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[carpetcleaningecopower]

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[kpopscruggles]

My Little Whiney Bitch

yeah...idontknowwhatcameoverme

Just needed to spill, antoher 1200 word

Warnings - humiliation, unsafe sex, degrading, marking, hair pulling, pussy slapping, overstimulation, cocky heeseung fr

Obv bathroom bitch gave me inspo cause the song is fire

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“Meet me in the bathroom” My heart burst out of my chest when Heeseung whispered this in my ear. I wasn’t gonna pass up the opportunity at all. Knowing none of the people from the group would notice we were gone I had no worries about arriving at the bathroom door. Giving a little knock I seen a smirk on his face. God he was so hot. 

Pulling me into the bathroom, I gasped slightly soon, feeling my body hit the counter. Taking a deep breath I accepted his kiss, a moan leaving me as I felt his hands rushing to scale down my body and lifting the jean skirt. Smirking against my lips knowing I had no panties on, and my bare pussy exposed. “No panties? Fuck I can’t wait to fill you” he groaned before holding my jaw, his tongue swirling circles around before pulling into one last kiss. 

 Feeling him turn me around, I leaned forward, growing flushed seeing my swollen lips and slightly droopy eyes in my reflection. “Don't you look so cute~” he smiled before kissing my shoulder as I heard him fall to his knees. My cunt gushing at the anticipation of his mouth of me. Feeling my clit tremble, my hole tightening around nothing. I needed him so badly. 

Once his tongue ran up my slit causing a gasp to leave me as I tried to squeeze my legs shut but it failed. Keeping my legs wide open and to hear him chuckle “So depressing how much you're trembling~ are you gonna cry baby?” Pushing a finger in me, my tear ducts grow wet at my cunt. He was right, I was so needy for him, I was a trembling crybaby begging for me. It was embarrassingly pitiful.  

“Let’s add another.” he chuckled before adding another finger and pushing them deeper. Wiggling my hips a little I gripped the sink as his finger hit my spot “Heeseung~.” Lips attaching back to my clit didn’t help either “Such a sweet pussy~ shows how much you need me~ pathetic isn’t it?.’ I didn't answer causing him to chuckle once again. Letting out whine I felt him remove his fingers before a sting formed on my cunt as he slapped it “Don’t you think it’s pathetic” He smirked. 

I nodded “V-very~ I’m embarrassed...” I admitted before feeling my eyes water, my vision going blurry for a moment before I finally blinked letting the tear fall. Watching him wipe the little bit of mascara he chuckled “Don’t worry, you'll be cumming soon” he whispered. I loved when he treated me like this, it was embarrassing but ran such a shiver up my spine when I knew I would walk back to our friend group, and they would know I got treated like the cum dump I was. Biting my bottom lip, I nodded at him. I let him know I wanted it, I craved it.  

Moving to my side I began unzipping his jeans, still letting out whimpers feeling him nibble and bruise my skin once kissing my neck. Letting the jeans fall I watched his cock twitch slightly through the briefs he wore. My body shivered once again as I pulled them down watching his cock come free. His pretty cock, tracing my finger over the veins and up to the sensitive pink tip. His leaving him as I slowly pumped him, watching the bead of precum form.  

Watching his swipe the bit of precum then bring it up to my lips I licked it clean, pulling his finger away he then smeared my lip gloss, a smile on his lips. Pulling me into one last kiss I felt him soon lick the little bit of smeared gloss off my chin “Bubblegum? Cute...” Looking into his eyes I smiled seeing him smile before positioning myself back on the counter. A chuckle leaving him “Oh? I can fuck you now?” he teased with sarcasm in his tone. I nodded back, as if he were not going to fuck me anyways... 

I whimper left me feeling his cock push past my folds, bottoming out, my cervix kissing his tip. A tug at my hair causing my back to arch more as his other hand hooked into my mouth, “AH!” was all that was vocal feeling him pull away and slam back in again. His thrusts starting a rhythm as he abused my cunt. “Is this what you wanted? Hmm? You want me to fuck you like this! Ugh~ so you can let everyone know you like the humiliation of being my c-ock sleeve!.” I nodded, looking in the mirror as I clenched around him seeing his face fucked out because of my cunt and how obedient I was to him. 

Tears spilling from my eyes, finally falling back onto the counter as his hands moved to my back, digging his nails in my skin before leaning forward. I felt his chest heave against my back and his groans in my ear “I’m gonna cum~!” I cried before watching him nod to the mirror. The small whispers as he told me to my release ‘Go on baby~ make a mess on my cock.... you can do it~ please baby I want it so bad- shit~.” My eyes rolled back before they squeezed shut, my stomach dropping, thighs trembling, before reaching back and pulling at his hair to calm myself “Fuck fuck Fuck!.” 

“Oh~ good girl, you can do it again!” he spat. Keeping my back against his chest he pulled me off the sink, his hand reaching over to grip my jaw as the other one pinched my nipple. I whined feeling the overstimulation hit as his cock ran in and out. Each vein, inch, every thrust he made sending me over the edge. My grip on his hair somehow managed to get tighter as he picked up his pace a little. I knew it was not going to be long till I came again.  

Watching my legs, still spread just enough to see his cock covered in me cum as it ran in and out of me. “Give me one more baby~ then I-I'll give you all my cum..I know you want it.” Fuck, I really did, I needed to leave this bathroom with him cum leaving me. My thoughts causing an adrenaline rush at the thought of his cum deep inside me with how much cum he would give me. I felt my cunt tighten and I knew I was gonna cum again.  

“Right there! Deeper please!” I cried and felt him go deeper just like I asked. I yelped before feeling my release and his thrust slow down. “Fuck I-m gonna fill you so good~ Just like you. Fucking. Deserve!” he groaned between each thrust and before I knew it, I was filled to the brim with his warm cum. His cock twitching uncontrollably and he gripped my breasts to steady himself, hissing in pain at the tight grip in that exact moment. A satisfied smile evident on my face as he kissed my head “Good girl~” 

Whining as he pulled away, I soon felt the warm liquid ooze out my cunt and down my leg. Feeling him wipe it up I immediately took it in my mouth. Sucking on his fingers and moaning at the taste. A smile on his face he pulled away and gave me a kiss “Let’s get dressed hmm?then I’ll get us to the car” he chuckled before helping me put my skirt on.  

[arjwrites]

The Space Between- Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: GN!Reader breaks their arm on a hunt and needs a little assistance. This is a Dean version of my other fic Close (Sam x Reader), as requested by @the-scream-story !

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Injury, nudity, strong references to sex. MDNI!

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE! I had so much fun writing this. This is officially the end of my writer's block- I am back in business, baby. I hope you all enjoy!!!

“DAMN IT!” Your voice echoed out of the bathroom from behind the closed door, punctuated with the contents of your toiletry bag crashing to the floor. Instantly regretful of your outburst, you prayed that no one had heard your voice above the dull whir of the bathroom fan and the rushing water cascading against the floor of the tub. The last thing you wanted was for one of the boys to come try to play the knight in shining armor to your damsel in distress.

After making some brief mental calculations, you figured Sam would still be out grabbing food, leaving only Dean in your shared motel room. There was no way he heard you, and even if he had, you doubted he would stir from his current position. When you had headed in for your attempted shower, the man was already reclined in a chair, beer in hand, and engrossed in some sub-par TV show. 

Attempted truly was the best word to describe the shower experience so far. Last night’s hunt had landed you with a broken arm, and a long wait at the ER had delayed your return to the motel into the wee hours of the next morning. At this moment, it was 4am and none of you had slept. And you, covered in a mix of dirt, and blood (yours and the creature’s), figured that a quick shower would be the best catalyst for sleep. 

