stomach, where an odd, uncomfortable pressure has built up. She prodded the area gently and winced when bolts of pain lanced through her. She shifted, hunching her shoulders in, and gritted her teeth until it passed. 

But it didn’t. Not exactly. The sensation dulled, but she could still feel it churning in her lower belly. Joan frowned, cupping her hands over her abdomen and taking a few deep breaths. Then, slowly, she started cleaning herself again.

Down her stocky legs, over her knobby knees, and in between her flabby thighs. She shuddered, chewed fingernails brushing across her private region, and pulled her hand back quickly.

And saw that her fingers were red.

Joan stared with wide eyes. Red. Blood. On her fingers. Blood.

She extended her other hand and reached down, scooping out another fingerful, just to make sure…

And there it was. Blood. Even more. It was thick and globby and had clotted chunks in it. The smell was sickly sweet. Joan began to tremble.

Her blood. She was bleeding.

Beads of red bubbled out from pale pink vaginal lips like the early blooming of spring flowers. They squeezed free out of the wrinkled, pruned folds, drooling lazily down quivering thighs. Clouds of crimson billowed through the water when the streams hit the tile and ran into the next stall where, unbeknownst to Joan, Maggie was just finishing drying off.

Maggie noticed the river of bloody water with a jolt and reared back into the far corner of her stall. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and stood up on her tippy toes to peer into the neighboring shower compartment, where she saw Joan trembling, gasping, and staring down at her shaking hands, which were stained with blood.

Click, went the pieces in Maggie’s head, and a wicked smile curled on her lips.

Hopping over the reddened Rubicon, Maggie bounded out of the shower and to the locker room, where Katherine, Anne, and her other friends chatted over their prom plans in their bras and underwear. They paused and turned to Maggie when she skidded to a halt in front of them.

  “Guys,” Maggie whispered, “Joan’s Aunt Flo is in town.”

The other girl’s eyes lit up.

  “Really?” Katherine asked with great interest.

  “Yes!” Maggie answered. “She’s, like, freaking out!”

  “Oh my god!” Anne shouted in glee.

  “Come on!” Maggie urged them.

In a herd of bras and underwear and towels and bobbing breasts, the entire class bustled into the shower area and surrounded the stall where the blood was coming from. There, they found Joan on her knees, gasping and wheezing and panting. Her weird pale eyes were wide and shiny and she was shaking so bad it looked like she was having a seizure. Clouds of blood ripple around her folded legs. Clots are caught in her bush of brown pubic hair and Bessie made a mock throwing up gesture. Joan looked up at all of them in shocked bewilderment.

  “Got your period?” Maria called, peering into the stall. They were all standing up on their toes or on stools to peek into the stall.

Joan blinked rapidly, her breath hitching. She lifted her hands slowly, watching them drip blood, and then raised them to the spectators, making a strangled sound of distress. Katherine and Anne exchange looks.

  “Uhhhnnnh?” Joan lowed wretchedly. She was like a confused cow calling for help.

She’s fifteen... Katherine was thinking. Surely she knows...

  “Know what this is?” Anne asked, waggling a tampon in the air.

  “She thinks it’s lipstick!” Bessie giggled. All of their minds flashed back to that story, when Bessie had told them she had walked in on Joan dabbing the tip of a tampon against her lips like she was applying gloss. Bessie said it had been the stupidest, funniest, but also most pitiful thing she had even seen before.

  “Plug it up, bitch!” Anne hurled the tampon at Joan and it struck her in the head before falling into the bloody water accumulating throughout the stall. Joan flinched, but didn’t grab it. She just continued to shiver and hyperventilate and make choked, bovine noises. Frustration boiled in Katherine’s veins.

  “It’s you period, you stupid cow!” Katherine shouted furiously. “You’re bleeding everywhere! Clean yourself up already!”

They expected Joan to scream, to cry, to gobble helpless pleas to God, but she didn’t. Joan just hunched in on herself and began to shake harder. She didn’t even clasp her hands together like she was praying or anything.

  “PER-iod!”

It was impossible to discern who let out the first cry; Katherine thought it may have been Maggie, but it didn’t matter because once was enough.

Everyone began to join in.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

Joan’s head snapped up again. Her eyes are even wider than they were before, pale irises flashing with terror, and the whites throbbed with intense wetness. Her mouth yawned open, but no noise came out. She just stared dumbly at all of them as she shivered, small breasts bouncing with each tremor. Katherine’s face puckered with annoyance and disgust.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

Girls started banging their hands on the stall walls and rims loudly, still shouting over the heavy thumping. Peals of laughter shrieked noisily, rebounding off of the locker room and stabbing into ears, and a few more tampons and pads were thrown at Joan.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

It was becoming a chant, an incantation, a hex of humiliation directed at a naked girl bleeding all over herself in the shower. She just looked so dumb. It was easy to pity her, which Katherine, for one, did, but it was also so easy to make fun of her. And it was fun to do so. She always gave such good reactions. And it was okay, Katherine decided, because everyone was doing it. There was no harm in a little teasing. They weren’t hurting Joan. Although, her face was becoming a strange shade of white…

Joan crumpled over onto her side and several girls made a chorus of ���EWW!” as bloody period water splashed around her. It sluiced into her long white-blonde hair, washing the locks a shade of horrible red that made Katherine’s stomach turn in disgust. Joan clamped her hands over her ears, curled into a tight ball, and whimpered.

  “Plug it up, heifer!” Maggie cackled, throwing a tampon at Joan’s bare bottom. “Plug it up!”

Joan moaned weakly in response and coiled up even tighter. From her angle, Katherine could see into the gap between her legs and saw with repugnance the moist black abyss that was her bleeding vagina. Boils of blood belched from her folds and oozed freely down her thighs, blooming into great big flowers across the tile.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

  “PER-IOD! PER-IOD! PER-IOD!!!”

By now, the yelling has been heard by Miss Aragon, who dropped her current paperwork on her desk and came striding out of her office to see what the commotion was.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

Katherine shook off her doubt. Joan always overreacted like this. It was fine. They were just having fun! It was Joan’s own fault for not knowing and being so stupid.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

  “HEY!”

And then, Miss Aragon was there in her blindingly yellow tracksuit with black stripes that made her look like an offending wasp. She shoved her way through the wall of arms slamming against the stall walls, hitting several away with disapproving glares and sharp smacks, and tore open the door.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

The image of a killer wasp was momentarily replaced with a bumblebee about to be smashed to death by a boot because Miss Aragon genuinely looked startled at the sight of one of her students curled into a fetal position on the floor, completely naked, barely breathing over her panic, and surrounded by more blood than water. She gawked at the spattered mess that were Joan’s legs, blood so dark it looked black, and then the damp tampons and pads floating around her like the unmelted remnants of a snowball fight. Everything clicked into place for her and her dark brown eyes flashed with rage.

  “PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod! PER-iod!”

  “KNOCK IT OFF!!!” Miss Aragon roared. She spun around and seized Katherine’s wrist in a near bone-crushing grip. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Katherine flinched back slightly in shock. She had never been yelled at so intensely by her gym teacher or even grabbed at like this before. 

  “She’s just got her period, that’s all,” Katherine said dismissively.

  “Shame on you.” Miss Aragon hissed. She glared at Katherine so fiercely it was a wonder the girl didn’t burst into flames. She then turned that glare onto all her other students, face twisted in hatred and disappointment. The chanting has died off by then, and they could all hear the sniffles and whimpers Joan was emitting on the floor.

  “GET OUT!” Miss Aragon bellowed. “EVERYBODY! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

The girls instantly scattered. A few had even already gotten dressed and fled the locker room before names could be written down. Miss Aragon grabbed the cream towel hanging up on one of the hooks, turned off the water, and knelt down next to Joan.

  “Joan?” Miss Aragon said, softening her voice of all its barbs and thorns. She draped the towel around Joan carefully. “Joan, come on.”

Joan’s reaction to being touched was instantaneous- her eyes shot open wide and she sucked in a sharp, grating breath that made her entire body heave with the force of the gasp. Then, she began to shake even harder, limbs flailing, whimpers forming words.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She sobbed. “I’m sorry!”

  “It’s alright.” Miss Aragon said, trying to pull Joan up out of the red lake. “Come on. Come on.”

Joan was in too deep in her panic to properly process the words. She spasmed and wailed in an awful, anguished way.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Joan wept. She’s pulled up into a sitting position against Miss Aragon’s chest. Her arms flew out and she began grabbing frantically at anything she could get her hands on. “Help me! HELP ME!!”

  “Joan! Alright, Joan!” Miss Aragon said loudly as the collar of her golden tracksuit was grappled onto and tugged on desperately. “Joan? JOAN!”

Joan frenzied harder. Miss Aragon pursed her lips, raised a hand, and smacked Joan smartly on her cheek. An overhead light fizzed out and exploded.

Joan dissolved into loud, fearful sobs. Miss Aragon tucked her head underneath her chin, pulling the poor girl closer to her. Joan’s panicking did not seize as she continued to gasp and wheeze helplessly.

  “Shh, shh,” Miss Aragon soothed her. She stroked her fingers through Joan’s wet hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay, honey.”

Joan took a few sharp, raspy breaths, then whimpered weakly. She looked up at Aragon, tears pouring from her shiny blue eyes, and asked, “Am I dying?” 

------

Miss Aragon tried to explain the process of menstruation to Joan for almost an hour, but each time she did, Joan would always get the same confused, startled expression on her face. She was utterly terrified of the concept of her insides shedding their skin and making her bleed from her vagina, more so than Aragon was when she had first heard about periods when she was little. Explaining what tampons and pads were and how to use them wasn’t a process that was any easier either, so Aragon ended up putting one into Joan’s underwear for her. The entire time, Joan boggled her with wide, fearful eyes. Her hands were gripping at her belly, seizing the cloth of her sweater tightly each time a cramp ripped through her. Aragon assumed that that had been the stomach pain Joan had told her about when she was in the pool.

After the sudden SexEd lecture, Aragon guided limping Joan down the mercifully empty hallways and to the front office. Joan was left out in the waiting room, ogled by the receptionist, student helpers, and two mischievous boys awaiting their punishment for skipping class while Aragon went into the principal’s office to discuss the incident.

Principal Holbein, a mellow, well-liked man by his staff and students alike, looked supremely uncomfortable the moment Aragon launched into an explanation. He did his best to look mature and refined about this, but he couldn’t help but cringe when the details of all the blood and nudity and sanitary items were described greatly.

  “Isn’t she a little, you know…” He said vaguely.

  “What?” Aragon stopped her process of pacing around the room and ranting. “Old? For her first?” She didn’t wait for a nod or response, “Yeah. Most girls get theirs when they’re 12. I got mine when I was 10.”

Holbein blinked up at Aragon from behind his desk. “10?” He echoed, trying to sound like he knew that that was strange.

  “I was wearing these white pants,” Aragon explained, laughing dryly. “Oh my god, I was mortified! I-” She noticed the look on Holbein’s face and sniffed, squaring back her shoulders. “The point is--” She grit out. “Up until a half hour ago, Joan Seymour thought her first period was Homeroom.”

Holbein snorted out a light laugh. “Homeroom. That’s good.”

  “It’s not funny.” Aragon said coldly, and Holbein shut his mouth instantly. “She thought she was bleeding to death.”

Holbein swallowed down his humiliation and nodded briskly. He sifted quickly through one of her drawers, producing a pink dismissal slip after a moment.

  “I’m just--” He fumbled with a black pen that left spatters of ink across the paper. “I find it hard to believe that a girl her age wouldn’t know--something.”

Aragon snorted morbidly. “You think her mother would have told her?”

  “It is not our place to interfere with people’s beliefs.” Holbein reminded her gently. Aragon scoffed and rolled her eyes, folding her arms firmly over her chest.

  “What about the other girls?” Aragon started on another furious tangent. “They cornered her and yelled things at her. What do we do about them?”

  “Well, they need to be punished,” Holbein said. “Think you can handle that?”

Aragon looked pleased about that. “Of course,” She said, a small smirk of anticipation for revenge twitching on her lips.

  “In the meantime,” Holbein said, “she--the girl--”

  “Joan?” Aragon reminded him.

  “Yes! Joan. She may go home. I assume this must have been quite--traumatic--for her.” He leaned over and pressed the button on his com system. “Ms. Reed, please send in Joan Sheymour.”

  “It’s Joan Seymour.” Aragon hissed.

  “Right, yes,” Holbein nodded, and then said as the door opened a crack a few seconds later, “Come in, June.”

Joan slipped inside, dripping wet and miserable-looking. Snarled tangles of wet white-blonde hair drooped around her pale face like soggy snakes. Her eyes were dark and blank, like an ocean during a storm, and tear stains were still evident on her cheeks. She stopped at the door, so Aragon crossed over to her and gently guided her to the desk.

Holbein looked up at her from his large leather office chair, but she didn’t look back at him. She didn’t even raise her head from its angled position directed at the floor. He swallowed thickly, getting strange vibes from this student. He was so used to being barked and snapped and glared at by teenagers that entered his office. This silence and avoidance of eye contact didn’t feel right.

  “We feel that it would be best if you went home for the day and took care of yourself,” Holbein said, not sure if Joan was even listening to him. “We’re all very sorry about this, June.”

  “It’s Joan,” Joan said quietly. Barbs edged her words, but they were too soft to be pricked by.

  “Do you need a ride?” Holbein asked as he scribbled his name on the dismissal slip. “Because we can call a cab if you need one.”

  “No, she can walk,” Aragon answered for Joan. “The fresh air will do her good.” She turned to the girl at her side with a frown. “Joan? I’m going to excuse you from Gym for a week. Just take study hall instead.”

  “As I said,” Holbein spoke up again, “we’re all very sorry about this, June.”

  “It’s Joan!” Joan cried, and the principal’s desk was suddenly shoved across the room. It clattered loudly against the wall, pens and papers flying off of the surface, and left engravings on the floor from the force used to move it. But, as far as Holbein had seen, nobody had touched it. His hands had been on top writing, Aragon had one hand on Joan’s shoulder comfortingly, and Joan’s arms were limp at her side.

Silence and a strange coldness filled the room. Joan slipped out without a word, leaving Holbein and Aragon to stare at each other with wide eyes.

------

  “‘Katherine, shame on you! How could you!’” Anne said with an awful imitation of Miss Aragon’s Welsh accent. Maggie tittered at her side as they walked out of their Calculus class, while Katherine rolled her eyes.

  “‘What’s gotten into you?’” Maggie joined in.

  “Besides Anna von Cleves,” Anne said, and she was elbowed sharply in the ribs by Katherine. She and Maggie both laugh loudly.

  “Shut up!” Katherine barked. She settled herself after a moment. “What’s her deal, anyway? It wasn't all my fault! It’s not like I was the only one doing it.”

  “Ehh,” Anne waved a dismissive hand. “Who cares what she thinks? That little toad was just sitting there squealing like a stuck pig. She was ASKING for it!”

  “‘I’m dying! I’m dying!’” Maggie wailed, and they all giggled.

  “Yeah,” Katherine nodded. “God, do you guys remember that time in primary school when she got down on her knees in the cafeteria?”

  “With that Bible?” Anne said.

  “And that dress!” Maggie added. “She’s insane, I swear. Just like her mother.”

  “Her mom should have told her.” Katherine said, feeling a flash of pity. She pushed it away- Joan didn’t deserve it.

...Right?

  “Well, like mother, like daughter,” Anne said, smirking. “We’re helping her more than that crazy bitch did, anyway.”

Katherine tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Shh, here she comes!”

The mob of students swarming through the hall parted instantly like the Red Sea and Joan could be seen trudging through the passage opened up before her. Her head is lowered, but she’s peeking through her dangling strands of hair to peer around her with a wet, resentful look. Whispers and giggles whisk loudly around her, but she doesn’t acknowledge them. She just walked to her locker, and Katherine could see that “PLUG IT UP” was written in red over the door. Katherine sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Anne,” She whispered, “what did you do?”

  “Shh,” Anne whispered back. “Just watch.” She and Maggie were locking arms and smirking widely. Katherine turned back to Joan, and realized that the entire hallway had gone still and was now watching in anticipation.