But twenty minutes had passed since you had holed yourself up in the bathroom. There were several obstacles that sat between you and a warm, clean nap. Your dominant arm was confined to a cast, providing a myriad of challenges. First was getting off your clothes. Next was wrapping your cast with the ziploc bag and duct tape combo you had armed yourself with. Then was navigating your shower routine, somehow shampooing your hair and scrubbing blood off your body with your weak hand while trying to keep the other clear from the water. 

It was an impossible task, but asking for help was not necessarily your forte. Plus, you felt horrible having kept the boys up all night because of your injury. Of course, they waved you off, used to the sleepless nights, taking the late hours in stride and going about their usual post-hunt routines (Sam’s supply run and Dean’s beer and motel TV marathon). Though neither of them would ever admit it, you could see the exhaustion radiating off their every movement, and the guilt ate at you. The last thing you wanted to do was to ask either of them to do you any more favors.

But your hopes of soldiering on independently were crushed in an instant. In a valiant effort to singlehandedly take off your shirt, the tight fabric had become twisted over your head, covering your eyes and trapping your free arm against you. And when your balance was thrown off, you stumbled back, foot catching the shower curtain and bringing the tension rod down with a decisive bang. Shit. There was no way Dean hadn’t heard that. 

Your suspicion was quickly met with a firm knock on the bathroom door. 

“You alright in there?” Dean’s voice harbored no sign of annoyance, simply concern. So after a few deep breaths and a moment to wriggle your head free from its trap, you conceded to what seemed to be your only option.

“Dean, can you come in?” 

Nothing could have prepared Dean for the sight behind the door. There you sat, in a pile of shower curtain and shampoo bottles, one arm pinned to your head and the other pinned to your chest. The shower, still running and void of its curtain, had started to spray down on your fully clothed body, adding insult to injury. Dean’s mouth gaped open for a moment, searching for the words, eyes blinking as he took in the scene.

“Look, I need your help. Please don’t be weird about it. Can you just help me get this shirt off and then I’ll just wrap the cast and hop in-” Your nervous rambling was cut off as Dean lifted you from the floor and sat you down on the closed toilet seat. 

“Sweetheart, you’re not doing this by yourself. You’re gonna mess up that cast and I am not going back to that goddamn hospital.” You cringed at the memory of the long hours you, Sam, and Dean had spent under those horrible fluorescent lights. Though his remarks dripped in frustration, nothing about his appearance did- his eyes and lips were graced with the softest echoes of a smile.

You mumbled a few protests but Dean had already set right to work. In a few, swift movements, he had popped the shower curtain back into place, pulled it aside, plugged the drain, and shifted the source of the water down to the bathtub spout. When the water began to pool in the bottom of the tub, he turned back to you. 

“Dean, I really don’t need you to do this. I’ll be fine if I can just get this damn shirt off,” you huffed, punctuating your complaint with a few pulls at your restraint. This was exactly what you had feared, and it made it all the more embarrassing because it was Dean. You felt vulnerable and looked ridiculous, and here he was cleaning up your mess and drawing you a bath? Your nerves wound tightly in your stomach as Dean lowered himself to sit on the lip of the tub across from you. The tiny motel bathroom left little room between the two of you, and your knees brushed against each other in your seated positions. 

“You’re hurt and I’m helping you. Take it from me, you don’t need to pull the tough guy routine all the time. It’s not gonna help anyone.” It was as if the intensity of his eye contact had taken hold of your entire body. You were frozen in front of him, caught off guard and melting quickly as warmth swelled in your heart. This felt different than the usual Dean. In a way, him helping you in your vulnerabilities seemed vulnerable of him, too. And there was no denying your feelings for the man. In the short few years you had hunted with the brothers, you had developed a soft spot for the older Winchester that you had vowed to never let see the light of day. But your heart was beating hard and fast against your chest, because here he was, right in front of you, reaching in to unbutton your shirt…

You shook the thoughts from your head, recognizing the tenderness of the moment. Off came your shirt, which Dean haphazardly folded and placed on the counter. The intensity that buzzed between the two of you raged on unencumbered for a while. It made you nervous to look at him even a second longer, so you turned your gaze to your jeans, working at the button with your free hand. Dean sat back, letting you work for a moment, before stepping in to help and to dissolve the tension with a joke. 

“This might be the longest it’s ever taken someone to take their pants off for me,” he chuckled to himself as he popped the button free with ease.

Your head snapped up to him, your expression tinged with annoyance, but Dean didn’t miss the blush that tinged your cheeks and the smile that threatened to breach the surface. He knew you were unhappy with the situation, a bit anxious and uncomfortable, so he figured he would do what he did best- crack a few jokes. Plus, he had come so close to kissing you right then and there that he needed a way to distract himself. 

Dean always knew how to make you laugh. It was one of the things you liked most about him. So any nerves you had about being naked in front of Dean Winchester were easily melted away because you couldn’t help yourself from laughing the whole time. Like head-thrown-back, full-body-shaking laughter. What had started as a challenging and tense situation had boiled down to just simply hanging out with Dean. 

He had lowered you into the tub, you clinging to his arm for dear life, until you were sat down, the bubbles in the water providing you just the right amount of coverage to make you feel even more secure. Once you were settled in, Dean took a step back, sitting down to let you get to work. He knew you would want to retain a bit of independence, so he let you work on scrubbing whatever you could with the arm you had, only stepping in when you needed his help. The time was filled with conversation about the previous hunt, wonders about what Sam could possibly bring back for food at this hour, and plenty of shared laughter at Dean’s jokes. 

“So I see you don’t have a lifeguard here at your beach,” Dean said, taking on a dramatic tone as if he were playing a character. 

“Dean, what are you-” 

“No, no, no. You’re supposed to say, ‘I’m not at the beach, this is a bathtub.’” He wagged a finger at you as he corrected your response. 

“What the hell are you talking ab- Oh my God! DEAN!” Realizing the origin of the joke he was making, you used your free hand to splash him with the warm soapy water. But you couldn’t even feign frustration- your laughter gave you away. 

Things continued on like this for a while- you and your washcloth scrubbing dirt and blood from every corner of your skin, Dean cracking jokes, and occasionally stepping in to offer a hand.

“Look, let me do your hair for you. How the hell are you supposed to do that with one hand?” Dean interjected as you attempted to lather shampoo in your palm. 

He kneeled on the floor next to you, taking the bottle into his hands. As he worked, you took time to notice the sensations around you, to ground yourself in the moment. You watched soap bubbles take flight as you moved through the bath. You felt the warm water lapping at your skin, and the gentle circles Dean’s fingers made on your scalp. You could smell the clean scent of the soap that filled the tub, the floral perfume of the shampoo, both mixed with something you could only describe as Dean. He smelled like some combination of the beer he was drinking, his usual cologne, and the lingering sweat and dirt of the day’s hunt. Rarely were you close enough to Dean to be able to smell him, but whenever you did, you relished in the moment. But at this particular moment, his proximity was drawing all of the nerves back into your system. Dean was hovering over your naked body- you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he worked his fingers through your hair. Beyond feeling his touch on your skin, you felt as if you could feel him- his presence, his essence. It was so intimate, so romantic, that your heart swelled and your mind raced to a million and one places. Nevertheless, you remained anchored in the bath, the water and bubbles serving as a shield and the only thing that served to separate the two of you. 

When you were finished, all the suds rinsed off your body leaving you squeaky clean, you weren’t sure how to feel. Dean had slipped out of the room to grab you a towel, and though you remained in the tub filled with the warm water and the air hung hot and heavy with humidity, the lack of his presence still made the room feel cold. Sitting alone with your thoughts, even for such a brief moment, you had realized the extent of your feelings, the irreparable mark Dean had left on your heart. In your head, you rifled through a library of moments you two had shared, picturing this morning’s events sliding into place on the shelf as the newest edition of the series.

Stepping back into the room with the towel, Dean handed it over to you before plucking the plug from the drain and helping you rise to your feet. You braced the towel underneath your broken arm and used the other to wrap it around yourself, hoping to restore even a shred of your decency- though there was little point in that anymore. Now there sat a power imbalance in your relationship with Dean- he had all the cards in his hands. So when you stepped out of the tub, you stood square in front of him, determined to level the score somehow. 

You lingered for a moment, both of you locked in an intense stare, feeling goosebumps radiate your entire body. At first, you attributed these to your drastic change in body temperature since stepping out of the water, but when you noticed a similar sensation rising over Dean, your perception shifted. Dean cleared his throat.

“So, uh, you want me to help you get dressed?” Dean rubbed at the back of his neck to settle the hairs that had been raised under your intense look.

“Not really.” You murmured in response, looking to him through lidded eyes. The unusual burst of confidence in your system inched you closer and closer, until there was nothing that separated the two of you but the thin towel you had wrapped around your frame. 

You channeled every ounce of what you were feeling into your gaze, praying Dean could read your thoughts through your eyes as if you were an open book. When he reached a hand up to cup your face, you knew the message was received. With a slowness that was almost painful, he leaned his forehead against your own, drawing his lips nearly to yours before rerouting them to your cheek, just slightly above their initial destination. After planting the softest kiss, his lips lingered, hovering ever so slightly above you. Dean was in limbo, as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull away and return to safety, or lean in to seal the deal. But you made the choice for him when your hand snaked around the back of his head and pulled him down to you, closing the gap between your lips. 

The kiss was everything you had hoped it would be, and yet, nothing you could have ever imagined. Dean was soft and gentle, so cautious of your injury, but you could feel the intensity so thinly veiled below the surface. The energy flowed from both of you, as if you were cautiously exploring something so new and dangerous, yet so incredibly desirable and magnetic. Something needed to break the seal, to throw your cautions to the wind.

You wanted to kiss Dean Winchester forever, and he shared the sentiment. So the only thing that could break you two away was the brief moment when you took a calculated step back. Confusion twisted into Dean’s face, before melting away into desire when you let your towel fall to pool at your feet. He took his own step back, reaching behind him to turn the lock on the bathroom door, before closing the gap between you- the very last time there would ever be space between you and Dean Winchester.

[thesakuragarnet]

The Nightmare (Reverse Comfort Dabi X Fem!Reader)

Summary: Dabi’s outburst causes you to stir in the bed beside him, your vision blurred from heavy sleep, but you can make out Dabi’s form in the darkness, sitting up, hands raking through his hair. You can feel the bed getting warmer…the heat emanating from his body as his Quirk feeds into his emotions.

Tags: Dabi X Fem!Reader, Reverse Comfort, Second Person POV, light angst, bl00d, kissing, cuddling, established relationship, swearing

Word Count: 1,291 words

Tumblr Original <3

Touya Todoroki shrieks, pulling at his hair as he wakes up in an overwhelming fit, overheating and crying...or at least, crying as much as he can with burnt tear ducts. He grits his teeth so hard he’s worried they might crack. His fingernails catch on the scars under his eyes as he claws at his face, wincing as a small yelp of pain bursts from his lips as fresh blood streaks down, sullying the staples that should’ve been cleaned earlier in the week. Truthfully, he couldn’t feel a thing…physically…the small noise of agony was rooted in his heart. He hadn’t been doing well whatsoever; ever since the number one hero spot was just handed to Endeavor after everything he’d put them through…everything he’d painstakingly carved into Touya’s heart, Dabi couldn’t take it. It wasn’t fucking fair. None of it was fair. It proved that hard work meant nothing. All the training on the mountain…burning himself…hurting himself just to prove he was worth a shit. It meant nothing. It was all for nothing. 

Dabi’s outburst causes you to stir in the bed beside him, your vision blurred from heavy sleep, but you can make out Dabi’s form in the darkness, sitting up, hands raking through his hair. You can feel the bed getting warmer…the heat emanating from his body as his Quirk feeds into his emotions. 

“Dabi?” You yawn, rubbing your eyes as you try to sit up. “Are you okay?”

“I’M NOT CRYING!” He shouts angrily, whirling around, making you flinch at the roughness and desperation in his tone. His eyes widen when he watches you shrink back, blood pouring even more down his face as he starts swearing at himself. You know he has anger issues, but this is the first time he’s lashed out at you. His eyes are distant, brilliant turquoise glazed over, and the familiar smell of burning flesh permeates the air as thin plumes of flame begin to slide out of the left side of his face. 

“Dabi, you’re burning up,” You mutter, your tone hinting at your panic. 

He seems dissociated for a minute, acting confused…as if he doesn’t know his own name. He blinks before registering the dull burning sensation that he can barely even feel at this point. He barely registers that the side of his face caught fire. 

“Shit,” He grunts, the corners of his eyes scrunching and his eyebrows furrowing as he takes in a shuddering breath. Ignoring his obvious breakdown, you get on your knees and approach. Your Quirk is Fireproof; it’s one of the main reasons you and Dabi had learned to click so much. You were the only one that could quell his flames. Tentatively, you cup the side of his face, pressing your palm into his skin and snuffing out the azure fire instantly. He closes his eyes, shoulders rolling, breaths staggered and shaking as his chest rises and falls. Your hand moves to run through his tangled black hair, fingernails gently scratching at his scalp, hoping to ground him in some way. Your heart twists at the rivulets of blood seeping down his face, staining the sheets beneath him as it drips down his chin. You can’t stand seeing him so broken like this…especially when he puts up that cold and callous front all the time. It’s such a stark contrast to the persona you’re used to. 

“It’s okay…I’m right here,” You whisper softly, aware of how silly it might sound. Silliness aside, Dabi takes another deep breath, deliberate and slow, as if he’s breathing you in. His hands drop, shaking as he tentatively wraps his arms around you, burying his face into the top of your head. He mumbles something that sounds halfway between a curse and an apology. 

“Can I ask what’s wrong?” You tentatively mumble, and Dabi’s hold on you tightens, his fingernails slightly digging into the fabric of your sleep shirt, just barely grazing your skin. He pulls back.

“Nightmare,” Dabi admits after a brief moment of silence, the word tasting sour on his tongue. A nightmare rooted in memories was the real truth, but he wasn’t ready to disclose that. You gently wipe the blood off his face with your fingers, cradling his jaw in your palms as his cerulean eyes glow at you in the darkness. You decide not to pressure him any further, letting the tense quiet wash over you as you hold each other. His arms are still firmly wrapped around you, eyes flickering from in the moment to staring far away. 

“You wanna go back to sleep?” You yawn, well aware that it’s the middle of the night. Dabi simply shrugs, sniffling. Another beat of silence passes between you two. Carefully, your arms fall, draping around his neck in a gentle hug, awkward but tender. Gradually, Dabi softens in your embrace, melting toward you, body heavy and heart sinking as he lets his exhaustion settle inside him. 

“C��mon,” You whisper, gently falling backward onto the mattress, Dabi’s full weight resting on top of you, arms still vice-gripping your body as he hides his face in your shoulder. Your hands explore further, delicately rubbing his back, being careful not to catch on any staples. Dabi sighs, heavy with unspoken sorrow. It makes your heart pang…you wish he gave you more leeway into his psyche. You so desperately wish you could help him…not fix him. He didn’t need to be fixed; he wasn’t some broken toy that you sought to change. But it was clear that he desperately needed to heal from something…something that was gnawing at his insides until it bled raw. Either way, you were going to stay by his side. You’d already made your decision. You were in love…embarrassingly enough, and, as far as you were concerned, so was Dabi. 