It’s okay, Katherine thought as Joan began to put in her combination. Everyone is doing it. Everyone is watching. It isn’t hurting anyone...

And then Joan opened her locker and an avalanche of pearly white tampons came tumbling out, and that belief in Katherine’s brain fell away with it.

This is not okay.

Guilt slammed into Katherine so fiercely she gasped out loud--or maybe that was from the realization that her older cousin had put all these tampons in Joan’s locker just to humiliate her.

The tampons cascaded out of the compartment like a white waterfall, clattering loudly on the tile floor and accumulating around Joan’s feet in a plastic and cotton pool. Laughter erupted throughout the hall instantly, rebounding off of the walls. There aren’t any teachers coming to check on the scene, either lost in the crowd or they just simply don’t care enough to do anything. It seemed all staff had given up on helping Joan, and some even participated in picking on her. Joan herself looked humiliated and terrified. Not even mad, just…scared. Like she was expecting something worse. It’s the first time Katherine has really noticed that expression on her, and she isn’t sure what to make of that.

  “What are those, Joan?” Called a girl in the crowd, giggling.

  “Plug it up, baby!” A boy cackled.

Still, Joan did nothing. She just stared as the last of the tampons tumbled out, then closed her eyes and took a deep, shaking breath. When she opened her weird eyes again, she reached inside her locker and pulled out a brown satchel and some binders, then promptly closed the door, turned, and walked down the hall. Anne growled lowly and stuck out her foot, tripping her. Joan teetered forward and sprawled on her chest, scattering all her belongings and causing another uproar of laughter as the bell rang overhead.

  “Stupid pig.” Anne spit in Joan’s hair, much to Katherine’s disgust. She had been wanting a better reaction to her prank. “Come on, Kat. You too, Mags.”

She and Maggie whisked away before any teacher could think to do anything useful, as did everyone else, but Katherine stayed behind, frowning down at the girl below her. Guilt smashed into her even harder than the first time, especially when she saw that Joan’s face was contorted with pain.

  “Are you okay?” Katherine asked, kneeling down beside Joan. She began to gather her fallen belongings as Joan pushed herself up weakly and offered them to her, causing Joan to flinch away so hard she nearly fell back over. Katherine frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Joan stared at her with untrusting blue eyes. Katherine had never been this close to her before, so she never realized they weren’t just weird, they were beautiful, too. She’s never seen such shade like that before, like the moon had been scooped out of the sky and covered in frost, then placed into her sockets.

  “And...I’m sorry about what happened earlier. In the shower.”

Joan blinked at her, and Katherine may as well have been holding a musket in her face, because she looked absolutely terrified. She clearly has never been confronted like this before and didn’t know how to handle it. Her gaze screamed, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

  “Umm,” Katherine pulled a packet of napkins out of her binder and offered one to Joan. “Your hair. My cousin--she spit on you.”

Joan’s expression did not change. She’s waiting. Waiting for Katherine to pull the trigger and the joke to erupt in her face. She doesn’t dare move to take the napkin in fear it may be a trick, and Katherine doesn’t blame her. After everything that’s happened to her…

A third tidal wave of guilt came crashing down on Katherine as she thought back to all the things she did to pick on Joan. No wonder the poor girl didn’t trust her. She’s given her no reason to.

  “Umm--” Katherine looked around. Nobody was near them, thank god. “Do you--want me to?”

Joan still didn’t reply. Katherine waited a moment, then slowly reached out and wiped away the spit in her hair. Joan tensed up instantly, screwing her eyes shut tightly. When Katherine quickly pulled away, she didn't look any less nervous.

  “There,” Katherine said. “All done.” She wadded the napkin up to throw away when she got the chance, then settled her gaze back on Joan, who is bug-eyed once again. “I’m--I’m sorry. Again. What happened in the shower… You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

No reply.

Katherine sighed. She expected no forgiveness, and she certainly didn’t deserve any, but she had still hoped she may get a sliver of something.

And then Joan was latching onto Katherine’s arm, and a shockwave of desperation shivered up through her tendons. Her fingers were nimbly and thin like a skeleton’s and her touch was deathly cold. Something strange sizzled beneath this girl’s skin.

  “You laughed at me,” Joan whispered, and her voice was like dead leaves rustling against concrete. “You’ve always laughed at me.” And the look in her eyes finished her statement in a painful way words could never.

So why are you apologizing now?

Katherine could only stare down at her helplessly.

Joan peeled her hand away and dropped it limply to her side. She looked at Katherine a second longer, her expression neutral, yet full of so much pain, and then grabbed her things, got up, and walked out of the school without another word.

Katherine remained on the floor until an AP came strolling by and asked her what she was doing and why there were tampons all over the floor. She explained to him what happened, and then went to go find a witness statement for Principal Holbein, telling him exactly what her cousin had done.

------

It was May in England and too hot. Cheery sunlight glinted on iridescent quartz trapped in the cement sidewalk. Loose coins scattered across the ground wink up at pedestrians, screaming, “Pick me up! Pick me up! Pick me up!” Neighborhood children are playing in their front yards. A trio of triplets, two boys and a girl, were playing in a sprinkler and spraying each other with the hose. Two more kids a few houses down were driving around in toy cars. One was swinging on a big tire swing. Joan watched that child with particularly prickly envy before trudging onward.

(wish i had that)

Joan’s belly ached fiercely and she shifted her books into one arm so she could massage at her lower stomach tenderly. She could almost feel the muscles clenching and seizing up with every cramp that ripped through her. She tried to remember what Miss Aragon had told her, about something inside of her called a uterus “shedding its lining”, but it still made no sense.

In just a few minutes after leaving the school, the sharp cramps in her stomach had become violent spasms and the dull aching in her back turned into an intense, radiating burn. She was both sick with hunger and too nauseous to eat. Her bladder and bowels ached. She was sweating from the pain of it all, but also shivering and weak from anemia. And, to top it all off was the gross, hot feeling of her uterus being filled to the absolute brim with blood and pressing uncomfortably up against her lower stomach with so much pressure she thought she would burst if the fluids weren’t deposited. The sanitary napkin Miss Aragon had put in her underwear for her was doing its job at soaking up the blood, but it felt so thick and fat and heavy in her undergarments and rubbed her thighs in a way that made her want to peel her skin off, which was a whole other problem in and of itself. 

(why is this happening to me what did i do)

Joan liked to think she’s been a good girl. She always prayed at night and in the morning and whenever she ate, even at school...even if it meant she would be made fun of for it. She always listened to Mama and always ate all her food and always did her chores. So why was she bleeding? Was it because she was showering with other girls? Mama had said she was banned from doing that because it was sinful, but she didn’t want to be left out of anymore girl things, she wanted to try and fit in with her classmates and maybe become one of them if she proved she could bathe like they did, so she might have, maybe, definitely had snuck in some showering items from home and to her gym locker… But again! It was for a good reason!

Another cramp tore through Joan’s belly and she whimpered softly, feeling like she was being punished.

There was a loose rock on the sidewalk and Joan kicked it, watching it tumble across the pavement. She pretended it was Anne Boleyn’s head.

(stupid bitch with no head ha ha ha all bloody and dead dead dead)

A group of kids playing in a yard filled with yellow and red tulips looked up when they saw her coming by. They perked, eyes shining with interest, and one, a little five year old named Peter Brown, hurried to the garage to retrieve his shiny red Lightning McQueen bike.

(can’t laugh at me anymore because she would be headless and then i would laugh at HER)

Joan kicked the rock harder, gritting her teeth. It bounced off of the sidewalk and into the grass, and she searched for it with her foot but couldn’t find it, so she moved on.

(just wanna bust her head in or break or neck or kill her and Maggie Lee and maybe Katherine Howard but maybe not anymore because she--)

  “SCARY SEYMOUR! SCARY SEYMOUR! SCARY SEYMOUR!” Peter cried, barreling past Joan. She reared away clumsily and the children in Peter’s yard burst into high pitched giggles.

(stupid stupid stupid kids mean kids hope they crack their heads open and die)

  “SCARY SEYMOUR! OL PRAYIN’ JOAN!!” Peter shrieked, and Joan jerked her head at him, eyes flashing, and he suddenly went flying off of his bike. 

Joan stopped and blinked in shock. The other kids stopped laughing, too. Peter was moaning on the ground, bleeding from a scraped knee and bruised pride. His bike was on top of him, dented slightly. He looked up at Joan in fright. Joan sniffed and then walked on.

What was that? She looked down at her hands tightly gripping her books and reached inside of herself for the same sensation that had flickered through her seconds ago, but found nothing. It was like trying to move a paralyzed limb- she couldn’t feel anything but weakness within her.

  “Sheesh,” One little voice from the group of kids muttered. “He jus’ making some good name suggestibles, no need to be crankymonstery.”

Joan whipped her head around sharply and glowered at the group fiercely. Several squealed in fear and leapt behind bushes to hide, while two froze in place. They sat exactly where Joan wanted and she reached inside of herself for that tingle, that feeling, that power so she could exact her revenge.

(break their necks or cut their throats that one’s old bitch hates my Mama)

Reach, reach, reach- Joan’s muscles began to sting from some kind of exertion and her body suddenly felt a lot lighter, like she was burning hundreds of calories just by staring at these kids and tensing her limbs. Sweat beaded on her brow. The sunlight was starting to make her eyes sore. The children look very uncomfortable.

(come on burst their brains spill their guts ha ha ha ha that would get back at that wrinkly shit-eater for hating my Mama i’ll show her)

But there was nothing. No tingle or feeling or power. Nothing but pathetic weakness.

Joan released a breath and her lungs ached like they hadn’t taken in air in centuries. She shook her head and hurried down the sidewalk, feeling dizzy and dazed. Sweat ran in salty trails down her flushed face and she swiped the streams away.

Her breasts hurt and her head hurts and her tummy hurts and everything hurts by the time she gets to her house. She stopped and stared up at it, one foot on the splintered front porch step. A familiar feeling of fear shivered through her. The old car was in the driveway; her Mama was home.

She wanted Mama to hold her.

But she also didn’t want to face Mama.

But at the same time, she had to know if everything Miss Aragon told her was true. Surely Mama would know. Mama knew everything and she wouldn’t lie to her! She wasn’t allowed to.

Joan shook her head and then spent a full minute searching for the spare house key because she forgot hers and didn’t want to disturb Mama by knocking. She found it hidden in the underbrush of overgrown, yellowing foliage encircling the stoop. Huffing, she twisted it in the lock, pushed open the door, and called into the candle-lit, crucifix-covered house, “Mama! I’m home!” 

[wolfcrunch]

day 1 of @dekusquadweek​!

read on ao3

Ah...my head...

Consciousness crept slowly upon the green-clad hero, encasing his slackened body in its lopsided, fuzzy grasp. Black spots invaded the corners of his eyes, eyelids themselves burning in a dull throb. His brain drowsily beginning to wake up, send a shudder down his spine, making him aware of how everything ached.

A groan escaped the confides of his throat, the slight echo of unintelligible words mingling with the silent, still air.

Against the throbbing of his eyelids, an exhaustion trying to pull him under its murky cover once more, Izuku makes an effort to try and open his eyes, feeling as heavy as steel despite nothing, nothing real, stopping him.

No light creeps into the slits as they slowly open, a blurry mass of dark greys and browns, a smidge of white laying out before him. He shook his head, dully aware of how jerky the movement felt as he tried to clear up his vision. A slight ring in his ears resounded, but Izuku pushed through, giving a few more hard blinks as he slowly became more aware.

His head pounded to the beat of his heart, leaving the throbs of pain to seemingly slam against his skull, trying to disorientate him much more than what he was already feeling.

Where...the hell...

Lifting his head up proved to be a challenge, his eyes open enough to make out most of the shapes - or rather, lack of such - that were within his tired field of vision. His brain, lagging behind, noted sluggishly at the concrete floor and walls enclosing him, a single white, patchy wooden door laying before him, paint peeling away and showing the rotten, filthy bark underneath. A voice nagged at him, laden with an ache he couldn't shake off.

Stay aware. Check your surroundings.

Izuku's brain sparked a response, and with his gaze remaining on the old, fickle door, he pulled forward, his body lagging behind--

Something constricted, and Izuku grunted, forced to slump backwards as his gaze dropped downwards, arms pulling at their confines. He could make out the dark ropes and binds, wrapped around his waist and torso, extending them to his arms. His arms were tied behind the chair he was currently stuck to, and after a moment of slow, delayed movement, he didn't need to look further down to know his legs were also tired. Brute force wasn't going to work.

Not with his body feeling like lead, like an anchor sinking underwater, desperately trying to keep his head up. This wasn't good.

This wasn't good at all. He called upon One for All, intending on snapping the bindings restricting him, and going from there. He felt the energy build up, buzzing angrily as it spread through his palms, the familiar warmth of his quirk beginning to spread throughout--

Before it fizzled out, a few weak green sparks dancing up alongside his arms before his quirk entirely faded, leaving Izuku feeling almost empty. He felt a weight gather in his chest, and strained.

It was there, he could feel it's familiar flame...but he couldn't touch it. He couldn't bathe in its warmth. It was just out of reach.

Okay...okay, don't panic.

His eyes slid shut, desperate to try and ward off the throbbing of his head, trying to remember exactly what landed him here. His brain, muddled and disorganized, he tried to remember, just a sliver of a memory.

He'd been working on a case with Todoroki and Shinsou - the trio under word from the Endeavor Agency. It was a case that had taken weeks to get any leads - an illegal quirk-fighting ring, doubled with possible kidnapping due to likely-related disappearances around the area.

For Izuku, a sidekick almost freshly out of U.A, this was a pretty big and important case, and Endeavor had put two of his most trusted sidekicks to the task (with Bakugou being out of the country). Shinsou had come of his own regard, offering to be an insider voice of sorts given his underground work, and Endeavor hadn't complained.

Izuku and Todoroki had been investigating some abandoned buildings in the area, trying to scout out any possible hideouts for whoever was committing the crimes. They'd been a little antsy, and given as Shinsou hadn't contacted the pair within the last week...

Izuku wanted to groan as he came to the realization. They must've gotten too cocky, gone ahead without a solid back-up plan...did he get ambushed? It would explain why body was aching, and why he'd woken up tied to a chair.

What a rookie mistake.

And I can't break out...my head still feels all fuzzy. I hope Todoroki's alright...

Izuku couldn't remember past the point of the pair stepping into the first building, and given there wasn't a ton of natural light, he couldn't tell the tell, either.

How long had it been? An hour? Eight? A full day? Maybe even more, knowing how rotten his luck was?

"Ah, so you're awake?"

Izuku's eyes shot open, lifting his head warily as the peeling door creaked open. A dim light shone into the room, a looming dark figure standing in the doorway and seemingly watching the hero. When he didn't reply, the other person - he was unassuming a man - scoffed, walking into the room. Two brown and golden orbs stared at him, and Izuku wanted to fidget under the intense gaze.

"I didn't mean to hit you that hard - you gave me and my clients a bit of a scare for a bit," he sounded much too grave to sound particularly happy, and stopped mere feet before Izuku. "We thought we lost you - being knocked out like that for an extended period sometimes means you never wake up, y'know."

"That isn't what you want?" Izuku hardly registered the words leaving his mouth, a bit slurred towards the end due to whatever blow to the head had hit. A concussion, probably. He steeled himself, gritting his teeth.

The man sighed, clothes rustling as the man shifted before Izuku's eyes were assaulted with a bright, white light that flickered on overhead. It doubled the pain racking about in Izuku's skull, and he hissed, scrunching his eyes shut and ducking his head as if to escape it.

A hand roughly grasped his chin, jerking his face upwards. He could smell smoke on the others breath, fresh and almost revolting enough to make Izuku want to move back, even against the pain.

"Of course not...everyone has heard about one of the new up-and-coming heroes. Deku..." The villain seemed to let Izuku's hero name roll off his tongue, testing it, "a bit lame for a fella like you. But you're sure making a name for yourself out there, hero." He then sighed, patting Izuku's cheek with his free hand. "A bit too much, for my clients ya see. That might be why you can't feel your quirk...they requested I administer some quirk suppressants. I hope they aren't affecting you too terribly."