You listen to the sounds of his breathing, intense and quivering, feeling the pressure of his chest expanding against yours. His breaths seem to calm the longer you trace your fingers along the length of his back, grounding him and tethering him to you…to the world…to his world. 

“I love you…I don’t want you to think I don’t…I…I don’t know why I freaked out on you,” Dabi speaks, his raspy voice barely audible, straining as if he’s having to force the words out…as if he’s speaking against his will. 

“I love you, too. It’s alright,” You smile solemnly, turning your head to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. He goes stiff when your lips connect with the thin strip of healthy flesh on his cheek, a shiver rolling down his spine before he relaxes once again. Dabi pushes himself up , looking down into your eyes before sweetly connecting your lips. You don’t cringe when you faintly taste the blood. You were used to it at this point. Dabi could keep up the charade that he was a monster, but you knew better…or at least…you were starting to. You were beginning to chip away at the harsh facade. You saw a side of him no one else got to see. The broad smiles. The light in his eyes and the ecstatic repetitive tapping of his feet when he got excited. He let the facade slip around you…but no one else. 

Dabi keeps kissing you, one of his calloused hands brushing against your cheek, the cold staples in his wrist sending a shock through you. Finally, you separate, taking careful note of the way the corners of his mouth just barely twitch upward. 

“I’ll be right here,” You promise as Dabi rests on his side beside you, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. You bring him in to cuddle, draping an arm over his shoulder as he hides his face in your chest. 

“Goodnight, Dabi.”

"Goodnight."

[takumiraine]

Once Upon a Time chapter 7

<first> <prev> <next>

Danny is still going thru it. I’m not going to put it on Ao3 until I’m done with it. I have no idea about a master post though.

Some blood and a bit of puke in this chapter.

—

Danny was furious. Furious and terrified and alone.

Jason. His one friend. Red Hood. The man who had sworn he wasn’t a Bat. They were the same person. They worked with Batman. Bruce Wayne funded the Justice League. Bruce Wayne was Jason’s father.

He was going to be sick.

Danny stopped running to throw up in an alley, half bile, half swallowed blood. His nose was still dripping and oozing and throbbing and the force of his heaving set it bleeding in earnest again. He swore, spitting on the ground, before flattening himself into the shadows as the trill of police cars sped by, heading the direction he had just left.

He had to find a way to contact Tucker and Sam. Tucker was monitoring the GIW passively, and it was set up to know if anyone searched for him. If there was suddenly more chatter or a mobilization. But if the Bats were watching him…

Danny checked the street and darted another couple blocks before pressing against another wall and checking. When he got to his building, he scampered up to his apartment and locked himself in. Not that the locks would do anything against anyone that seriously wanted to hurt him but…. He moved his bed up against the door too.

Danny went to sigh out of his nose and spattered half clotted blood everywhere again. “Ancients fucking damn it!” Danny felt tears springing to his eyes at the thought of yet another mess he’d have to clean up before he could pass out. He went to the bathroom and growled at his reflection in the mirror. The break in his nose was obvious and he knew that if he didn’t fix it now, it would slowly fix itself over the next week or two.

If he had a shitton of food and a way into the Zone without drawing suspicion he could heal it in a couple hours but…

A deep breath in and a gritted yell out, and Danny was able to reset it, icing it in place with the little bit of his powers he was able to use without drawing attention. Gotham had a lot of random cold spells from that one supervillain. Danny wasn’t going to argue it.

He changed his shirt, and washed out the blood in cold water, gingerly wiping off his face as he went. Once it was laid in the kitchen sink to dry, Danny took the duct tape he had in his drawer and taped his windows shut.

The point was to make it obvious if they were tampered with and make a lot of noise in the process.

From there, he pulled his blankets into the tub, crawled on top of them and went to sleep, thankful it was the weekend. He would get the blood off the wood in the morning. He didn’t sleep well, waking up with barely muffled shouts and gasps for breath as the memories of broken bones healing while being used, burns so bad he couldn’t feel them regrowing nerves, the concussive blast of the Fenton Bazooka, the shredding feeling of the Fenton Ghost Peeler haunting his unconscious mind.

The irony of his parents handing over their otherwise harmless weapons to the GIW who upgraded them into the most painful versions possible under the guise of protecting him from Phantom was not lost on him.

He did not go to campus Saturday or Sunday, but showed up for his Monday class the slightest bit late, anxiety chewing through him like squirrels liked to gnaw through cables. Jason was in their usual spot, but Danny slid into one nearest the door, frowning when he caught Jason looking at him. He knew he was still all bruised up, he had to ration again, and aside from some bottom of the barrel cheap ass junk food, he hadn’t eaten this weekend at all.

He could feel Jason’s eyes on him most of the lesson, and Danny kept his head down, scrawling his notes the best he could with battered and split knuckles. He felt one of the scabs tear and absently lifted it to his mouth, making sure he didn’t bleed all over his notes. From across the room, Danny felt something from Jason’s core and used his own to push back “no” and “asshole”.

Jason might not be able to tell exactly what Danny meant, or even why, but he should be able to get a vibe. Judging by the small flinch, barely perceptible even when Danny was looking right at Jason, Danny was fairly certain his point was made.

The end of class came and Danny was the first one out the door, pushing his core down to nothing and ducking down another hallway and into a doorway of an empty classroom. He sat against the wall there to do his homework, rather than being predictable and going to the library.

Jason was well aware that he had fucked up. Danny looked half dead, more than the first time, with bruises on his face and hands and up his sleeves. Then Danny’s knuckle split and he sucked it into his mouth. Jason felt a pile of things swirl around the place in his stomach the pit occupied. Guilt tinged with arousal, followed by embarrassment at the arousal in this situation and then…. He felt like a wall slammed into the pit. He didn’t flinch, not anymore, but there was a hard blink in response. Danny’s glare told him all he needed to know. It had come from him. Somehow.

Then class was over and Danny bolted almost immediately. By the time Jason made it out of class after him, he was gone.

The next couple of classes went the same way.

Jason needed to find him, to talk, to explain, to apologize, to ask him how the fuck he knew. He almost got his chance on Wednesday when Jason was in the library with Babs, shelving books silently with her. Danny snuck around the corner and startled so hard he dropped the book he had been planning to check out, probably for their lit class. He looked between Babs and Jason for one tense moment, and Jason watched him go pale(r) in the bright lights. He opened his mouth and reached out a hand, and Danny flinched away, fear slamming into Jason like the force of that bomb. When he could breathe again, Danny was gone.

“He’s afraid of us…” Jason muttered, confused. “He took on six goons in the middle of the night and got stabbed, but still walks around Gotham at night without fear…. But he’s afraid of us.”

Babs looked up at him. “We need to find out what happened.” Her voice was matter of fact. “Before B stumbles into it and makes things worse.”

“I know.”

Friday, Jason got his chance.

Danny was creeping across the courtyard and Jason was just happening to cross at a different point. “Danny!” He called, just loud enough to be heard. He had his hands up, empty, as he approached. He was ready for the fear slamming into him this time, and ate the angry that followed behind it. “Wait. Please. It’s important.” Danny didn’t move, didn’t run, though he was scoping out exits. Jason made sure to leave him with several.

“You have one minute. Any other…. Associate…. Joins you and you don’t get another chance.”

“Fair. It’s just us.” Jason came close enough that he could talk without being overheard, hands still up. “I want to say I’m sorry first. I wanted to tell you, but it isn’t something I can really tell people and the relationship is complicated and we don’t really work together. But that’s not the point. B wants to know how you knew it was me and how the pit got to you. We tried to look it…. You… up but there was a weird firewall? Some account required shit and a number. One of the…. Others… called it and it went to a government information warehouse? She pretended it was a wrong number and it was on a burner that we destroyed after but- “

Danny looked ashen. “You called the GIW?”

“You know them?”

“They want to kill me. Again.” Danny crumpled to the ground, hunching in on himself. He took a step closer to hear what Danny was whispering. “-gonna fillet me… don’t have the shield, need to warn Tucker and Sam and…. No not Jazz. She’s normal… she’s safe… they don’t want her… they only want me… my fault…my fault…”

When it turned into Danny just repeating “my fault” over and over, Jason knelt beside him. Danny flinched, curled in deeper, but Jason just gently placed his hand on Danny’s shoulder, reminding him quietly of where they were and that he was safe.

It took time, but slowly Danny’s rapid and shallow breathing returned to normal. He looked up at Jason. “Why…? Why are you doing this to me?”

“We didn’t mean to call the government. Everything ever associated with you has had a firewall around it. Oracle can’t break in without alerting them. Why are they after you?”

“Batman and the league called them.”

“I…. They’ve never worked with the government.”

“Right.”

“Seriously.” Danny still looked skeptical Jason raised a hand calmingly. “Okay. Let’s pause that. Why do you think they would call them on you. What happened?”

“There was a lot of… weird and dangerous stuff happening in my town…. With me. I kept calling the league and leaving them messages. First asking for help… then asking for someone to just talk to me… make sure I wasn’t… going to hurt someone. Then the GIW showed up…”

“What does GIW really stand for?”

“We always called them the Guys in White, because that’s all they wore… but..” Danny took a fortifying breath. Jason noticed he was shaking. “Ghost Investigation Ward. See… my parents… were inventors and I accidentally turned myself into a halfa when I fixed something of theirs…”

Jason stared. It was a lot to take in. Bruce wouldn’t have ignored a kid asking for help. Hell, Supes or the Flash could have been there and back in less time than it took him to have a cup of coffee. So many questions ran through Jason’s mind, starting with why had he been the one the universe picked for this? Dick and Tim were both more emotionally available, able to give more than just a ‘there there’ or ‘that’s rough buddy’. Instead of the reasonable questions, like ‘what kind of weird things?’ or ‘what are you capable of?’ Jason just asked “Halfa?”

“Half ghost. Half human. Technically I died in my parents’ basement. But also I didn’t.”

“Is that how you knew it was me?”

“Yeah. Gotham has a little ambient ecto, all the violent deaths here. Not as much as home but, it works. You died once too though, pretty… permanently. But your core was still weak. It’s formed up a lot more with me, but it’s…. Like a fingerprint.”

“I need to tell B. That you’re being hunted by the government guys and why you think it was him and the league that sold you out. He’s going to want to crack the firewall, and probably hear your side of the story himself.”

“Just… when they come give me as much of a heads up as you can. We were… or you pretended we were friends. You owe me that much.”

“If I have to take on those dicks myself, I will. I won’t let them keep hunting you here. Those of us that died but got better have to stick together.”

Danny still looked suspicious. Jason didn’t blame him. “When he cracks the firewall, he’s going to learn who I really am. If…. If he wants me to trust him, I need to know who he really is.” Danny eventually said, quietly. Jason didn’t blame him.

“I’ll tell him that.” Jason didn’t know what Bruce would say to that. He assumed the answer would be as close to ‘No fucking way in any hell that exists or was ever imagined’ as Bruce got. But he would ask.

Danny nodded. Seeming smaller and way older than he should. Looking like a man that hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. Like every drop of anything worth anything had been wrung out of him. Jason knew that feeling. He wanted to make Danny feel safe again. If Danny really did try to avoid hurting people, he deserved safety.

He could have outed Jason to the whole town. He didn’t. Jason thought that was something. “I’ll talk to him.” Jason promised again.

[jinbedreams]

Exposed Bone

Pairing: Brook x Jimbei One Piece, Fishbones Content: General Audience, old man crushing Word Count: 944

Note: God I never write fic, so this is barely anything, but Brook and Jimbei seem to have made enough noise in my brain that I had to change that. I blame @badly-drawn-doflamingo for making me think about fishbones. Maybe I will write more of this at some point. ~~~~~~~

Brook is a conundrum, a soul with no body, a body with no flesh, a mind inside an empty skull, and no heart in his chest. Yet he lives, somehow he lives, he has no choice. 

He also feels. His emotions weave through him, with no skin to shiver through and no muscles to clench they can overtake him like a wave. Where else does his music come from but his emotions? How else does he know he is truly alive without them? He has no belly to laugh from but he laughs all the same. He has no chest to ache with sadness but he aches all the same. No tear ducts to weep with yet it is impossible to prevent the flow. 

He feels purely through his soul, and sometimes if he does not think too hard he can almost feel his flesh sing with these emotions too, like a phantom limb all over him. 

He avoids thinking about the absence of the warmth of touch on his skin at all times. 

He spent 50 years alone, his bones picked clean and smooth, he cannot change what has happened. He is simply grateful he is no longer alone. 

“That’s beautiful” 

If Brook had eyelids he would have opened them but instead his gaze simply refocuses on the big blue shape that has moved in close to him here on the top deck of the Sunny. 

“Yohoho” Brook chuckles as he pulls his violin out from under his chin.

“Thank you Jimbei” he smiles (he can do nothing but smile in these bones) 

“Is that a new . . ah, piece ? that you’ve been working on?” Jimbei asks, his deep baritone voice rumbles and not for the first time does Brook find himself wondering if Jimbei would ever consider putting those big lungs to use in song. 

“I suppose it is” Brook inspects the instrument, plucks at a string with a bone pick of a finger. 

“I was simply going with the flow, I suppose” he says thoughtfully 

“Ah” Jimbei nods “I know all about traveling the flow . . “ 

Brook cocks his head curiously towards Jimbei, sensing he is missing something from the way the fishman spoke. 

“Helmsman joke” Jimbei smiles, an obvious reference to one of Brooks recurring bits, and then laughs. 

That glorious big belly laugh, his face turned up, eyes scrunched up, rows of sharp teeth on display. It’s one of the most intoxicating laughs Brook has ever heard and he never tires of it. 

“Jimbei you kill me” Brook teases as he laughs. 

Their laughter peels off as Brook turns to lounge against the railing Jimbei is leaning forward on. He picks the violin back up to tuck it under his jawbone and pluck it for tuning. 

“Oh, but wait, I already died,” Brook chuckles. 

This time Jimbei only smiles, a soft look. Brook redirects his gaze from the fishmans face before he can identify the moment that soft look turns to pity. He’s not sure if it will but he would rather not take the chance. He hears Jimbei take a breath as if to speak and braces himself for the concerned lecture, wise and careful, the way he has heard Jimbei advise Luffy and many others before. 

“Play me another” 

Brook turns to look at him again, unsure if the surprise is readable on his blank emotionless skull of a face. Jimbei is still smiling, open and gentle and bright, like a calm ocean at sunset. Brook busies himself with the G string immediately, trying to recover from being set so suddenly and unexpectedly adrift by the expression. 

“Of course my good sir!” Brook slips into an exaggerated character of himself, hamming it up as the merry musician of the Thousand Sunny. It’s safer there, when he is less himself and more of a performance of himself instead. Why would he explore his feelings when he can just let the Soul King express them for him. He strings out a merry tune for Jimbei, an old song about a drunken fisherman catching a mermaid for a wife, neither of them sure which one drinks more like a fish. It only occurs to him halfway through the song that this is a rather old one from before he died and could possibly be considered uncouth in Fishmen society today. 

However when he glances over at Jimbei he sees the man smiling with genuine amusement and laughing at the funniest moments. This is both a relief and also a curse as the sight of that smile sends goosebumps across his phantom skin. He takes a deep breath to steady his phantom lungs between verses and finishes off the song by pushing off the railing and dancing with aplomb. 