"Oh?" Izuku pried his eyes open, thankful that his vision didn't remain blurry for long, trying to commit the mans appearance to memory. "And who are these clients of yours?"

Izuku bit his tongue at the grin that slid across the villains face, before he stepped back, allowing him a better look at who he was really dealing with. Ashen, almost grey skin clung to a gaunt, bony frame, minuscule scars crisscrossing across the villains face and what he could see of his arms. He was tall and gangly, all limbs, like he had been stuck in his teenage phase - a head or two taller than Izuku. His clothing options didn't scream villain, a simple beige coat with a white shirt, black pants, and a simple choker of sorts around his neck. The most noticeable features, the ones that stood out the most, were his eyes. Brown with flecks of gold, an expression that spoke both a tiredness that was all too familiar to Izuku, but a hint of something dangerous, making Izuku tense up at the look. To top it off, he had simple, flat brown hair, never extending past his shoulders. For all he could see, just a simple, plain man.

But those eyes...

"I'm sure you understand how I can't disclose that - client confidentiality and all. Much like my name, neither are issues that are too much of a matter, young hero." Izuku cringes as the villains finally lets go of his chin, using his free hand to brush Izuku's hair out of his face. It comes away smeared with red, explaining Izuku's fuzziness at recalling before he's awoken. "You have no need to focus on anything else...if you help me here, you should be able to make your way home just in time for dinner."

Izuku didn't like the sound of that, especially as the mans grin never slid off his face. "Help you?"

"Word has it that you are extraordinary when it comes to quirk analysis," Izuku felt his heart drop at the words, "and my clients are much too eager to get their hands on some of your work, my boy. Truly, many say it is on par with the late principal Nezu of U.A. My clients simply wish to request you help them out as best you can...being a hero, it shouldn't be too difficult for you. Especially as it concerns many of your colleagues-- friends, even."

He felt the dryness of his mouth as he swallowed. "Quirk analysis? What makes you think I'll willingly help..."

"I would rather not to...but this is why my clients requested me to deal with you, Deku." he sighed, crouching down so they were of level height. Izuku held eye contact, wariness settling in and holding him in place as the man moved closer. "My quirk is rather handy in these kinds of situations. But, I'd much rather have this done and dealt with, and it not have to be used. It is not a very pleasant experience."

His quirk? Izuku locked his jaw in place at the implication, steeling his expression as he stared right back at him. "I might be just a sidekick...but I'm not going to let you kick me around and give what you want even under threat," he said, a fiery, dangerous tone he reserved for villains, a far cry from his usual friendly, foolhardy self. "I'd never give you something that can be used against my colleagues and friends. I don't care what you do."

Izuku knew just how dangerous his analysis could be, if given to the wrong person. He might be young, but he had grown past his naive phase. This wasn't something he'd fall into so easily. It was almost easy to forget about his aching limbs and throbbing head, staring right back at the villain who seemed so sure of himself and his tactics.

It almost seemed like Izuku's tone had caught the other off guard, his grin sliding off his face - only for it to come back bigger, something delighted now increasing just how creepy it looked. "I should have expected you wouldn't comply at first - all you heroes are the same."

The villain stood up to his full height, staring down at Izuku, never breaking the contact as he rested a hand, gently, on the heroes shoulder. "Willing to keep your tongues tied...but I guess a little demonstration is in order then, boy." His fingers dug into Izuku's shoulder, who bit in a hiss at the ache coming back full force before letting go.

Izuku could only watch, reaching in a failed attempt for his quirk as the man's eyes slowly changed, the golden flecks expanding and covering up the brown. He loomed, eyes now taking on more of a predatory look as faint lines slowly bled onto his face, dripping down his face and with a faint glow, seeping onto his hand.

"Let's see how long you last - a spot of fun never hurt anybody, right?"

He reached for Izuku's face, palm spread out, and Izuku jerked his head back, desperate to get away despite his bindings. It was useless. Useless.

The villains palm felt cold, and Izuku's eyes glared up at him through the others fingers, who never looked away. It wasn't until scratches began to etch themselves onto his face, deeper and deeper, that he finally realised just what this entailed.

Blood began to seep from the cuts, but Izuku didn't waver.

Hopefully Uraraka and Iida won't have my butt for missing out on dinner tonight.

[nonstoplover]

trust fund baby ~ Timothée Chalamet (song drabble) - version 1.0

my masterlist │ my song drabbles

song i used as inspiration: why don't we ~ trust fund baby

words: 1.6K

approximate reading time: about 10 mins

a/n: okay so when brainstorming about this song's lyrics i came up with an idea (this one written below) but as i started writing it, another possible, quite similar situation came to my head and since i couldn't decide which one i liked better, i figured i let you guys decide and wrote both. anyway i'm not an expert in cars and repairing them, so excuse my lack of knowledge please. i hope you still like it though! please leave feedback, it means the absolute world to me. love youu

here's version 2.0, the alternative idea

"Damn it." Timothée cursed out loud, slamming his palms against the steering wheel.

He couldn't figure out what was wrong or if accidentally he did something that caused the problem, but here he was in the absolute middle of nowhere, all alone with a slightly smoking engine hood.

He had no clue only that something's really bad was going on. He grabbed his phone and opened the browser to search for the closest garage. A minute later he was already dialling the number he had found on the website as he was slowly getting out of the car.

Walking a little further from the vehicle he looked up and down the totally empty road in front of and behind him. As he listened to the ringing coming to his ear, he couldn't help but think what if the car would explode?

"Hello, Dave's Auto Repair," a chirpy, womanish voice answered the call. "How can I help?"

"Uh... I think something in my car engine went wrong," Timothée spoke, trying to sound less amateurish.

"What are you experiencing?"

"The car started kinda twitching so I pulled off the road and now there's a bit of smoke coming out of the hood," he turned back towards his car with knitted eyebrows, his eyes searching for any new happening.

"Alright, where are you?" The woman on the other side asked and he swiftly gathered all information he could give her about his whereabouts.

She reassured him that soon a breakdown truck would come and pick him up and pull his car to the garage where they would repair it. Hanging up the call Timothée let out a relieved sigh, already feeling less stressed even though his vehicle was still in a quite bad condition.

Thank God I'm not in a hurry, he thought as he slowly sank to a sitting position on the ground, unlocking his phone to spend the rest of his waiting scrolling through social media.

About twenty minutes later he heard the familiar sound of a car approaching and glancing up he was glad to notice it to be the thing he wanted to see. He got up to walk back to his car, leaving the space in front of his car free. The breakdown truck slowly reached him and pulled over in the spot he was previously sitting at. Timothée stepped forward just as the door opened, a figure jumping out.

"Hi, I'm (y/n), from Dave's Auto Repair," (y/n) walked closer, pointing back over her shoulder to the large stickers on the side of the truck behind her advertising the mentioned company, a toolbox swinging in her other hand. "You called for us, right?"

"Ye-yeah," Timothée muttered, eyes slightly widened. "I'm Timmy. I mean, Timothée."

This was not what he was expecting to happen. In his mind he was waiting for a beefy, older man, not a girl around his age. Her (y/h/c) hair was pulled back into a quite messy ponytail, baby hairs that weren't long enough to stay with the others framing her beautiful face that was covered in small, smeared oil-spots. No makeup was on her face but she without a doubt was still the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

(y/n) placed the toolbox in her left hand before wiping the now free right in her stained, blue overalls before holding it out towards him, a playful glance in her eyes as she watched his slight suffering. He immediately reached out to shake the held out hand, wondering about how could this girl keep her palm and fingers so soft whilst working such a job.

"Okay, let's see this rowdy engine," she giggled, bypassing him. She put the box down next to her feet and had the engine hood open, half disappearing in it in no second.

Timothée paced up and down behind her, trying hard to not be a nusiance as he examined the process. The thoughts were racing in his head no matter how hard he tried to stop them. This girl was the absolute dream girl for him. All his life he was saying that he was waiting for a girl who could take care of things herself, whether it's changing a lightbulb or repairing a car.

And now here she was in front of him. He had to pinch himself to make sure it wasn't a dream.

(y/n) examined the car for only less than a minute, recognising the common problem swiftly. She could feel his eyes on her back all the time she was working, and she hated to admit but it made her flustered. The first glance she casted on him she felt a strange attraction, like a magnet that pulled her towards the boy.

It was hard to concentrate on the work in front of her but she resisted the urge to turn her eyes towards Timothée every other second and shut her mind as good as she could, focusing solely on the engine.

Not much later she straightened her back with a sigh, climbing out while (unsuccessfully) cleaning her palms in her workwear, closing the hood behind her. With a quick glance at her bottom she made sure it wasn't dirty and opening the door she sat in his car. She started the engine and smiled happily when she heard the satisfying growling of it, and after fully rolling down the window she stuck her head out.

"Can I go a bit with it?"

Timothée nodded, completely astonished and watched as she drove past him and the service truck, speeding off into the distance. It felt weird to let a complete stranger just drive away with his car, but all her stuff was here beside him and somehow he trusted her enough to remain calm. It was part of her job.

A couple minutes later the shrinking image of his car started growing again, signalling that she was coming back to him. Turning the car carefully around (y/n) came to a stop at the exact same spot the car was standing at, shutting the engine off and getting of.

"We're done," she stretched her back.

"Already?" Timothée replied, and even though he tried hard to fight back the disappointed tone of his voice, it was useless.

"Yeah," (y/n) chuckled, moving her shoulders in a shrugging motion. "It wasn't such a serious problem, and it's quite common actually. I'm used to having to solve it."

"It wasn't serious? It was smoking!"

"Don't let the facade fool you."

"Never again," he muttered, though he meant quite a different thing. All he could think about was how acutely the appearance of the girl fooled him when she got out of her car.

In the meantime (y/n) placed all the equipment she used back in the toolbox and brought it back to the truck, swinging it into the passenger's seat.

"How much is it?" Timothée followed her, pulling out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

The girl rapidly calculated the fare in her mind, announcing it to the boy, but when she glanced at the amount of money he placed in her palm, she had to rethink the situation, thinking she'd said the wrong number.

"It's... it's a lot more," (y/n) frowned, looking up into his green eyes in confusion.

"I know," he giggled and shrugged, visibly blushing. He glanced down at the ground, trying to hide his fluster.

"Oh, wow."

The young girl never felt more speechless in her entire life. This man randomly gave her about twice the price of what she worked for. What should she say? A simple thank you didn't seem enough.

"I mean, thank you, that's very generous of you."

"You deserve it. You came here to the middle of nowhere in no time," Timothée held his arms out, pointing around the two of them. "And you repaired my car in no time. It's quite out of the common."

(y/n) felt the blood rush to her cheeks hearing the compliment. Not one customer had ever talked to her like this before.

"But, you know, it still wasn't perfect," the boy spoke up again, slightly cringing by his straightforwardness. The girl looked up, curiously waiting what he would say, a little scared to hear a possible mistake she made. "You could still fix it, though."

The small pause wasn't meant to increase the nervous tension in the air as it eventually did, Timothée just had to take another deep and shaky breath before speaking the final words out, ready for rejection.

"How?" (y/n) couldn't take it anymore, her rusty voice breaking the silence. Her father would kill her if she had made a noticeable mistake.

"If I can take you out for dinner sometime."

She thought she heard wrong. Was this boy truly flirting with her so slyly?

"I mean, of course you don't have to, no pressure, really, I would just like to get know you more," he rambled on in embarrassment.

"Hey, hey, shh!" (y/n) silenced him, placing a hand against his shoulder. "I'd love to."

This time it was Timothée who thought he had misheard the outspoken words, but seeing the wide, cheery smile on her face he convinced himself that it was actually her answer without a doubt.

"Amazing!" He exclaimed.

"Give me your phone, I'll put in my number and then we can arrange the time and place," she held out her hand, a little surprised at herself and how she confidently lead the situation unlikely to her natural behaviour.

Within a minute she had finished it and even sent herself a text so she could have his number as well, placing the device back in the boy's hand.

"Okay, then, I gotta go now, my shift's still going." (y/n) spoke. "See you later, I guess."

"Yeah, see you!" Timothée answered, still mesmerized by the girl and how his plan to ask her out succeeded.

He was still standing in the middle of the road when she started the truck and turning around drove off, his phone in his hand, eyes wide and joyful.

.::the end::.

my masterlist

[dpimagines]

History; Nathan Summers

warnings/info: smut (masturbation, then oral, both receiving), accidental (and then purposeful) invasion of privacy, purity kink, age gap, and that’s about all I’ve got. Can be read as virginity loss or just inexperienced!reader. let me know if there’s anything else I need to add. Semi-inspired by this fic.

Nathan’s friendship with you started out… Innocent.

It first began when he was still struggling with night terrors about what happened to his wife and daughter, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of Irish coffee. You entered the kitchen, glanced at him, and proceeded to make a bag of popcorn, taking a can of soda from the fridge.

“Isn’t it a little late for sugar?” he instinctively asked, cringing afterwards. He didn’t even know your name, or how old you were. You could be an adult, for fuck’s sake.

“Isn’t it a little early for stealing Wolverine’s alcohol?” You’d retorted with a somehow knowing smile, sitting at the opposite side of the island, opening your laptop.

“What’re you working on?” he asked, curious for something to distract him from the torturous regretful thoughts that filled his mind.

“College apps. Trying to get into someplace close, so I can keep living here,” you explained with a small smile. He didn’t bother you after that, knowing how important what you were working on was.

The next night, you showed up without your computer, and got two bowls down for your popcorn.

Nathan enjoys your company still, even if you’re a little more busy with college now.

“I like your top,” you tell a girl as you enter the mansion’s courtyard to meet him for lunch. He wonders why you bother to waste so much of your allotted lunch time getting to him and back, instead of having a longer break with other friends, but he doesn’t dare speak his question out loud for fear of making you realize your time is better spent elsewhere.

“Thanks, I got it at Old Navy,” the girl replies. “I think it might still be on sale.”

Olde Navy… Nathan notes mentally. Your birthday’s coming up, and he definitely wouldn’t mind seeing you come bounding up after a long day of school in that.

“Nate! Hey!” you greet him like you’re surprised, every time, because you’re just that happy to see him. “How much do I owe you?” you ask him of the pizza, but he just rolls his eyes.

You put your backpack down on the bench, sitting down with him, the pizza box between the two of you.

“How’s your day been?” You ask him, taking a slice of pizza.

“Alright. Pretty uneventful, though. I miss summer break, you being around gave me something to do.”

You choke on your pizza, coughing violently, and he looks at you quizzically.

“God, I really should’ve listened when they told us in Kindergarten to chew, how many times was it? I don’t even remember,” you laugh it off, still a little red.

Nathan takes a bite of his own pizza, shaking his head at your antics.

“Anyways, Wade’s been pestering me to tell him how this planet fucks itself over so he can build a doomsday bunker.”

“To be fair, it’s-”

“The corporations. I know. Always the corporations with you and your generation,” Nate teases, despite being from a much-later generation. “You’re right, but if I tell him that, he’ll gun down all the CEOs and it’ll majorly affect the timeline. Oh.” There’s a little smear of tomato sauce, and he swipes it off of your cheek with his thumb and without thinking.

Nathan realizes that he either offers it to you, like a weirdo, or licks it off his thumb, like a weirdo. He goes for the latter, and notices your face is a bit flushed.

“Do you think you could be allergic to something in the sauce?” Nate wonders. “You’ve been kinda red since we started eating, and your throat being a little tight would explain how you got choked up.”

“Oh, uh, maybe,” you reply with a meek smile. “But if it’s not life-threatening, I’ll continue to devour this pizza forever. Or, at least, for the next fifty years.”

“Ha. Ha,” Nate replies. Once you finish your slice, you get your school stuff together.

“Hey, you wouldn’t mind taking some books to my room for me, would you? I mean, I can carry them, but since you’re here and you’re the best…?”