“Oh I enjoyed that very much” Jimbei chuckles and applauds with gusto. Brook does a few deep bows, in a very becoming and gentlemanly manner. He tries to remain composed but the sight of Jimbei so joyful has him almost twitching from the overstimulation. All these emotions with no body to express them. It almost feels like he wants to jump out of his skin . . oh but it seems he already has. 

Instead he decides to put his violin back into its case, taking care to tuck it into the shaped depression, laying the bow by its side. He finds himself considering how bonelike it is for this instrument to be compressed safely inside a perfectly shaped casing. He must have paused noticeably because he hears Jimbei ask, 

“Everything alright?” 

“Why yes of course! I simply grow tired of playing for the moment, perhaps instead we could have some tea?” 

“I would like that”

[kinglazrus]

this isn't the beginning (but it's a start)

An AU where Portal Danny went missing his senior year of high school, and he's back home twenty years later.

Ch. 1 | Ch. 3 | Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Chapter Two: Amor

The man’s appearance isn’t particularly upsetting.

Words: 3827

A slim figure lingers outside the front doors of Casper High. They stand at the bottom of the steps, leaning against the stone banister. Amor first spotted them when she pulled up to the intersection in front of the school. She was scanning the parking lot, checking to see if anyone else had arrived early for their first official day back in the building—unlikely—when she noticed them.

She’s been stuck at the red light for three minutes now, watching.

The person hasn’t moved the entire time.

She has to look away when her light finally turns green, but the moment she pulls out of traffic and into the parking lot, she catches them in the corner of her eye again and takes them in properly.

A man, or so she assumes, dressed in a button-up shirt and dark pants. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and one foot taps against the backpack at his feet. His clothes are crisp and clean, but the backpack slumps forward onto the sidewalk, the kind of limpness earned from years of use. She can see the stains on the purple canvas from here. That might even be duct tape wrapped around one of the straps.

The man’s appearance isn’t particularly upsetting, and barely noteworthy beyond the white streaks in his dark hair, but a shiver runs down Amor’s spine.

Her phone is in her hand before she even realizes she’s decided to call someone. Too much has happened in the past few months for her not to be wary. The incident end of last school year; the ensuing investigation. Those damn suits who wouldn’t leave her alone.

She scrolls through her contacts, thumb twitching back and forth as she considers whom to call. If classes had already begun, a security officer would be in the building by now, but they don’t start work until the students start school. And the parking lot is empty besides herself, so no one else is here yet. Although, the custodian lives close enough that he often buses to work to save on gas. She pulls up his contact and keeps one eye on the man at the door while the phone rings.

He still hasn’t moved, and part of her wonders if he even noticed her arrival. That thought carries a degree of comfort, which makes it that much more dangerous. Amor has worked at Casper High too long to entertain such naivety. That part of her has been eroded by an ocean of experience, but she can’t even trust that most of the time. A shore worn to smooth sand might look safer than the rocks that once stood there, but anything can lurk beneath the grains. If she gives into temptation and digs for the gifts the ocean brings, she might cut herself on broken glass, instead.

Amor has dealt with enough glass slivers for one lifetime. She knows better, now. At least, better than some people. Perhaps, if Mr. Lancer had stopped digging at his own shores, he would be on the other end of the phone now. He was always reliable like that, but sometimes he didn’t know when to quit, and it was only a matter of time before he got cut too deeply.

Her stomach churns at the memory. Maybe if she shuts her eyes tight enough, she can squeeze the image from her brain. Let it drip and ooze until she’s wrung out every last drop of blood. And there had been so much blood. At the start of summer, she might have thrown up at the thought. She did. Now, it only takes a few deep breaths to push the nausea back, until she can smell her car air freshener again. Moonlight breeze, whatever that means. As long as it doesn’t smell like blood.

There’s a nice little coffee shop a block over that she could wait at until someone else arrives. She likes the coffee there. Her fellow secretary, Elliot, stopped there every day before work last year, often bringing her a drink or a pastry in exchange for gossip. While today is only the first day back for office and admin staff, Elliot is a creature of habit, so chances are he’ll turn up there.

Yes, that sounds like a good idea.

When she opens her eyes, the man by the stairs is looking at her. Amor freezes, grip tightening around her still-ringing phone. Neither of them moves for a long moment. Then, slowly, the man raises a hand in greeting.

He says something, mouth curling into a smile, and somehow Amor knows what it is, despite being too far to hear his voice, and her vision too poor to read his lips.

“Ms. Moreno,” he says, looking as startled as she feels to hear a name she hasn’t gone by for seventeen years.

The pepper spray fits nicely in Amor’s palm when she retrieves it from her purse. The bottle is small enough that she can hide it in her hand while still having her finger on the nozzle. She doesn’t turn her car off yet, but pops the door open and rises halfway out of the driver’s seat. It puts some extra weight on her bad leg, but she wants to see and hear the man clearly.

She doesn’t let her voice waver. “Excuse me. The school is currently closed.” And won’t be open for another two weeks.

The man doesn’t pull away from the banister, but he takes his other hand out of his pocket to leave both open, exposed, empty. His stare rests heavily upon her, although she sees no recognition in his dark eyes, despite the name he used. She finds herself just as lost.

He doesn’t raise his voice, but she hears him as clearly as if she had been standing next to him. “The principal told me to come in this morning. I’m the new science teacher?” After a beat, he adds, “Astronomy.”

Amor’s eyes narrow. “One moment.”

She ducks back into her car, locking the doors as she does, and checks her phone. Thankfully, the new principal is better at using the online calendar than Lancer ever was, and there is, indeed, a note about a new staff member stopping by to pick up his ID and a few other documents, along with a greyed out block from eight to nine for a possible meeting.

It’s only half-past seven, now.

Amor cracks her window open and calls out, “Name?”

The man twitches.

No, that’s not quite right. It starts as a twitch, a jerk of his head, but turns into a full body shudder. His hands, still loose by his sides, dig into his thighs. He goes somewhere. Only for a second, his mind is somewhere else, and Amor grips the pepper spray tighter as he drags himself back with a harsh breath and finally answers.

“Masters.” His face does a funny little thing halfway between a grin and a sneer.

And who in Amity Park doesn’t know that name? She searches his face for some resemblance, but, again, her poor eyesight isn’t doing her any favours. Not that she truly cares if this man is related to Vlad Masters.

Her attention lingers for another second before she checks the name in the meeting notes. It matches. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel and considers her options. In all likelihood, Masters is who he says he is and has come early to make a good impression. But there’s still a nonzero chance that he’s lying.

“I’ll need to confirm that before I can let you inside. Can you wait here?” she asks.

Masters glances toward the school, then back at her. “Okay.”

Finally, Amor shuts off her car and gathers her things. She tucks her purse and cane under her arm so that she can hold the pepper spray in one hand and her school lanyard in the other, the keys poking out between her knuckles. She won’t be able to move as quickly without her cane, even if it’s a low pain day, but she prefers the comfort of a weapon.

Masters’ eyes follow her as she walks toward the side of the building rather than the front entrance, his head turning smoothly to keep her in view, but he doesn’t move other than that. A moment before she steps out of sight, he turns his back on her, gazing out at the other side of the schoolyard.

Amor’s steps are quick, but not hurried, as she goes around the back of the school. She has to watch her feet to make sure she doesn’t trip on the cracked pavement, especially without her cane to steady her. While the school board saw fit to update the security system, they apparently had no issues with the rest of the school. They looked at the broken sidewalk, the parking lot light that always flickers, the music room that perpetually smells of smoke and thought yes, all this place needs is a fancy new lock on the furthest possible door from staff parking. A lot of good that did when someone still managed to break in not even two weeks ago.

Heaven forbid, the board something useful for once.

Amor approaches the door with her new staff ID clutched in her hand. The plastic card is no sharper than a butter knife, but it digs into her palm as she swipes it through the lock and waits for something to happen.

The red light on the lock holds steady. It doesn’t hum, or click, or acknowledge her in any way.

“Really?” she mutters. Thousands of dollars and it doesn’t even work. She swipes again, with the same result.

The back of her neck prickles.

Her hand trembles as she raises her hand a third time. Between that and the glances she keeps tossing over her shoulders, it takes her a few tries to actually get the card into the slot. She checks the corner of the building—both corners, to be safe—but she’s still alone. A hot coil of anxiety burns in her gut. She wants to blame it entirely on Masters and his strangeness, but she can’t fool herself.

She knows what door this is. What hallway it leads to. What other door she will happen upon as soon as she steps inside. Once again, she pushes back memories of a bloody room and the rush of white-clad men and women insisting this was all such a tragic accident and that of course Amor will never want to speak of it again. In fact, she shouldn’t, for her own health and safety. They’ll know if she does.

She grips the card so tightly it bends, and might even snap if she pushes it any further. She forces her hand to relax, massaging the deep red line left on her palm by the card’s edge.

She calls the custodian again. It rings, and rings, and rings as she stands with her back to the door, scanning the student parking lot back by the football field and equipment shed. Everything looks dull with the sun smothered by a layer of clouds. Moisture hangs in the air, enough that her hair is already frizzing up, and she’s started sweating beneath her sweater even though the temperature is one degree shy of cool thanks to the rain that fell earlier that morning.

Eventually, the answering machine picks up.

“Henry,” she snaps as soon as the automated voice finishes its spiel. “Are you at the school? I’m trying to get inside, but my ID card isn’t working.” While she speaks, she turns to the door and presses her nose to the narrow window, cupping her free hand around her face to see inside.

Bloodshot eyes stare back at her.

“Oh, goodness!” She flinches back. By the time she calms her racing heart and returns to the window, Henry has backed away. And it must be Henry, since he’s the only one who might be here with an empty parking lot. She can barely see him past her own reflection, though. He didn’t need to step back so far.

She hangs up her phone and waves her staff ID in the window. “Can you let me in?”

The last word has barely left her lips when there’s a buzz and a click, and the light on the lock turns green. She yanks the door open before it can lock again. Her cane knocks against the door frame as she rushes inside, and it slips from her grip, clattering against the floor. Amor gives it a dismayed look before checking the door behind her, making sure it closed and locked itself properly.

“Thank you,” she says as she bends down to get her cane, leaning against the wall for balance. “These cards are useless. Let’s just hope mine is the only faulty one. Oh, and there’s someone at the front entrance. Apparently, he’s Da—”

Amor rises in time to see Henry disappear around the corner, catching a flash of his grey pants and black shoes.

“Oh.” She rather hoped he would keep her company, at least for a moment, but he must be busy getting the school ready. A lot of dust can accumulate over one summer, and there’s much to clean. Including the trail of footprints that marks Henry’s path from here to the end of the hall.

There’s only one window in this hall, the small one in the door behind her, and with the clouds hanging outside, it lets in a feeble light. The kind that casts shadows so soft you don’t realize they’ve swallowed up all the light until it’s gone. She hadn’t even noticed, until this moment, that the fluorescents are off. But shadows are not quite strong enough to hide the rusty colour of the footprints.

Her hands twist around the top of her cane as she stares at those footprints.

Henry must have gone out to the equipment shed at some point, where the ground is hard, red clay, except on days like this when even the slightest rain turns it to mud. Amor shakes her head and strides away, staring straight ahead so as not to look at the basement door. But as it crosses the edge of her vision, a shaky breath pulls from her lungs.

The hall she emerges into is empty, and the footprints trail off as the last of the mud must have fallen from the boots Henry likes to stomp around in so much. Wherever he went, she hopes he’ll be back to clean this mess up.

She has to turn all the lights on as she makes her way back to the front of the school, since Henry apparently has no issues wandering around in the dark. The atrium is better, though. Plenty of natural light, thanks to the large windows looking out over the street. Through them, she spies Masters, still in his spot at the bottom of the stairs, although he flinches suddenly and brings a hand to his mouth as he turns to face the doors.

Smoke wafts between his fingers.

Amor scowls. With any luck, he can see her distaste from there. While she can’t judge someone for indulging in cigarettes, not after her own youthful habits, smoking on the front step of a school is plain inconsiderate.

As she unlocks the front office, she notes the light—a dim white glow through the frosted glass—coming from the principal’s door at the back of the room, and the silhouette seated at the desk. So, she’s not the first one in after all. The new principal must have come in early, as well, since he gave himself an appointment so soon in the day.

Amor hasn’t met him officially, yet. He held a video call to introduce himself to the staff after he was hired, although not many attended, since it was the middle of summer, and he made it clear in his email that the call was optional.

“Good morning,” she has to dredge his name up from her memory, “Mr. Szalay.” She slides her key from the lock and moves to turn on the lights. “Mr. Masters is here to—”

Her hand freezes against the light switch, and her eyes jump from the keys in her hand, to the door she had just unlocked, and back over to the principal’s office.

There hadn’t been any cars in the parking lot.

The light in the office is too soft to be the overhead. Nor is it warm enough to be the glow of the desk lamp. But it’s there, bright enough to outline the figure now standing in front of the frosted glass.

“Mr. Szalay?” she calls again.

How does this silhouette compare to the man she saw in the video call? Had his shoulders been so curved, or weren’t they more square? Broad? She had thought him stately, at the time. That doesn’t quite apply to the figure she sees here. They’re more rounded. More slumped. More familiar, almost like—

Their head turns when Amor moves forward, and she goes rigid. They’re staring at her; she knows it. Even if she can’t make out their eyes, their head tilts slightly as they regard her, and then they take a step back, their edges growing blurry. Because of the glass, Amor tells herself. And the poor lighting. Frosted glass always blurs you a little bit. She clings to that thought as the figure takes another step back and loses any notable form.

“Hello?” she asks once more, soft enough that she can barely hear her own voice.

Another step, and they dissolve into the shadows of the office, taking the glow with them.

Amor throws the lights on before rushing across the office. She lunges for Mr. Szalay’s door, throwing her weight down on the handle. It doesn’t move. Her key jams against the lock as she tries to shove it in, leaving faint scratches on the metal as her trembling hand misses the mark. She manages on the fourth attempt, and throws the door open to an empty room and a rush of cold air.

The door swings back toward her, slamming against the frame hard enough to vibrations up her arm, and misses her nose by a hair. Her heel catches on her ankle as she stumbles back, and her bad leg gives out when her foot hits the floor too hard. The image of her skull cracked open on the cabinet behind her flashes through her mind as she tips backward, and she cries out.

It turns to a shriek when a cold hand splays against her back, stopping her fall.

She grabs the nearest weapon—her keys, still stuck in the door—and throws them over her shoulder. They go sailing, the bright pink lanyard trailing through the air behind them, and slide across her desk, taking a stack of papers with them as they tip over the edge and onto the floor.

Masters backs away from her, hands raised, though not before making sure she’s steady on her feet.

“Sorry! Uh, here. Um…”

Amor, a hand pressed to her chest to calm her pounding heart, watches Masters glide across the office and crouch next to the scattered papers. Her focus lands on the thin, branching lines that creep out from under his collar and span the side of his throat, the furthest of which stretch up and across his jaw, one cutting a thin line over his lip, and the other touching the corner of his eye.

When he holds out the papers with her keys balanced on top, she spots similar lines on his hand, bursting from a point on his palm.

“Sorry,” he repeats. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just…You didn’t see anything, did you?”

Amor swallows past the lump in her throat. “Pardon?”