“No need to butter me up, Y/N, you know I-“ ...would do anything for you. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you so much!” You put the books where you were sitting before. “I’ll see you later, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Nathan responds, and you give him a half-hug before heading off. He watches you leave, lost in thought as he munches on a second slice of pizza.

“Cable is a pervert, Cable is a pervert!” Wade sing-songs, and Nate bops him over the head with a book. “Ow! You know I’m right, Y/N is way younger than you.”

“It’s not like that! I just-” Well, now that Nathan really thinks about it, he is a pervert. He likes you for your kind, wholesome nature and has a genuine crush on you, but that doesn’t mean you’ve never made your way into the darker parts of his mind. He smirks a little bit thinking about it, before shame takes over. You’re so pure and sweet, even if you’re an adult, it’s… Well, it’s perverted!

“Oh my god. Do you think her love will turn you into a real boy, One-Eyed Very-Horny Flying Purple People-Eater?!” Wade’s wacky exclamations draw the attention of bystanders, and Nathan whacks him again with the book. “Damn! You’re lethal with just about anything, huh? I should warn Y/N about your sword next time I see her.”

“Shut up,” Nathan grumbles, done with entertaining the talkative merc who brought him here in the first place.

“Well, don’t be too embarrassed. She clearly likes you, too.”

“Clearly?” Nathan skeptically questions, knowing he’s probably taking some form of bait.

“Yup! See you around, lover-boy!” Wade replies, skipping off without an explanation. Nathan finishes his second pizza slice, wiping his hands on his pants before putting your books in his messenger bag, carrying the leftover pizza inside and putting it in the fridge before heading up to your room to drop off the books.

When Nate puts the books down on your desk, he spots your computer and realizes that this is the perfect time to look up that shirt you liked earlier. He turns on the computer, opening Chrome.

Olde, he types, but as soon as he presses the e and before he presses the spacebar, he notices an Autofill option:

Older Man Younger Woman Porn Videos | Pornhub.com

Nathan feels the blood rush to his face, not to mention elsewhere. This is your personal computer, no one else has regular enough access to be comfortable looking up porn.

Despite knowing how wrong it is, Nathan delves into your full internet history, looking at the specific videos you’ve watched that you haven’t cleared from your history and, for lack of a better word, studying them.

Once Nate’s finished watching the videos, he first realizes he’s hard as a fucking rock. He caresses his sizable length through his jeans before unzipping his pants and pulling it from his boxers.He spits on his hand before stroking his cock, slow and loose, before eventually tightening his grip and speeding up, imagining what it’d be like to lose himself in your soaking wet-

Nathan covers his mouth to muffle the long, loud groan that erupts from his lips as he continues to rub himself through the orgasm, cum spurting out. He steals a couple tissues from the box on your nightstand to clean himself up, hoping the small spot on his shirt isn’t noticeable.

The next thing he realizes is that you’ve probably jerked off while sitting in the chair he’s in right now, curling your fingers inside yourself, maybe propping a foot against your desk for a better angle, panting like you do in training.

And the last realization that Nate has is that he won’t be able to stop thinking about this until he addresses it with you.

Fortunately for him, it’s only a couple hours until you’re back. He goes to his own room, looking over his weapons and brainstorming modifications to distract him from the short but painful wait.

Luckily for him, you stop by his room when you get back, knocking on the door frame. He turns to look at you, but then he sees that it’s just Wade and rolls his eyes, turning around to work on the gun he’d selected.

“Aw, come on, we’re friends, too!” Wade protests. “Besides, your little girlfriend’s busy trying to figure out who was on her computer while she was at school, apparently they left behind their earbuds. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though, would you?”

“Fuck,” Nathan mutters, temporarily abandoning his work to go talk to you.

When you see him in the doorway, your expression immediately brightens. You’re sitting in the chair he sat when he jerked off earlier, of course, because it’s your chair.

“Oh, right! Nate!” You realize. “Whew, that makes me feel a lot better, I thought for sure someone was snooping in my room. Here’s your earbuds.”

“Right,” Nathan responds, feeling immensely guilty because he was, in fact, snooping, even if it was just on your computer. He enters the room as opposed to standing outside, shutting the door behind him.

“Nate?” you wonder.

“Oh, um…” Nathan feels like an idiot, unsure of how to explain what happened. “I was thinking about how your birthday is soon, and since I was already in here, I decided to just look up that shirt you liked earlier on the Olde Navy website, but when I typed Olde…”

You furrow your brows, confused, before it hits you.

“Uh- Um- I- Hm- Well- I-I’m sorry,” you go for the apology. For what? For him being your theoretical type? For having a crush on him? For him having a crush on you? For him seeing that you watch porn? For finding out that he saw the porn you like? Any of those? None of them? You’re unsure, so is he.

“Nothing to be sorry for, darlin’,” he reassures you. “I’m the one who should be sorry. But I’m not.”

“You’re not?” You ask, looking to him with an adorable sort of bewilderment in your eyes.

“No,” Nathan repeats, fixing you with a stare you’ve never seen him give anyone, one that makes your insides burn.

“Why?” you wonder, hoping you understand, hoping that he’ll do to you what you want him to, despite, well, everything. He locks the door, and you suck in a shallow breath, standing from your chair and pushing it in. You eye him nervously, not sure how this is going to go. He steps closer to you, cradling your face once he can reach it and forcing you to look at him.

“Do you want this?” he asks.

“Y-yeah, for a while now,” you admit, blushing a little.

Nathan gives a crooked smile before capturing your lips with his own, lowering you onto your bed as the two of you continue to kiss. The two of you part, and he sucks on your neck rather roughly, teeth scraping and nipping at the sensitive skin.

You writhe underneath him, forcing your lips shut to keep from whimpering at the sensations.

He stops, though, propping himself up on his arms and looking at you, concerned.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asks, stroking your face.

“Mhm,” you hum, not sure why he stopped. “Why?”

“You’re fidgeting a lot, not saying anything. Just worried about you.” Nathan’s kind eyes always seem to peer into you, and you find yourself blushing.

“Oh, sorry, I was, uh, trying to be quiet,” you softly explain, feeling guilty for concerning him.

“That’s cute, kid. Don’t be shy, though, I wanna hear those pretty little sounds, or those pretty loud ones, whatever comes out. I wanna know how to make it happen and hear it again, and again, and again.” His hand slowly drags up your body before resting on your neck as he speaks, and your breath stills.

You feel even more embarrassed when you recognize that Nate fulfills basically all of your fantasies and you don’t even know what any of his are.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” you find yourself asking, and he chuckles.

“You’re doing just fine being yourself, baby, trust me,” he honestly replies, going back to kissing your neck, this time massaging one of your breasts with his metal hand. Your hips buck up a little, legs parting as you let out a few soft moans. “Good girl,” he purrs.

“Th-thank you,” you reply, heart pounding in your ears.

Nathan smiles, straddling you as opposed to just being on top, to help you take off your over-sized flannel, as well as to take off his own shirt. You’d both seen each other shirtless due to training, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a sight either of you enjoyed.

“So this is what you wear when you’re not in that cute little sports bra,” Nathan notes, moistening his lips before placing a kiss on your breast, continuing to knead the other with his metal hand.

“Ah, yeah- Yeah,” you pant, legs spreading wider and knees pulling back, so that his bulge moves against your heat with every forward motion. “Oh f- Oh, Nathan.”

“Say it again,” he tells you, sinking his teeth into your breast. “Fuck, say my name, baby.”

“Nathan! Oh god, I-“ you gasp, rocking against his length through the layers of clothes that you’re both still wearing, sadly. “I need- I want-“

“What do you want, little girl? Anything, anything you want,” Nate responds, enjoying the friction just as much as you are. He licks a stripe up your neck, and you shudder.

“C-can I please, um… Suckyourdickplease?” You request, and he pulls away from your neck, looking pleasantly surprised.

“Are you sure you’re ready for that?” He asks.

“Uh-huh,” you confirm, and he grins before rolling off of you, allowing you to be on top of him before he pulls you in for a kiss.

Once the kiss is done, you look to him nervously for guidance as you unbutton and unzip his pants.

“Here, back up, I’ll pull it out for you,” he offers. You obey, sitting on your knees between his legs.

He’s big, not ridiculously long but nothing to laugh at, either, and girthy. You’re a little worried about how he’s going to fit in your mouth at all.

“It’s okay if you changed your mind, Y/N.”

You shake your head before laying on your stomach so that you’re more level with him, propping your arms around his hips and on the bed as you continue to observe his cock with slightly-widened eyes. You finally just go for it and put your lips around the head, swirling your tongue around and around. 

“Fuck, that’s good. Just a little more, baby.”

You attempt to force more of him into your mouth, but gag, so you pull back, realizing you can fit more if you ease into it, and you slowly train yourself until you can get almost all of it in, bobbing your head up and down and using your tongue to provide extra stimulation.

“That’s a lot, sweethea- Hea-” he loses his breath, stroking your face with his metal hand and tangling the digits on his flesh one in your hair, but not applying any pressure, more than content to let you have this your way.

“Sh-shit, babygirl,” Nathan stammers. “Slow down, or I’ll- Fuck…” He lets out a low moan, and you continue to suck him off as he orgasms, doing your best to ignore the taste and instead letting his seed serve as extra lubrication.

“Sorry I didn’t swallow,” you apologize after you remove your lips from his manhood with the most obscene pop sound.

“You’re lucky that this is our first time together, or I’d have you over my knee for making me cum like that,” he tells you, but there’s no anger in his tone, of course. He’s just enjoying taunting you.

You pout at his words and he chuckles, tugging you upwards and kissing you again.

“Jesus, fuck, kid, how did you stand that? I’m so sorry, it’s just been a while, I didn’t think about how it’d taste.”

“Uh, well, I didn’t really have anything to compare it to, and I wasn’t exactly expecting it to taste like candy...” you admit. He snickers, grabbing your hips and putting you upright.

“I thought- I thought it took a little bit, for… You know.”

“Oh, it’ll probably take a while at this point. That doesn’t mean I can’t return the favor. Sit on my face, doll.”

“I- I might not be good at that, I’ve never…”

“Well, in that case...” Nate flips you over so that you’re back under him, and you inhale sharply.

You know he’s strong, but it shocks you every time he uses that strength on you. He yanks down your leggings, or attempts to, but he just rips a huge strip off with his metal hand, exposing you. Your face heats up, looking at him looking at your underwear.

“Well,” Nathan chuckles, an almost predatory grin on his face that makes your heart race. You never thought you would get to see this side of him before, but you’re so, so glad you have the privilege. “Aren’t you prepared?”

“I just like matching, that’s all. Makes me feel like I’ve got my life together,” you bashfully explain, and he pulls your leggings off more gently this time. He pauses after, though, looking at you underneath him, seeming even more vulnerable than how he usually sees you, and that’s saying something. 

“I hope you know that I really do like you, Y/N,” he tells you, stroking the soft inner part of each of your thighs. You’re not sure which hand feels better. “I wanted you like this way long before I saw your internet history.”

“Really?” You’re stunned but not terribly shocked, considering you had feelings for him as well, and the kinds of feelings you had don’t come from nowhere. Sexually tense moments during training, late night talks about your pasts, lots of shared meals he’d always refuse to let you pay for… It was only briefly a simple friendship.

“Really,” he responds. “Damn, why’d you have to milk me for all I’m worth? I- Jesus Christ, I wanna fuck you so fucking bad.” You can see it in his eyes that it’s the truth, his teeth gritted together in frustration.

“If it’s that bad, invest in some Viagra, you perverted old man,” you tease, having gained a small bit of confidence that your relationship was still the same after his confession that his feelings for you were consistent.

“Maybe I will, you dirty little brat,” he retorts. “Can I…?” He hooks a finger into your underwear, and you gasp softly at the feeling of his cold, metal finger against your hip. You nod, and he drags your underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. “Wow.”

“Is- Is it-?”

“Good wow,” Nathan clarifies, rubbing your vulva before sliding a finger inside of you and curling, steadily increasing the pace.

“N-Nathan, oh- Oh my god, don’t stop,“ you pant, and he slides another finger in easily, gathering moisture before stroking your clit in the most perfect pattern. “Mm, please, gonna- Gonna-“

He moves his hand away, and you loudly whine, questioning why. Your legs tremble, especially when he laughs at you.

“That’s why. You just make it so fun, with those begging eyes of yours. I told you I was going to return the favor, you should’ve known,” he teases you.

“Please make me cum?” You request, feeling so small in the best way, and he smiles at you. You think he’s never smiled this much before, and you hope he doesn’t stop being happy with you once this is over.

“Anything for you,” Nathan reminds you, pulling your legs up over his shoulders and going down on you, making you squirm. “God, you taste so fucking good,” he groans, lapping up everything you have to offer.

You try to clutch the sheets, but he keeps switching between absolutely devastating your clit to fucking you with his tongue and all you want is for him to focus on that bundle of nerve endings, to allow you release.

Before you know it, your fingers are tangled in that always perfectly-styled gray hair of his, and you’re leading him straight to Heaven, moaning and rocking your hips against him before you jump over the edge, sobbing in relief while your eyes roll back. You let him go, and he continues to lick at your most sensitive place before eventually stopping.

“You-“ he starts, taking a trembling breath.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve said something. Are you okay?” You ask.

“...Are perfect,” he finishes his statement, taking in your nearly naked body with still-hungry eyes. “Please say we can make this official.”

You nod, and he kisses you deeply before rolling off of you, laying on his side in just his pants.

“What took us so long?” He wonders.

“All the reasons I had of seem pretty stupid now,” you admit, sliding under the covers instead of laying on top of them.

“All the reasons?” Nathan asks.

“Well, I figured you would think I was too immature or otherwise deny me on principle, and then I also didn’t want you to feel pressured to move on, and I just kind of wrote off all the signs of chemistry as accidents, coincidences, or really good friendship,” you explain. “I’m sure you had reasons, too.”

“Mostly the age thing, but I’ll admit it eventually became a turn-on… Mostly it’s just that you’re so wholesome and pure, I didn’t feel like I deserved you.”

“Pure? I just gave you a blowy!” you protest, and he chuckles, pulling you closer.

“You didn’t swear once during that whole encounter, and when I was giving you head you actually apologized for helping me. It’s not a diss, babygirl. I like your whimpers and your begging and how you blush, like right now.”

You bury your face in his chest with a quiet whine.

“Okay, point proven,” you concede, and he strokes your back carefully, as if you’ll break if he’s too rough.

“I know you can handle yourself, in the logical part of my brain,” he tells you quietly. “But- But you’re so delicate to the rest of me, I can barely even think sometimes. I’m glad you’re mine now, that you think I deserve you even if I’m not sure.”

You respond wordlessly, smiling and lifting the covers so that he can cozy up with you under them.

[janelevy]

a witch in the woods (reesker)

@homeschooledbookfanatic requested “you owe me a kiss” + ava bekker. i know it came from a fluffy prompt list, but... this veered away from that a little!

summary: sarah has travelled a long way and after hearing unsettling rumors of an evil old hag living in the woods, she has no choice but to venture into danger and uncertainty. however, this witch turns out not to be what she imagined.

(so this is what happens when i get too carried away! this is meant to take place in some otherworld of the past, and world building is fun, lol. i guess this became super long to make up for my lack of reesker content? oops!)

When Sarah decided to stop and take a load off in the small village, she only planned to stay for a day, maybe two. She didn’t have time to hang around for too long, because each second that ticked by was another second for her little brothers to grow sicker.

She was exhausted, though, so she purchased one night’s stay at a shabby little inn on the corner of the main drag through town. When the front desk clerk told her the price, Sarah bit her tongue and poured nearly all the gold coins she was carrying out of their worn leather pouch onto the wooden desk. She counted out the correct amount and nudged the pile to the clerk, who in turn handed her an aged brass key with a corresponding room number engraved in it.

With a quiet “thank you,” Sarah turned away, heaved her knapsack higher up her shoulder, and began to climb up the creaky stairs. She took her time wandering down the second floor corridor to her room, which was situated all the way at the end of the hall to her left. This wasn’t a big place, but the hallway seemed endless with all its shadowy nooks and crannies. She peered around cautiously from the splintering oak floors to the cobweb-crusted door frames and decided she wouldn’t waste her time getting out of here in the morning.

Once she was in her room, Sarah shouldered off her bag and rested on a wobbly little nightstand. A dusty lamp perched precariously near the edge of the small table, and she pushed it closer to the center because just looking at it made her nervous. Then she slipped her hood off her head, took off her cloak, and kicked off her shoes. That was all she could manage to do before she fell into bed. The mattress seemed alive and pulsing beneath her, whining at every tiny movement Sarah made, so she slept restlessly. Still, she kept her eyes squeezed shut and stayed there until morning light crept in through the heavy, dust-caked window shades.

Hours later she sat up and squinted at the clock on the wall; it read a quarter after eight, though that seemed a little fast because the sunlight was only just gathering outside. Sarah was ready to leave, however. She felt like her lungs were lined with cobwebs now after breathing in this musty air all night. Quietly she gathered her meager belongings, swept her hair back into the hood of her cloak, and took her leave.

She was walking out the door after returning her key when her stomach rumbled. Of course. She had completely forgotten about breakfast... and last night’s dinner... and yesterday’s lunch. She was so distracted these days, so focused on just getting home. Maybe this explained why she felt so nauseous and shaky lately.

Instead of turning left out of town, Sarah turned right, back the way she had come in yesterday. She walked slowly, the rubbed-off toes of her boots scuffing the bumpy cobblestone street, and scanned over various storefronts and homes looking for a place to eat. After nearly ten minutes of searching, she found a tiny cafe nestled between a bustling general store and a wide alleyway. 

Sarah stepped inside and was immediately met with a blast of coffee-scented warmth that greeted her with a hug like an old friend. She exhaled, gripping her hood tightly under her chin as she wove between the crowded round tables. All around her was conversational chatter, the clinking of mugs, and the sound of chairs scraping the scarred wood floor. The noise was a bit overwhelming, so she tried to drown it out by holding her hood as tightly as possible around her face. 

She approached the front, where a straightforward menu was chalked onto the black painted surface of the counter. She was able to make out the blurry words “COFFEE ..... 5ȼ” and “BISCUITS ..... 2 FOR 15ȼ” between smudges, smears, and spills. Sarah smiled at the woman behind the counter and ordered those items before handing over the money.

A few minutes later, with a cup of black coffee and a cloth packed with warm, freshly-baked biscuits in her hands, she made her way over to a relatively private table in a corner and began eating quickly because there was no time to waste.

The entire time there Sarah kept to herself, but let her ears stay open to nearby conversations. She adored novels, but more than anything else, Sarah liked to listen to people for news rather than read words from a grimy newspaper page. It was the method she had adopted since beginning her travels, and she had managed to keep up with general events ever since.

The closest person to her was a middle-aged man who sat slouched in his chair with a newspaper spread wide in his hands. He shifted his spectacles up his nose and didn’t look up until another man who Sarah presumed to be his companion took the seat across from him.

“Lemme guess, you’re reading the story ‘bout that old hag in the woods,” the other man said as he wiped at his bushy mustache.

“It’s been reprinted day after day for weeks now, it’s difficult to avoid it,” his friend replied. He shook his head grimly and closed the paper, setting it on the table. “I can’t believe another innocent girl was lured in by dark magic. It’s the Devil’s work, I tell you.”

The mustached man sneered. “What I think they should do is send out a party to get rid of that vile woman once and for all. Shoot her dead, twist her neck ‘til it snaps, I don’t care. She’s old and ugly, won’t hurt her. Only then she’ll stop stealing our girls away.”

Sarah inwardly winced and stopped listening, focusing instead on finishing off her second biscuit. So, great, there was apparently a wicked witch hiding out in the woods, and Sarah’s planned route took her straight through the forest. There had to be a way to avoid this, right?

After finishing her food and drink, she returned to the front counter to drop off her empty mug. “Thank you,” she said again to the woman who was dusting off her apron and barely paying Sarah any attention. “Um, before I go, I wanted to know if you could help me?”

Just asking an out-of-the-ordinary question was making Sarah’s stomach flip over and over, but she knew it was better to be safe than sorry. The woman looked at her expectantly. “What is it?”

“I’ve been travelling quite a distance, and my next projected path leads me through the woods, but... I was curious if there is any way to avoid that, perhaps an alternate route...?”

The woman nodded, her face drawn and serious. “Oh, yes, you most definitely don’t want to enter the woods. You’re certain to run into that evil old witch.”

When she didn’t add anything to that, Sarah blinked and asked again, “I understand, but is there any other path I can follow that won’t lead me into that risk?”

The stranger’s response to that was a hearty laugh, and Sarah cringed and leaned away. “Oh, dear!” she said, grasping her chest. “You think there’s a way around all those trees and shadows? No! Of course there’s not.” She took a few seconds to calm down and regain her composure. It was then she said, “It’s better for you to either turn around or stay here.” She smiled, and Sarah’s skin crawled. The coffee in her stomach went cold. “There’s a reason they named this town Dead End, dear.”

Unsure how to absorb this, Sarah muttered out a rushed thank you and would’ve sprinted out of there if it weren’t for all the tables and people. Once she emerged back onto the street, she took a moment to catch her breath and think.

In the end, though, there really was no decision to be made; she knew what she had to do if she wanted to see her brothers and heal them. Sarah walked up to the edge of the woods, peered into its selection of shadows and secrets, then took the plunge.

Sarah moved briskly through the trees for about an hour, holding her compass steady in front of her the entire time. Half-rotted leaves crunched under her feet, rusted remnants of last autumn. Her surroundings were filled with endless undergrowth, twisted vines dotted with thorns, and skeletal branches rustling high above her head. She was grateful she got an early start, because this was not a place she would want to be at nightfall.

It was only when she stopped for a minute-long break when she felt that icy unease creep into her bloodstream. She had parked herself on a moss-covered boulder and was staying alert to what was around her, and she was alert enough to notice a small hut in the distance.

Instantly Sarah knew what that place must be, and right away she stood up and continued on. Then, with horror, she realized that her compass was pointing in the exact direction of the house. She gulped and shuddered; if she tried to make a wide detour around the structure, she didn’t trust herself not to get disoriented and lose her way.

And so, Sarah steeled herself and marched towards it, almost completely silent save for the leaves below her boots.

As she got closer to the house, she noticed how in shambles it was, and hoped for a split second that maybe it was uninhabited, because it sure looked that way. But hadn’t those men in the cafe mentioned the witch stealing another girl just recently? Sarah bit her lip and kept her distance just to be sure. She stared straight ahead and was so intent on getting past the house that she failed to notice the thinly-veiled trapdoor that would lead her right into it.

When Sarah awoke, she felt warm again. She peeled open her sleep-crusted eyes and groaned, noticing a heavy woolen blanket placed over her. She turned her head and noticed her knapsack hanging from a convenient hook in the wall, her cloak tucked under it. It took another minute for her to fully come to, and in that minute the panic set in and built up its strength.

Keeping quiet since she wasn’t sure of her captor’s current whereabouts, Sarah sat up in the cot and looked around. The window across the room only showed forest outside with a bright afternoon sky - damn, how many hours had she laid here? How many hours had been wasted? And she had a feeling she knew the exact place she was in, if her last memory served her right.

She knew she had to get out. It was just a matter of how. Holding her breath because even the slightest whistle could alert the old hag, Sarah slid her legs off the side of the bed and dragged her boots over. She only managed to get one of them on before she was interrupted.

“If you’re planning on leaving so soon, then at least give me time to brew you your next dose.”

A young woman came into Sarah’s view from around the corner. She wore a silvery gray gown that billowed gracefully around her bare feet; the plainness of her clothes contrasted with the brilliance of her looks. She tucked a wavy strand of caramel-colored hair behind her ear, which also had a quill pen propped behind it. Sarah stared into a set of unnervingly captivating hazel eyes and felt her heart rate spike with alarm.

“Dose?” she demanded in a hoarse voice that didn’t sound like her own. “What... what did you give me?”

Sarah could only assume that this beautiful stranger was the witch’s servant, or maybe one of the girls she had lured here. But she doubted it was the latter, because this woman seemed to know her way around the place. The servant leafed through a book with yellowed pages as she answered. “Just something to ease the pain in your head. You took quite a tumble.” She turned another page, then another, as Sarah watched. She couldn’t place the woman’s accent, but it was alluring nonetheless. Smooth and deep like the cup of black coffee she drank earlier.

“I took a tumble be- because of the trap your friend set,” Sarah said. She was too achy and taken aback to be angry.

The stranger froze and fixed her gaze on Sarah again. “My friend?”

“Yes, your friend! Or master, or whatever you call it.”

A smirk began to tug at the woman’s lips, and it got under Sarah’s skin way too easily. “Is that so? And who is this you’re speaking of?”

“The witch,” Sarah said, exasperated. “The witch everyone in that town has been talking about.”

“That town? Oh, you mean Dead End.” There was a chuckle, the kind that made Sarah think of nice things. “Everyone there is a little strange, Sarah.”

Sarah’s face fell even more. “How do you know my name?”

“How don’t you know mine?” the woman countered, gliding over to her like a skater on ice. “Since I’ve been such a popular subject over there.”

Her hands were feather light as they touched Sarah’s face. Fingers grazed over her jawbone, chin, forehead. Somehow she had the firm press of a doctor’s hands while also staying so gentle that Sarah didn’t want to shy away. After a minute she mumbled, “So you’re telling me you’re the witch.”

The pale brown eyes that had been evaluating Sarah’s face now pulled back and were paired with a charming smile. “Of course I am. Though after most people spend awhile here in my home, they start to call me Ava.” She remained crouched before Sarah a few moments more, then straightened and returned to paging through her book of... spells? Potions and magical elixirs? “Anyway,” Ava said, “if you would just allow me to prepare another dose of the painkiller, you can be on your way soon. I do apologize for the trapdoor; it’s old and I had completely forgotten about it. Usually people simply walk up to my front door or avoid my home altogether.”

Sarah nodded, and with permission granted Ava started to gather ingredients. She sat there cross-legged on the cot observing Ava’s tender, calculated work, and was a little too dumbfounded to speak. How had those townspeople gotten it so wrong? There was still one issue left unsolved, however, and it took her a while to draw up the courage to ask about it.

“I don’t understand. The villagers were talking about girls you lure to your ‘lair.’ They don’t just... fall through the trapdoor, then you fix them up and send them off?”

Ava stirred the pot and hummed in amusement. The steam coming off the soupy mixture caused a light flush that traveled down from her cheeks and settled in her chest. Sarah was positively entranced by her.

“I’m unsure where they got that idea from. I’ve had a few girlfriends that have come out here to spend time with me.”

“You make them come all the way out here?”

Ava ladled some of the brew into a glass jar and secured a lid on it. She walked back over to Sarah and sat beside her. “I prefer my solitude out here in the woods,” she told her, turning the jar over in her youthful yet calloused hands. There was a pause during which they gazed at each other, then Ava killed it by shoving the potion into Sarah’s arms. “Well, here it is. I won’t keep you any longer now.” She hesitated again, and Sarah didn’t stop her when a few weightless fingers stroked through her curls. Was she imagining Ava leaning in towards her?

But then Ava stopped and hopped up, feverishly wiping her hands on her dress. “I’ll see you out. I- I know you’re a medic, you need to get home to your brothers.”

Sarah swallowed and placed the jar inside her bag, then threw it onto her shoulder after sliding her cloak back on. She suddenly felt like her medical knowledge was worthless compared to the vast encyclopedia of healing methods she knew must be in Ava’s head. She figured she must have a vicious headache from her fall, yet she still felt not even a twinge from it. She had never known such a phenomenon was possible. Ava came straight out of the fairytales Sarah’s mother used to read to her before bed.

She could pick up on Ava’s restlessness, though, so she followed her to the door. Then she asked, “What do I owe you for this medicine?”

Ava halted and turned back to her. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“No, I... I insist.” Sarah started to dig through her knapsack. “I have coins--”

“No, please.” That made her drop everything and glance back up at Ava’s angel-carved face. Silence wrapped around them, and Ava seemed to wait until it became suffocating before she murmured, “What if I say you owe me a kiss?”

Sarah felt like she could swallow her own tongue whole, but that wouldn’t do her any good here. She calmed her trembling heart and all she could muster was a nod. Again Ava leaned in to her and this time successfully captured Sarah’s lips onto her own, holding her close for a long while. Sarah breathed her in, inhaling all of Ava’s sweet scent of lilac until every last drop was sucked away, because she wanted to remember her forever.

Sarah made it five minutes into the woods before she gave in to herself and turned around to go back. She needed more of Ava, more of something that she couldn’t quite grasp.

She walked and she walked and she was sure she should’ve come across the little hut a hundred times by now. Sarah spun around again, one eye on her compass, and came to a stop surrounded by the same old bushes and leaves and branches. Her gaze fluttered down to the bald earth below her feet. It seemed too firmly packed and smoothed over to not be manmade, yet there was no sign of life around her except for - 

She knelt down and picked up the one object that caught her eye: an old quill pen covered in dust, as if it hadn’t been touched in hundreds of years. Sarah thought she had seen the feather tucked behind an ear mere minutes ago. She stood up, slipped it into her pocket, and thought maybe she was mistaken.

[cle1024]

bury your camaraderie, 4:42pm

it was a clear memory in his mind, one that replayed often. a heavy sigh had left changbin's mouth as his destination came in sight. according to the slightly torn map he’d been following, the underpass would lead to a, hopefully vacant, motel―but of course luck wasn’t on his side, it never was. the underpass had collapsed, presumably when the world initially went into chaos, and in his way stood a mountain of sharp concrete, fallen bricks and half empty crates. it was aggravating, to say the least. all of it had been aggravating. an apocalypse, no one left to fight with, the world laid in ruins and buried his motivation six feet under the rubble. the sun was beating down on him at that point, he must’ve been stood there for five minutes in mental complaint, and forced him to push onward in another direction. the decision was one he was half thankful for, half regretful of ― sort of like making an awful mistake, cringing at it afterwards, yet still managing to learn something from it. on a whim, he’d opted to go around the left side of the rubble and towards a seemingly abandoned petrol station. everything was abandoned, both then and now, except for that petrol station. when he stepped through the empty door frames, glass shattered and bloody on the floor, the first thing he noticed was the sound of soft sobs. then he saw an infected; the virus must’ve been spreading when they died, eyes still open and a gunshot wound to the forehead. quickest and easiest way to go, changbin had learned. he’d followed the few feet of smeared blood on the floor, leading his path to you. hunched, sobbing slightly, an empty gun and bloody hands by your side. changbin could only assume what had happened, and he wouldn’t dare ask―fresh wound, insensitive, all that shit his mother had taught him when he was younger. neither of you had said anything, he just gave you his smaller flask of water and refilled your gun while you calmed your slightly jagged breathing. you had followed him outside of the store after he picked up some of the supplies he was lacking ― you knew nothing about him, not his name nor what his voice sounded like, but you were too afraid to be alone again. not to mention too weak, mentally and physically. he spoke his first words to you when the moon had replaced the sun and you’d followed him to a rundown motel, the one changbin was looking for all along. “see you in the morning, kid,” it was a simple phrase, but something about it gave you hope. there would be a tomorrow, and you wouldn’t be alone when it came. changbin was glad to have you by his side, you made him feel emotions again; you made him feel human. but that was also why changbin hated his decision to go down that left path and let you follow him. he opened his heart to you, as did you to him, and he allowed you to be the weakness in his previously numb heart. it only made it ten times harder to put a bullet through your head, even when you were on your knees begging ― “please, changbin. i don’t want to hurt you,” he could still hear the broken sobs in the quiet night two years later. you died in his arms, thanking him for everything he’d given you: company, safety, protection, care, love, freedom. no matter what you said to him with your last breath, nothing could erase the guilt changbin felt every morning when he woke up alone. regardless of how much you’d weakened him, how much he yearned to join you, he pushed himself to keep going. changbin was a man of his word, so when the two of you had promised to keep surviving no matter what, he couldn’t let himself break it.

[detroitbecomeyandere]

Yandere of your choice punishing a smaller and weaker female s/o

“Oh, honestly, (Y/N), enough with the tears. You’re the one who’s so insistent on acting like a brat, you wouldn’t be punished if you just followed the rules. You should know them by now, I feel as if we repeat this lesson every other day.”

His words were nothing but a sharp white noise in your head, the clipped tone lost in the volume of your sobbings. Despite his order, you did not stop your crying and whimpering, uncaring for whatever punishment he might inflict on you, not that you were sure you’d even be able to calm yourself at this point. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier and your eyes stung from the neverending flow of tears that flowed and smeared across your cheeks.

Your body ached as well, handprint-shaped bruises adorning your small frame almost like a pattern, accented by the occasional tear in your clothing from when you had struggled to escape from his unrelenting grip, only getting as far as the broken threading would allow you. It was highly unlikely that your current position of being curled up in a tight little ball in the corner of the living room would provide much protection if he felt the need to continue doling out discipline, but it would at least shield your face from having to look at him at all.

“Get up, (Y/N).” He demanded. His voice was louder to compensate over your grating wails, harsher even, and when you did not move a trembling muscle to obey he instead spoke through gritted teeth, “I said get up.”

Unfortunately, shielding your face from those cold grey eyes left you unable to see his next move, therefore when he wrapped a strong hand around your bicep in a bruising grip you squealed and jolted away, only injuring yourself when your flesh was squeezed even tighter. Your sobs turned into yells once again, much more incoherent as you mangled the words “no” and “stop” and “let go” into a variety of pleads. They had about as much of an effect as a rubber hammer on a brick wall.

He hoisted you up in one fluid motion, your arm twisting painfully as he did so until you were standing on your feet. You probably could have made it easier on yourself if you at least stood still, but the need to get away was far greater than the need to think rationally, thus you kept kicking your legs toward him and digging your heels into the floor and gain any sort of leverage to pull away. Again, not much of an effect.

Once you were standing he used his free arm to curl snuggly around your waist, only then releasing your arm. For a moment you thought you could use your height as an advantage and slip out of his arm from underneath, but in a second he had all but knocked the wind right out of your lungs, silencing your cries only briefly while you painfully sucked air back into your body. It had seemed it was him who used his own height as an advantage, standing up fully straight and keeping your back pinned to his chest, your feet dangling inches above the floor.

You weren’t sure what you expected him to do with you in this position, but as he walked towards the bedroom down the hall your struggling began anew. You clawed at that stupidly pristine white jacket sleeve around your middle, you slammed your heels into his titanium shins, you twisted your body as much as you could in these confinements, all in vain. Sometimes you weren’t even sure why you still felt the need to physically fight against him. You could hardly take on a human of that stature, what made you think you’d have any chance against a perfect machine?

The fight drained out of you soon after that, not even through the threshold on the bedroom door, instead letting your head loll against his shoulder and plead with him in a much softer tone, hoping maybe for once he’d take pity on you and just leave you alone for the rest of the night. He didn’t react to any of your gentler begs, unceremoniously dropping you onto the mattress of the bed where you bounce just a little on impact.

You tried to roll away towards the other side to put some distance between the two of you, still debating if you were going to leap from the bed and get a headstart or try to play nice and do as he said. Maybe you shouldn’t have moved at all if it was the second option because no sooner had you started to move did he practically pounce on top of you, one knee firmly between your thighs and a hand locking both your thin wrists together whilst shoving them above your head. You let out a frustrated whimper, lashes wet with a fresh wave of tears that you tried not to let fall just yet, though they clouded your vision.

He narrowed his eyes dangerously, a small tick you had started to notice when he really got irritated, “Did we not just discuss this? Did we not just go through this whole ordeal because you refuse to follow simple, simple rules?”

You weren’t sure if he was looking for an answer or not, but before you could even choke out one of your insincere apologies his hand cracked against the side of your face, enough force to completely snap it to the side and fling those unshed tears across the pillow. The sting didn’t register immediately so you didn’t flinch when he grabbed your chin in his other hand and turned your shocked face back towards him. It must have seemed his message was finally getting across because his expression looked just a miniscule less hostile than earlier.

“I suggest you start getting your act together, love.” He warned, letting go of your face and rubbing his thumb slowly over the welt forming just under your eye, “I don’t enjoy hurting you, I’d much rather have you screaming my name for other reasons…but if you do not curb your behavior soon then I fear I’m going to have to go to more drastic measures.”

Unable to bite your tongue at this point, you did your best to level his gaze with a glare of your own, probably looking unsightly with your red-rimmed eyes and bruising face.

“Or what?” You snapped, “You’ll lock me up in a single room for weeks? You’ll beat the shit out of me? You’ll finally put me out of my misery and kill me?”

You expected more threats from him, well they were more like promises since he actually did go through with them, or perhaps a couple more slaps to the face but you were truly at a loss for words when after a tense beat he cracked just the tiniest smile. A mere twitch at the corners of his mouth. He let go of your wrists, though you still left them when he had pinned them, too stunned by his lack of reaction.

“No, (Y/N), I know you’ll start listening because…”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small forensic evidence bag, the red labeling declaring it was from the DPD but its unfilled out information now implying it was something he must have swiped while at work. You couldn’t help but cringe at the fact that it wasn’t empty. Inside were five fingers, presumably all from the same hand and ripped from the first joint, coated in a small amount of coagulated blood. It wasn’t just the mild gore that froze you, though.

It was the wedding band still wedged on one of the fingers. You could spot its unique design anywhere, after all you were the one that had spent months searching for the perfect one to give to your fiance shortly before this psycho-bot had shown up next to your parked car with a charming smile on his face and a heavily soaked chloroform rag in his hand. Your eyes stared wide and unblinking as the thick blood stained the ring, breathing hitched as you could just barely see the engraving along it in the light. You already knew what it said, you had requested it yourself.

“Next time,” A voice called from above you, suddenly snapping you out of your thoughts and back onto the monster that trapped you here, “I’m pulling teeth.”

-Mod Barbie

[littleoldrachel]

Next chapter is up! Read it here on ao3, or here on ff.net, or under the cut. 

100 Ways to Say I Love You Summary: In which actions speak louder than words, Sirius and Remus sort of fall in to a relationship, and even though neither of them have said those three all-important words, they both know it anyway.Or: 100 Ways to Say I Love You by Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Previous |  chapter 12/100 - “Take my jacket. It’s cold outside”  Based on this post by p0ck3tf0x  Tw for mentions of negative body image, depression, anxiety, self-harm, fat-shaming, and discussions around classism. 

The thing is, when Remus said you can go, it wasn’t meant to be a permanent thing. He didn’t mean take your stuff and get out of my home, he didn’t mean you’re not welcome here anymore. But he should have realised, that with Sirius’ history, he wouldn’t have taken it any other way. Within an hour of their row (? - Remus doesn’t want to call it a row, or a conflict, or anything that suggests that things aren’t fine between them, because in doing so, it acknowledges the mishmash of hurt, anger, and embarrassment that has tangled itself in his chest), every trace of Sirius’ semi-residential status has quietly removed itself from Remus’ flat.

And Remus hates it. He hates not hearing Sirius impersonating Freddie Mercury, he hates that there are no longer toothpaste smears on the bathroom sink from where Sirius spits too enthusiastically, he hates the way that Winky mopes around the patch of sofa Sirius had made his own, pawing at the indent his perfect arse left there.

For the longest while, all Remus can do is sit on the floor in front of his sofa, Winky against his chest, too numb to even cry. His head is a tornado of emotions, and he flips between self-doubting guilt and self-righteousness anger dizzyingly fast. On the one hand, he knows he’s justified in his frustration - and the part of him that has therapy stitched in to his very core reminds him that his feelings are valid and important. Impact matters more than intent - and whilst he doesn’t doubt that Sirius’ intentions were good (because Sirius is good - reckless and thoughtless and impatient, but fundamentally, unshakably good), it doesn’t detract from the fact that his words hurt. It hurts because Sirius should know better than to call him proud and force his ‘help’ upon him. It hurts because the implication that money and a new place to live would make all his problems disappear is fucking offensive.

It hurts because having Sirius living with him for the last couple of weeks has been so fucking domestic and lovely, and this was a just a harsh reminder of what cannot be.

(Remus has to suck in a shaky breath at this point, because, numb as he is, this wound has struck him at his centre, and it hurts).

And then there’s the other part of him - the part that is so steeped in self-loathing and depression that it will never truly be cleansed. It whispers that this was an overreaction, that it was deserved, that he’s ruined the best thing in his life - that Sirius will never come back. It murmurs that it wouldn’t be so bad to take the money and offer, that Remus has doomed himself to struggling forevermore. (It lies, Remus tells himself, though even in his head, he’s not as firm as he would like to be).

He’s itching to talk to his friends and have them validate his feelings, because if he keeps them inside his head, he is going to have a breakdown. He can already feel the ragged edges of his heart aching with every shuddering breath, and his eyes are burning with unshed tears.

But he can’t. Because Sirius will be home by now - with James and Lily, not with him, because home will never mean Remus ever again now - and Sirius will need them both. And… if he’s being really honest with himself, he’s afraid of what calling them might mean;

James doesn’t do sides, but if he did, Remus knows he would always choose Sirius in a heartbeat. The two of them are closer than brothers, and matter more to each other than almost anything else, and whilst Lily is more likely to be neutral, Remus cannot pit her against her best friend and fiance - not for his sake, it’s not worth it.

(He’s not worth it).

Remus jolts and realises his nails are embedded in his palms - the stinging pain in his hands is real, and he stares at the way blood oozes from the marks. It scares him how much Sirius means to him - it terrifies him that he’s so quickly reverted to old coping mechanisms, and it’s this unbridled panic that makes him finally move.

He needs to get out - and not in the sense those words would have meant a couple of months ago, he just needs some time out. Running away from his problems hasn’t always helped in the past, but the thought of staying here, and having to deal with the fallout of his and Sirius’ relationship, of having to explain himself to every one of his friends, of having to explore with his therapist why this hurts so much - he can’t.

And so, he won’t.

Winky blinks dopily at him, then tucks herself back into his stomach, and he makes a rare, spur-of-the-moment decision.

He’s going home.

(If you can call a place that made you despise everything about yourself, that tore you down with every millimetre you grew, that taught you that you were wrong and worthless and - if you can call a place like that home).

The following morning finds him at the train station, an over-priced ticket in his pocket and a dreadful heaviness in his heart. He’s thrown things together in a rucksack without really thinking - which is how he later ends up with twelve pairs of socks but no underwear - and he rang his mother on the way to the train. She had done her best to hide her surprise beneath a layer of genuine pleasure, but Remus knows there’ll be prying questions when he arrives.

(He’s weirdly okay with that - perhaps by then, his heart will have finished gouging scars in his chest).

And so, he avoids the calls from his friends, cancels on his therapist, pointedly doesn’t look at Sirius’ Snapchat story, and clambers aboard the train that will take him to the place he once thought he’d never escape. The journey is appalling - as all trains outside of London are - and it’s early evening before he finally arrives.

His father stands on the platform, a tall, thin man leaning on a stick and squinting at every passenger who exits the train. When he claps his eyes on Remus, he hobbles towards him as fast as his knees will allow.

“Ahuv, Remus!”

“Shalom, papa,” Remus returns, allowing himself to be clasped tightly in a warm embrace. Despite the rockiness of their relationship, the comfort this contact gives him almost brings tears to his eyes, and he has to swallow hard against his father’s shoulder to hide it.

“You look tired,” Lyall says, almost accusatory, and Remus waves a hand.

“Work. Delays. London stuff,” he says, “is mama at home?”

Lyall frowns at the change of subject, but allows it, attempting to take Remus’ backpack as they make their way to the car park. “No, we are collecting her from work on the way home. She is very happy you are here.”

“I’m happy to be here,” Remus says, internally wincing at how bad of a liar he is.

“Nobody is happy to be here, Remus. This is the place people come to die.”

“Papa.”

“Hush now.” His parents’ car is almost as battered as his own, and it takes three attempts before it sputters into life, but his father pats the dashboard affectionately anyway. “Tell me about your work.”

Remus shifts uncomfortably. “There’s not a whole lot to tell,” he says, and at his father’s noise of displeasure, he begins a halting update on the publishing company and its struggle in the digital age. By the time they’ve reached his mother’s place of work - a hotel on the outskirts of town - Remus is cringing from the weight of his father’s disappointment at his lack of anything - no success, no promotion, no clue what he’s doing with his life.

(Perhaps this was a mistake).

(But then his mother arrives and hugs him so warmly and tightly that he can’t stop the tears from leaking out this time).

Her chatter fills the journey back to his parent’s tiny house, and continues on into dinner. Remus is grateful for it, because exhaustion is starting to cloud his brain, and any more interrogation about his employment failures will lead to an actual breakdown. Instead, he soaks up the unchanged-ness of his childhood home and tries to pay attention to all of the gossip about people he used to know like his own family.

(He hopes that his father’s mention of the girl he’d briefly dated in secondary school was out of humour and not hopefulness, but the glint in Lyall’s eyes makes his heart sink).

The nostalgia here is suffocating - as he lies in a bed too small for his frame, and stares up at a ceiling that’s still covered with posters of animals, he struggles with the memories of the depression that had almost taken control of him as a teenager. He remembers avoiding looking at his body and the way it bulged when stepping from the shower, and how unhappy it made him to catch sight of his reflection. He remembers spending hour after hour either crippled with a darkness so all-encompassing, it pinned him in bed, or a panic so overwhelming, it was all he could do to lie as still as possible. He remembers picking apart razors and playing with lighters and sharpening shards of glass with the sole intention of destroying himself.

They aren’t good thoughts.

(But it’s not Sirius and how everything is ruined between them. It’s something altogether different and darker, but it sucks him into a restless sleep far more effectively than recent events could).

He deliberately hadn’t bought a return ticket - partially because he hadn’t felt able to make that sort of decision, and partially because his bank account wouldn’t stretch that far - and so, he doesn’t even think about going back. He spends his days wandering streets he used to know like the back of his hand, helping around the house with cleaning, and exploring the tracks into fields and forests at the edge of the town. Most of the time, he’s alone, but as long as he keeps himself busy, he’s fine - he can handle this.

He knows his parents are worried about him - they discuss him in hushed voices when they think he’s not listening, and he pretends not to notice the concerned looks they give him. His friends are worried too, and it’s this that reassures the tiny part of him that feared their rejection.

Look, he knows he can’t stay here forever - he can’t even stay here long at all, given the fact he’s supposed to be at work - but right now, it’s where he needs to be.

Alice: Is this you having a breakdown?

Remus: Nah, just needed some time out.

Alice: From ???

Alice: From Sirius?

Alice: Bc I swear, if /he’s/ the reason you’ve run off back to the place that nearly killed you, imma kill him.

Remus: It’s not like that Al

Remus: I swear, no killing necessary

Alice: Are you okay?

Alice: Like honestly?

Remus: Yeah

Remus: At least, I will be. I needed this.

Remus: It’s complicated. But I’ll explain when I’m back.

Alice: You are coming back, then?

Remus: ???

Remus: Of course??

Alice: Just checking

Alice: Love you [purple heart emojis]

Remus: [purple heart emojis]

James: i don’t like thinking of you being back there but i will accept that you’re doing what’s right for you

James: just know that i’m here when you’re ready to talk, k?

James: love you so much [sparkly heart emojis]

Remus: Thanks Prongs [sparkly heart emojis]

Lily: i miss u, when r u comin home?

Remus: Idk yet, but I miss you too [red heart emojis]

Lily: [sad face emoji, broken heart emoji, red heart emoji]

Sirius: can we talk pls?

“Don’t forget your drugs, hamud.”

“Aren’t I a little old to be your hamud, mama?” Remus looks up from his bowl of porridge with a wry smile, the endearment warming his heart.

Hope looks affronted, clasping a dramatic hand to her bosom. “Nonsense,” she says briskly, “you are always my hamud, Remus. In fact, here.” She whips his bowl away, deftly tips the bottle of golden syrup upside down and liberally sweeps it across the surface. When she returns it, she’s grinning mischievously, and Remus can’t help the chuckle that bursts out of him at the smiley face dribbled over the oats. “When you were little, you wouldn’t eat your breakfast without this,” Hope says fondly, and Remus smiles too as he’s tugged into the memory.

“And when you were in hospital, papa went out of his mind trying to get me to eat,” he says, spooning up a mouthful of pure syrup. “Because he didn’t know that I had your sweet tooth.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, ahuv,” Hope chides him, but she’s still smiling. In the weak morning sunlight, the rays catch the strands of her hair that are turning silver, and dance over the crinkles about her eyes. Remus deliberately doesn’t think about the way her eyes strain to read the papers, or how stiff she rises from prayers, because thinking about her ageing sends him on a downwards spiral into thinking about death and the anxiety that gives him is not something he ever wants her to witness.

Remus swallows and takes another bite. Hope sips at her tea, and the morning is quiet and still for a while as they sit with their thoughts.

Eventually, Hope clears her throat. “It’s not that I don’t love having you here,” she begins, and Remus’ heart sinks at what must be coming next, “but I am worried about you being here.”

“You don’t need to worry, I’m fine,” Remus says automatically, and Hope tsks loudly.

“It is an insult to me as your mother that you expect me to believe that.” Remus lowers his spoon, ready to apologise, but Hope continues. “It’s my job to worry about you, ahuv. And it doesn’t take much to work out that something’s upsetting you.”

Remus hesitates, because whilst he and his mother are both trying this openness and honesty thing, there’s a large part of him that still feels he has to shield the ugly parts of himself from her, that doesn’t want to burden her with his messy problems. In that pause, Hope reaches a hand out towards him, and links their fingers together.

“Talk to your mama, Remus.”

Remus sighs. “It’s - it’s complicated. I - sort of argued with Sirius. And I’m really pissed at him, but I still l - he’s still my friend, and I… I guess I’m just disappointed.”

“What did you argue about?” Hope’s tone is neutral, but when Remus raises his eyes to hers, the care in them is so much that a lump rises in his throat.

“He… well, I told you about his Uncle Alphard.”

“Yes, yes, the reason you didn’t come to Hanukkah.”

“When he died,” Remus says slowly, “he left Sirius his money. A lot of money. And Sirius - he said he’d give me half of it.”

There’s a pause. Hope’s eyebrows have climbed to her hairline, and then she repeats incredulously, “he’d give you half?”

Remus pushes himself from the table and begins to pace, unable to control the irritation that is thrumming through his limbs.

“It’s like he thinks he can just throw money at a situation and magically make it better? Like I don’t know that my flat is terrible. And he comes along with his millions and says he’ll move us somewhere better and I’m just supposed to click my heels and snap to it? Like I’m some fu- some charity case.”

Hope stares down into her mug. When she speaks, she sounds tired - more tired than Remus has ever heard, “when someone is born with that level of privilege, it takes a long time for them to unlearn it. I’m not -” she raises her hands placatingly when Remus makes to protest. “I’m not trying to excuse him. He should know better. And that he doesn’t is exhausting for us working-class folks.”

“I’m just tired of it. I’m tired of having to save everything I can and watch them spend the equivalent of my rent on a shopping spree. And I know they don’t even mean to be dicks about it, but that sort of makes it worse, because they’re so used to their entitlement that they don’t have to think about it.”

Hope lets him rant - perhaps it’s because she can tell he needs to let this out to someone who understands, perhaps it’s because she uses his frustration to fuel her own anger, perhaps it’s because she loves him and she’s his mother. Either way, she makes an encouraging noise to continue, and suddenly, it’s like every ache of growing up in poverty is exploding out of him:

“They’ve never understood it - not really. James and Sirius both come from private school, six-car, four-house families. At uni, I had to teach them how to do their laundry, because they have people to do that for them. They didn’t understand why I had to have two jobs to cover uni. They don’t understand how privileged they are that their parents paid for their accommodation and tuition fees and everything they asked for. They don’t understand what it’s like to have to learn to drive illegally in your cousin’s stolen car because their daddies bought them their own when they turned seventeen.”

Remus leans against the table, hands clenching its surface so tightly he can feel the splinters embedding themselves in his palms. “And even the others are too middle class to get it - Lily went abroad every year for holidays, and Frank and Pete sort of get it but they’ve never struggled for money for meals or had to watch their parents go to bed hungry so that they could eat.” He meets his mother’s eyes and the understanding in them draws him back to his seat with a sigh. “And I'm glad they've not had those experiences… I’m just tired.”

“I’m sorry, ahava shelli,” Hope says after a while, once it becomes clear that Remus has run out of steam. There’s little else that can be said, and Remus continues to stew in his hurt frustration, the pleasant feeling from before entirely dissipated. He glares at the smiley face in his bowl - though its smile has turned into a grim slash by now.

The silence stretches for a long while, and Remus can tell Hope’s building up to something, because the anticipation makes his stomach squirm unpleasantly.

“You know that Sirius didn’t mean this maliciously,” Hope says carefully, and Remus opens his mouth to protest - because sure, but? Not the point? But Hope quickly continues, “I’m not saying to forgive him immediately. Because he needs to learn to be better. Not just for your sake. But… if this boy is as good as you’ve made him sound over the years, I know he’s going to do the work. He cares too much to let this come between you. And so do you.”

“I know,” Remus says softly - this isn’t anything he hasn’t spent the last week circling back to in his head, but somehow, hearing it out loud makes something click.

(I care too much to let this come between us).

“You know why this hurts so much,” Hope murmurs, squeezing his hand gently.

Remus takes a deep breath, and it aches like pulling glass from a wound when he admits, “I’m just - I can’t help but think we’re too different sometimes. Like, even if he felt the way I do, we’re from such different lives - I have nothing to offer him that he-”

“Remus John Lupin. I did not raise you like that.” His mother’s voice is sharper than it’s been this whole conversation, and Remus starts. “Money or no money. That man would be lucky to have you. Do I make myself clear?” she says fiercely, and Remus nods meekly.

(One day, he’ll be able to believe her. One day, he’ll know his worth - he has to trust in that. For now, he’ll have to trust in the people he trusts the most).

“So, what now?” Hope says eventually, quieter and calmer than before.

“I just need him to apologise,” Remus says at last. Because if he doesn’t - then he’s not the man Remus is convinced he is, and he’s not worth the years of pining Remus has subjected himself to.

(But he will apologise, and he is worth it. Remus is certain of it).

“Have you let him?”

“I - what?”

“Have you given him the chance to apologise?” Hope says.

Remus looks at her, then down at the porridge, and bites his lip.

“I think you know what you need to do, hamud,” Hope presses the palm of a warm, weathered hand against his cheek, and leaves the room.

Travelling back to London feels bizarre - although he was free to leave his parents’ this time around, there’s a sense of lightness and freedom that accompanies him all the way down south. It’s warmer in the city, and it’s warmer in his soul - though sadly not in his flat as he re-enters, and shivers as the temperature drops a few degrees.

He can’t afford to turn the heating on, so he pulls on another woolly jumper and pretends its as good, and makes a cuppa. Once he’s settled on the sofa with a blanket about his shoulders, he pulls out his phone, and begins to respond to the piles of messages he’s left answered over the last few days.

Eventually, he comes to Sirius’, and tries to summon the same resolve he felt yesterday, in that tiny kitchen.

(It shouldn’t be so difficult to tap out such a brief response).

Remus: Yes, when?

His heart speeds up painfully when he hits send, and he clutches his phone to his chest like a teenage girl, because he likes Sirius so fucking much, no matter how problematic he is, and he’s desperate for this to work out.

His phone buzzes, and Remus jumps, immediately checking his notifications. To his… disappointment? Relief? He’s not sure how to feel - either way, it’s not Sirius.

Instead, it’s a message to the group from Kingsley, informing them all that the following evening is a Compulsory Gang Meet, to be missed under pain of death. His friends are so fucking dramatic.

Speaking of dramatics - Winky slinks into the apartment through the tiny broken windowpane, catches sight of him, and flings herself at his feet, meowing loudly. Alice has been coming and feeding her, but Remus still feels guilty that she’s been alone all week.

He snaps a selfie of her curled against his stomach, and goes to send it to Sirius - even goes as far as to tap out a how cute is your daughter??? before remembering.

(Soon, things will be normal again, and Remus can go back to pining in peace - still torturing himself with dreams that can never be, but at least he’ll be torturing himself with Sirius instead of this awful distance).

To say that things are Awkward at the pub, would be the understatement of the century - possibly even the millenia. Sirius nodded and smiled when Remus arrived - late, obviously - but they haven’t talked yet, and the only available seat was directly opposite Sirius, not exactly ideal for a deep, meaningful chat.

“Gonna go for a smoke,” Kingsley stands, waving his lighter. “Anyone coming?”

“Yep,” Frank says solemnly, pulling out his inhaler, and making to stand. Alice rolls her eyes, too used to his jokes to even muster a smile, and yanks him back down unceremoniously.

“I’ll come,” Remus says, surprising himself, because cigarette smoke makes his head hurt and stings his eyes, but he also can’t stand the unhappy tension every time his and Sirius’ eyes meet.

Kingsley’s eyes flicker knowingly towards Sirius, then back at Remus, and his smile twists into something too sympathetic for Remus to bear. “Let’s go,” Remus says hurriedly, seizing his threadbare coat from the back of his seat, and looping an arm around Kingsley’s.

Sirius suddenly stands, and the chatter of the group dies immediately, as their friends look between them. The attention makes Remus’ anxiety flare.

“Take my jacket - it’s cold outside,” Sirius says, his eyes imploring Remus to meet his gaze. Remus steadfastly looks at the floor, but takes the proffered leather jacket, sliding it around his shoulders.

He’s loathe to admit it, but it helps. It’s baggy around the shoulders and tight around his middle, effortlessly cool in a way that Remus has never been and could never be, but it takes the bite out of the wind. (And, a tiny treacherous corner of his mind whispers, it smells like Sirius - his fancy aftershave and outdoors and paints - which is possibly more comforting than any physical benefit).

Kingsley lights up a cigarette, taking a long inhale, and releasing his breath slowly, so that smoke combines with the mist it creates. He’s all long limbs and dark, glowing skin, casually sprawled against the pub wall, like something straight out of a catalogue. Remus leans beside him, and for a while, neither of them say a word.

Then -

“So. You and loverboy are in a tiff?” Kingsley’s tone is light, but he links their arms together in solidarity, which takes the sting out of loverboy.

“He’s not my loverboy.”

“Sure, and I’m a straight white boy.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Fine. I like him-” (it’s strange how much easier that is to say out loud these days? Remus-half-a-year-ago would have a panic attack sooner than admit that) “-but it’s not like that.”

Kingsley blows a circle of smoke, and Remus is half-admiring (because Gandalf, duh?) and half-disgusted (because smoking, duh?). “What’d y’all fight about?”

Remus sighs. “Me being poor and him being rich.”

Kingsley frowns. “What, is he tryna Pretty Woman you?”

Remus laughs in spite of himself. “Something like that.”

Kingsley sighs. “Rich people, eh?”

“I know.”

“Are you gonna forgive him?”

Remus stares at him, because as if Remus has any choice in this, as if he’d let this stand between almost a decade of friendship and an unrequited crush. “Of course.”

“Does Sirius know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard through the grapevine that he’s convinced he’s ruined everything.”

“If by grapevine, you mean you eavesdropped on him-”

“Fuck you, I have my sources,” Kingsley elbows him playfully in the ribs.

Remus laughs. “I’m waiting for an apology. But when he does, of course he’s forgiven.”

Kingsley stares at him. “If you were any more in love with him, you’d be vomiting rainbows, I hope you know how gross you’re being.”

“Wow that’s homophobic.”

“Your mum’s homophobic.”

“Not anymore.”

Kingsley cackles, stubs out his cigarette, and slings an arm around Remus. “I’ve missed you, don’t just disappear again, kay?”

“I won’t.”

Kingsley shifts from one foot to another. “Fuck, it’s cold. You coming back in?”

“In a minute. Go on without me.”

“You sure?” Kingsley frowns, but he’s only wearing a shirt, and just the sight of him is making Remus shiver.

“Go,” he urges, and Kingsley slips back inside, the door swinging shut behind him.

Remus leans back against the wall, wrapping the jacket around himself, and exhaling slowly. He can’t say that he’s altogether surprised when the door opens again, and a familiar voice says, “Moony?”

Sirius stands there, wringing his hands together, looking more nervous than Remus can bear. “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Remus says immediately, and Sirius’ shoulders visibly relax.

“Thank you,” he says, the relief palpable, “can we…?” He gestures down the road, and Remus shrugs.

“Sure.”

Sirius smiles - hesitant and still nervous, but just as fucking cute as ever. Remus’ heart - his stupid, fucking traitorous heart - pounds a little harder at the sight of it (and wow, he’s never getting over this man).

“Let’s go.”

[ellanainthetardis]

prompt: Effie finds out that haymitch has a hidden talent ( something sooo random like playing an instrument or knowing stuff about make up or being good at a sport or motorcycles or something )

Here you go {X]

The Handyman

Effie had been staying in Twelve for about twoweeks when she heard the hammer for the first time.

She climbed out of her bed in Haymitch’s guestroom, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and grumbling under her breathabout freezing Districts, and walked to the window. Try as she might, shecouldn’t see where it was coming from. There wasn’t much rebuilding going on inthe Victors Village, people even tended to leave as soon as their old house wasfixed in town or in the Seam, and the sound couldn’t be coming from town wherethere was always a chaos of men shouting orders or warnings, hammering orsawing noises and perilous scaffoldings growing everywhere.

She shuffled down the corridor, peering intoHaymitch’s bedroom because it was still early – and even more so for him whohardly ever got up before late morning. It was empty. She stepped inside allthe same, to snatch warm woolen socks from the top of the dresser as well as apair of sweatpants that were far too big for her. She tied the knot at herwaist as tight as it would go, trying to remember during which Games she hadbought those pants for him and drawing a blank. She didn’t think he had everbothered buying clothes for himself, not since she had been there to provide agenerous amount of them when the Games had been in season, and some of hisbelongings were showing signs of wear.

She could look into that, she decided. It wouldbe something nice to surprise him with. Her budget was tight but she couldafford a couple of pants and shirts. She could always buy wool and knit thesocks and sweaters herself, it would save money and give her something to do.Yes, she could do that. It would make her feel a little less like she wasimposing and abusing Haymitch’s hospitality.

She folded the blanket she had been carryingand swapped it for the heavy blue dressing gown that had been abandoned on abare dressing table, knowing he wouldn’t mind. She kept an ear pricked for anynoise in the bathroom as she ran her hand on the slightly dusty wood of thetable.

It was a shame to see such a lovely piece offurniture go unused. Her perfumes, creams and make-up would have been right athome there.

But that was on her, wasn’t it? If she wantedto move into his room… Well, she wasn’t sure he would welcome her moving in his room but he wouldcertainly not mind her slipping in his bed for something more than clinging tohim after a nightmare. She tightened the dressing gown around her frail frame,giving a last sad look to the dressing table. She wasn’t ready for more. Notyet.

The hammering was still going on full swing. Inhis room, she could also hear the faint honking of displeased geese.

She hated the birds.

They were noisy, filthy and every time he letthem loose she was afraid one of them would bite her. He, on the other hand andwithout too much surprise on her part, doted on those awful monsters as if theywere adorable kittens. She wouldn’t have minded kittens. For that matters, shewouldn’t even have terribly minded puppies. But geese?

She approached the window and peered in thebackyard, her eyebrows shooting up when she spotted Haymitch kneeling insidethe pen, apparently busy putting wood planks together to build… Was that ageese house?

From the moment she had showed up, his smallgaggle had been kept in that pen. There had been a makeshift shelter in it aswell as water and food but it had all seemed a bit… Well. To be honest, the whole thing had been very ugly, clearlystanding together by a pure struck of luck. The makeshift shelter was completelygone now and in its place…

If she had slept through the building processand had woken up to find it already erected, she would have concluded Peeta haddone it and thought no more about it. It was actually impressive.

Haymitch was completely focused on his work.Aside from the hammer he sometimes placed down to check everything was holdingas it should, he had a measuring tape, a saw, things she didn’t know the namesof… All his tools were spread on the ground next to a metal box. He didn’t havea tool belt like most men in town liked to carry around the waist when theywere working but he didn’t seem to mind.

Effie watched him for a very long time. It was…soothing to watch him work. His moves were confident, there was no room forhesitation, and if he sometimes paused to think – rubbing his jaw or hisforehead – his indecision never lasted long and his actions only became morepurposeful.

After half an hour of what could only be calledstalking, she remembered herself and hurried downstairs to the kitchen to fix themsomething to eat.

The kitchen was in a state that had her pursingher lips. If she had liked order before, it was almost compulsive for her tokeep her environment neat nowadays.She needed everything to be clean,she needed everything to smell fresh –nothing like rot and decay, nothing like her cell – and she had more or lesstaken over the house on that front. The children always joked that they couldhave eaten on the floor in there and instead of taking offense, she took thatas a compliment.

Clearly, Haymitch had been up for hours.

There were crumbs on the table, eggs gatheredand abandoned in a basket on the counter, an uncorked bottle of moonshine nextto the sink, the pantry wasn’t closed properly, the bread box had been leftopen and an unwashed mug tainted with coffee at the bottom had been left in thesink.

She sighed, annoyed that he had never – andlikely never would – learned to pickup after himself. She started with what bothered her most and that was thecrumbs. Closing the pantry and the bread box, putting the cork back on thebottle and putting it away took only a minute. She left the mug to soak for nowand finally turned to the eggs, not quite sure what to do with them. Did heintend to sell them like he sometimes did or were they for them to eat? Heoften forgot to pick them up which ended with more goslings following himaround, mistaking him for their mother – which, admittedly, was a littlehilarious.

In the end, she put them in the fridge andturned on the coffee machine. She leaned against the sink while she waited, theview from there far much better than the one from his bedroom. She was closeenough to see the way he ran his hand on a plank before adding it to itsproject. He stroke that wood like he used to stroke her skin and it might havebeen stupid but at that very moment she was jealous of that plank because sheknew how warm and calloused his palm was, she knew how it felt to be touched,cajoled and loved by those hands.

Her lips were dry and she was so fascinated bythe idea that he actually seemed to like manual labor that she completelyforgot about her coffee. She yelped when it brimmed over and spent the nextfive minutes cleaning coffee from the otherwise gleaming counter with a pout.

She was thirty-six and she had spent ten yearshaving sex with him. One would think she would not get distracted like aridiculous schoolgirl with a crush anymore.

But one would apparently be wrong because thenext time she glanced through the window, he had taken off his shirt.

He knew she was watching, that was the onlypossible explanation for him being so stupid as to take off his shirt when hewas obviously sweaty and it was so cold. She almost knocked on the window,called whatever game he wanted to play off because she didn’t want him to besick, but then he stood up and stretched, his strong arms raised high towardthe grey sky hanging overhead and…

She took a sip of scalding coffee that didnothing for her parched mouth.

He wasn’t the most well in-shape man of his ageshe had seen. There was a small pouch of fat around his stomach and his chestwasn’t as firm as it used to be. Nothing about his body was as firm as it usedto be but damn it if his shouldersweren’t still as broad as she remembered them. He was naturally strong, thatwas his gift. And she didn’t mind the lack of abs that much. He was not fat by any reach. He was…

Attractive.

Handsome.

Hot.

Not playing fair because he knew she couldn’t resist him when he was all sweaty and naked. Not that he was entirelynaked but with the pale autumn sun falling on his broad chest it wasn’t verydifficult to imagine the rest. The strong thighs. The ass she loved to leavebite marks on just so he would remember her longer. Even his weird shaped toes…

He picked up his tools and tossed them back inthat box with deliberate slowness, making a show of it. The geese house actuallylooked really good now. It looked less like a shelter for strays and more likean actual pen. With a coat of paint, it could even be pretty.

She had a mug of steaming coffee waiting forhim on the table and she was pretending to smear butter on a toast, sitting atthe kitchen table, when he came back in. She glanced up, her eyes gliding overthe familiar swollen scar on his side, and up a tantalizing amount of tannedskin until she met his amused eyes.

“You shouldn’t be walking without a shirt inthat weather, Haymitch.” she deadpanned.

He placed the tool box on the counter – leavingdirt everywhere and making her inwardly cringe– and went to wash his hands as if nothing was amiss. She tried not to noticethe tracks his boots were leaving behind him. She tried. They were barely noticeable and she knew she was making ahuge deal over nothing.

“You seemed to like the view so much,sweetheart… Couldn’t disappoint.” he teased, turning around to lean against thecounter while he used the dishcloth to dry his hands. “Stealing my stuffagain?”

“It is cold.” she retorted petulantly.

“Yeah.” he sighed. “I’ve been putting that offfor months. With winter coming… The geese needed a proper shelter.”

She hadn’t asked but she hummed what could havepassed as an agreement. “I did not know you were such a handyman.”

“You’re the one who thinks she knows everythingabout me.” he snorted, sitting down in front of her to wrap his hands aroundhis mug of coffee.

She couldn’t help but stared at them.

She had been reminded of what those hands coulddo and now she was wondering if it would be as hard as she made it out to be tojust… let herself go. Her body wasn’twhat it used to be. It had aches and pains in different places still, shewasn’t beautiful any longer and she had scars to rival his own. She knew hewouldn’t see it that way, that all those flaws were in her own gaze and thatshe would most likely not find them in his. And she found she wanted him to look at her like somethingdesirable… But the idea of being naked in front of him, of exposing the marksof everything that had happened to her, of baring all those defects to hiseyes…

No, it was too much.

Soon, maybe, but not now.

Still… There was nothing wrong with flirting,was there? Flirting was nice. Flirting was something they had always been verygood at.

“You should get one of those tool belts.” shesuggested. “And maybe some tighter pants. Oh,and one of those white tank tops that don’t leave anything to the imaginationonce you start sweating.”

He smirked, mirth dancing in his eyes.“Enjoying your little fantasy?”

She laughed, propping her chin on her hand tobetter study him. “Why, yes actually. Do you know the window in my roomcreaks?”

“I’ll take a look at it.” he humored her.“Anything else I can help you with, ma’am?”

“Well, it depends…” she chuckled. “How skilledare you?”

He wriggled his eyebrows, leaning back in hischair. “Very skilled with my hands.”

“Perhaps I should have you build me somethingthen.” she teased. “I would not mind a few more shelves in my wardrobe.”

He shrugged. “Can do shelves.”

“Can you do trunks?” she asked. “They arealways useful.”

“Seems like a lot of work.” he pointed out,still smirking. “How are you going to repay me, Princess?”

“I would rather think about it as a reward.” she grinned. “And it is for meto know and you to find out.”

“Ominous.” he mocked.

“Maybe I will cook for once.” she suggested.

“Please, don’t.” he winced. “I can fix somestuff around the house but I cannot fix usa whole new house if you burn this one down.”

She pouted. “It was once and it was a very small fire.”

“No fire and no cooking for you.” he insisted,shaking his head. “I do the cooking, you do the cleaning. Works like that.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” she smiled, softening alittle.

If you had asked her months earlier, she wouldhave claimed the two of them living together would have been a disaster. It hadtaken some adjustment, of course, you didn’t go from being single for most ofyour adult life to living with someone in perfect harmony overnight. But theyhad found some balance after a few days of dancing around each other and now…Well, it was actually pretty good. They argued sometimes – although not a lotbecause he was wary of her panic attacks and was careful around her and she, onthe other hand, wasn’t really up to the kind of fights they used to share – butit hadn’t been as difficult as she had feared to find some sort of domesticity.

“Yeah.” he smiled back, relaxed like she hadn’tseen him in a long time – if ever. Haymitch was thriving in that new Panem. Hewas finally finding some peace, putting ghosts to rest. It was slow process,healing always was or so she had been told, but he was getting therenonetheless. “So you need to find another reward, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re so not cooking. Got a few ideas if youneed help figuring that out.” He let the innuendo hang in the air for a momentand she blushed a little, not entirely against the idea, already thinking ofways she could… repay him the way hewanted – and she wanted too – while not getting entirely naked for him. Heended the joke before she could cement the idea though, probably wary oftrapping her in something she didn’t want. “Got some shirts that could do withmending… I can sew a little but I hate it so…”

“You can sew?” she asked, now completely takenaback.

“Story for another time.” He rolled his eyes, hisface closing off in a way that told her it had to do with his past. More likelythan not either with his mother or his girlfriend. “You don’t have to but…”

“I will mend them.” she promised, happy to beable to contribute given that he was the one paying the bills and buying theirfood. “Just leave them out for me.”

“Thanks.” he mumbled and stood up to disappearin the pantry, probably to search for those sugary cereals he liked to pretendhe was buying for Katniss – the girl was lucky if she got a bowl when she cameover for breakfast because he tended to eat them all.

“Aren’t you full of surprises today…” shewhispered.

She must have talked louder than she hadintended because she distinctly heard his snort.

It was funny how well they knew each other whenit came down to the important things but how there were still some littleeveryday things left to discover… She liked that.

[k-wax]

Whipped

Knock knock knock

Wax’s eyes snapped open as though wound, like the toy soldier he was. He lifted a clawed hand and pressed the pad of a finger against the gravelly intercom. Darth Vindictus had given him run of the ship, but he’d sequestered himself away in Engineering. It was filled with empty crew quarters, the Eclipse being primarily run by Sith and unengaged in any conflicts. Engineering was quiet, and this suited him fine.

Zi’aa would drag him out eventually; this he knew, but the solace was needed.

“What is it?” he asked, able to hide the gargle of disuse in his tone under the flimsy connection.

Dad let me in.

Wax’s eyes closed wither a quiet curse as his finger slid off the button and back onto the bed. Always the bunk closest to the door as was habit. He sucked his cheeks in and brought his hand back up to the intercom.

“Don’t you have a shoot up to go to?” He cringed internally. The words sounded like they’d come form someone with a pole up their ass. Not a stick. Pole.

He could hear Taizi’s raspy laughing through the door. She rapped again.

Clink Clink, the thick glass of bottles rapped against the metal with a dull full sound.

“Hear that Sargent Earwax?”

Wax pressed the white button below the comm without hesitation, and the long sealed doors whooshed open with an overly sterile smell. Undisturbed air. He pulled his large square frame into a sitting position, wife beater and stuck up hair altogether telling a story on its own.

“Captain Earwax.”

Taizi’s small frame in the doorway sauntered in, bottles of rhyl held by the mouth at her side.

“Close enough,” she drawled and sat next to him.

She smelled like blaster smoke and sweat in her scored plasteel armor. Wax watched her with a near concerned look. He was quiet a moment.

“I quit,” he finally said now eyeing the bottles in her hands.

Uktaizia reached over, grasped her brother’s wrist, and pressed the bottle into his palm.

“I get it you’re whipped. What she doesn’t know hasn’t happened.”

He curled his claws around it, tips clicking around the glass. Wax looked down at it silently.

“Interesting perspective on honesty.” He paused. “Why’re you here?”

“Heard you got locked up.” Uktaizia cracked the cap off using the edge of Wax’s bunk. His lips twitched with a reprimand about scuffing, but he swallowed it and instead cracked his own cap with his cracked thumb claw. The hissed, cold breath pouring from the rim of the bottle as he placed it to his lips and took his own pull. His tendrils curled gently around the bottle’s neck, holding it to his face.

“I’m facing a tribunal, which is really only a formal reprimand in my case,” he mumbled.

“Because your nose’s so clean, eh bruv?”

“Mmmn.” Wax closed his eyes and took another pull. It was a fight not to guzzle, like a man lost in the Dune Seas. He swallowed, eyes closed as he savored the taste of cheap ryhl. The bottle tapped against he knee with muffled thuds. “I’ve made good connections for myself.”

“And to think,” Taizi huffed as she flopped back against the wall the bunk was pushed against. “You won’t even help me out of speeding tickets.”

Wax glanced back a disapproving look in his eyes. “Threatening to run someone off the road and throwing a spiked Meiloorun juice out your window isn’t just a speeding ticket.” Wax huffed and joined her in leaning back. “’Sides he managed around another mouthful of alcohol, “you’ve shown you’re incapable of learning any other way.” His brow ridges arched.

Taizi tapped the rim of her bottle against her teeth, smeared black lips pursed consideringly. “If you weren’t already in the pudu, I’d punch your teeth down your throat.”

Wax grunted in response and closed his eyes.

“So your girl doesn’t mind you skulking down here? Aren’t you two with child or summat?”

“Or summat,” Wax repeated. His stomach had dropped hollowly. “My life’s out of control.”

Taizi threw her head back and laughed. Wax eyed her out of his periphery and smiled tightly despite himself. “Please, Droido, don’t start your run as a comedian now.”

A half-hearted chuckled left Wax. Cursory. Programmed. Droidlike. He pressed the bottle back into his mouth.

“Did father say anything to you?”

“He asked how I was holding up?” She met Wax’s expectant stare with raised eyebrows. “That’s it. Nothing about your fantasy of getting kicked out of the military after having a tantrum about it.” A snerk found Taizi’s black lips. “Can’t say I don’t admire a deathwish. I’ve never had my father come down to correct my ass on anything before.”

Tch. “Shame. I’m certain he could handle the Caretel better’n you could.”

“Hey Quirt?”

“What?” he asked dryly, head rolling to face her full on. His expression was deadened. Tired.

“Quit your job. Get married. Have the kid. No one blames you for … you know.”

Wax blinked. He felt nothing at the moment. Not that Uktaizia’s opinion had ever carried too much weight, he’d sought validation that the death of her late fiancé hadn’t been his fault. And now having it, it mattered so little. He just stared.

“You blame me,” he finally said. Uktaizia was being remarkably patient with him. Gentle even.

Uktaizia made a difficult sound. “I—No, I don’t. I knew how slave-boy was.” Wax winged at the name, but said nothing. “I was mad with you because—eh. It’s the guy’s business – not mine. I wanted him to pay more attention to me, but that was never going to happen, so whatever. I’m over it.”

“Father’s not,” Wax responded evenly.

“Kaûtimak is never going to be. I don’t know why you grovel so damn hard. I’m surprised you have a nose still with how much it’s pressed to the varping floor.”

Wax shook his head and stared at the exhaust pipe on the ceiling. “Then you’ll never get it. Not in a million years will you bouncing off in your starship. Not really caring for a twinkling second. Our parents love us; they love this family. We’re Sith, pure of blood. Our burden is greater than any human Sith. We are … more. I won’t let that legacy die,” he sighed. “I have to be better than that. Better than our father. Better than myself. It’s not enough to just live a clean life.”

It was Uktaizia’s turn to be silent a while. He knew she was staring, could feel the pointed stare.

“Elutherius was right; you really were just two steps away from losing your mind. All ‘father’ had to do was say the words ‘heir apparent’ and come down here. Do you know what Elutherius was going to do with his mighty Sith throne?”

Wax’s cheeks hollowed and pursed. “It doesn’t mat—”

Taizi trampled right through him. “He was going to ask y--, he was going to get married.” Wax hummed. “He was going to adopt kids.” Wax quirked a brow ridge but hummed nonetheless. “And he was going to let said spouse call shots. That was it. All he wanted was a family.”

“Then maybe Elly didn’t understand the burden as much as I thought he did,” Wax said, irritation rising to the surface of his voice. The tone was smooth, dismissive. He supposed the lack of affect should scare him, but it didn’t. Not much.

“Go upstairs and talk to your girlfriend. Get laid maybe.” Uktaizia shot back as she got up. “If I have to listen to you wallow, I’m going to for real beat you.” Wax snorted as he heard the doors close, leaving him again in gray darkness with an empty bottle of ryhl.