“Ah, never mind. I thought…” He cups a hand over his mouth again and glances away. “Never mind.”

Now that they’re face-to-face, something about him tickles the back of her mind. A former student, perhaps. That’s the usual answer to this feeling, but surely she would remember a student with a scar like that. She assumes it isn’t recent. While a few puckered spots hint that it had once been a gnarly thing, the lines are now stretched and smooth, having grown with him.

A relative of a student, then. But he doesn’t look old enough to be a parent, at least not to a high schooler, regardless of the white in his hair.

And yet, he looks familiar in a way she can’t place. His eyes, possibly the darkest she’s ever seen  and weighed down by heavy bags, shift between her and the floor. He tries to brush his hair away from his forehead, slicking it back, but it falls into place as soon as he removes his hand.

Despite her earlier fright, Amor smiles. Unruly hair and sleep-deprived eyes. Now those are traits she sees often enough.

She finally takes the offered papers, cupping her hand over her keys so they don’t slide off.

Masters gives her a close-lipped smile. It reminds her of those few students who are so self-conscious they won’t even bare their teeth, and she can’t help but feel endeared.

“Did Henry let you in?” she asks.

“Sure. I can go back outside and wait, if you want, since the principal still isn’t here.”

Amor tosses a look back at Mr. Szalay’s door. The office is dark and empty behind the glass. It was always dark and empty. “Wait a moment.”

It takes a few moments, actually, and lots of rifling through drawers and file cabinets until she finds where all the staff IDs that haven’t been handed out yet are stuffed into a folder. And then a handful of seconds picking through those until she finds the one she’s looking for.

D. Masters, it reads, Science Department (4). She holds it up and checks the man against the photo.

It’s really a very bad photo. Not that Masters doesn’t photograph well, although she can’t really say from this alone. But the picture is blurry, hardly the quality one would expect, or even want, for an ID. But the white streaks are distinct enough.

“You can wait in here.” Amor passes him the ID. “I could use the company, anyway.”

Masters claims one of the chairs against the wall while Amor settles in. Every time the temptation to glance at Mr. Szalay’s office rises, she looks at Masters instead. The longer she stares, the deeper the shadows around him grow. Amor lets herself get pulled in, relying on the gravity of his presence to keep her grounded, even as the thought of that glowing figure threatens to pull her somewhere else.

When Mr. Szalay finally arrives and takes Masters into his office, Amor is almost sad to see him go.

—

Masterpost | Next chapter

[cowgurrrl]

Pine Point

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author’s note: 😮‍💨 (ps fic is named after this song)

Summary: You and Joel deal with the aftermath of your accident [4.7k!!]

Warnings: hospital settings, a very quick mention of a miscarriage not experienced by the reader, questionable Hollywood motives once again, quick mention of Ellie’s foster home situation, kinda angsty actually, arguing (oops), language, not a super cohesive ending

Joel stays with you all night and into the morning. You're not sure if he got any rest while sitting in the uncomfortable chair next to your bed, but you know that he never let go of your hand. Every time you woke up from a bad dream or because a nurse was prodding at you, the callouses on his hands helped remind you that you were safe. He asked questions about your injuries and what recovery would look like for you. He listened, watched, and even recorded the nurse's voice (with her permission, of course) so he could reference it later. You wonder if he did the same thing when Sarah was born. You imagine him, eighteen years younger, furiously scribbling down notes on the best way to swaddle his newborn daughter. The image makes you smile, and when Joel asks what you're smiling about, you shake your head and mumble, "Nothing."

Carolina, being the goddess that she is, stops by your house to get you a clean change of clothes before stopping by her own house for Ryan. Joel helps you change into sweatpants and a flannel button-up from your house. He recognizes it but doesn't say anything or try to take it back; he actually smiles when he pulls it out of the bag. "Looks better on you," he mumbles as he kisses you and tugs the fabric over your shoulders, shaky fingers buttoning the shirt closed for you. The air seems lighter, and the hospital less stuffy in the morning light. Your body is still sore and aching as you sit on the edge of the hospital bed, but you're in better spirits. You're ready to go home and put this all behind you.

"Hey there, stranger," a gravelly voice says, and you turn to see Carolina wheeling Ryan into your room in a wheelchair. Your tear ducts betray your better mood, and you immediately burst into tears at the sight of him. He's bruised and swollen and stitched up, but he's alive. You step off the bed with Joel's help and bend to hug him, sobbing into his shoulder. You think Carolina and Joel exchange hugs and cheek kisses, too, but you can't see through bleary eyes. Ryan reaches up and smooths your hair down like he does and has done every single time he's ever held you while you cried. For some reason, the gesture makes you even more emotional. "I knew I looked bad, but I didn't think it'd be enough to make you cry." He says, and you laugh.

"Shut up," you sniffle as you step back to look at him, carefully wiping tears from your puffy face. Ryan grabs your hand and kisses the top of it. "Besides, I look like shit, too."

"Never." He smiles, and you take a deep breath. You look up at Carolina and swallow thickly. She looks exhausted, her hazel eyes more brown than anything under the hospital lights, and her lips are cracked from pulling at the skin all night. You stare at her, and she stares back, and something unspoken passes between you. Joel keeps you upright, and Ryan holds your hand in his as you hug her as tight as you can and fight more tears. She rubs your back and gently rocks you back and forth like a baby. You've always said Ryan and Carolina were your Mom and Dad friends because they are so parental and nurturing, but it feels especially true now.

"I'm so sorry." Your voice catches in your throat, and you feel her shake her head.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You're not the one who ran the red light." She says.

"But, I should've been paying attention. I should've seen him coming. I should've,"

"You're both safe. You protected Ryan the best you could and brought him home to me. There is nothing more I could've asked of you, okay? "

"He could've died," you say. Carolina says your name quietly, like she's scolding you, and pulls your face out of her neck, her hands framing your face. Ryan squeezes your hand, and you pinch your thigh with your other hand to stop crying.

"This was an accident. You didn't get in the car thinking someone was gonna hit you, right?" She asks, and you shake your head. "But when you did get hit, the first thing you did was check on him. You did everything possible to make sure he was taken care of because you are a good fucking friend. Maybe one of the best. So, I don't want to hear you apologizing because I should be thanking you." She hugs you again, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you feel like she's pressing all your broken pieces together again. 

You could probably count on one hand the number of times she's hugged you like this. Once when she and Ryan got married, and you managed to keep her divorced parents from fighting the whole night with copious amounts of liquor and strategic pulls to the dance floor. Once when she had a miscarriage about a year before they had Elizabeth, and you flew home early from shooting in Maine to be with them. You weren't supposed to see them for another two months, and she broke down the second you stepped into their bedroom. And once, when your childhood dog died, and you couldn't make it home in time to say goodbye. Pieces of each of you that you never thought would ever come close to resembling what they used to have been meticulously pulled back together by each other. You can't go back and stop the accident from happening, but slowly, you can let yourself be put back together. 

"I love you," you whisper, and she kisses your temple.

"I love you, too." 

After a few more minutes of crying and hugging, Carolina and Ryan go home. You promise to come over and see them once you feel a little stronger, but they don't rush you. Joel hands you a tissue once they're down the hallway, and you smile before taking and wiping it under your eyes and nose. 

"Feel better?" He asks, and you nod. You step into him and rest your head on his chest. It's partially so you can be close to him and partially because your body hurts too much to stay upright anymore. 

"Thank you," you say. He kisses the top of your head and tucks your hair behind your ears so he can see you clearly.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I want to," you look up at him, and he smiles. Your phone buzzes on the side table, and you reach for it, but Joel stops you. His smile has dropped, and he suddenly looks worried. You furrow your brows and glance between him and your phone. "Joel, what's up?"

"Mel called this morning," he says, and your heart immediately sinks. "Um, she asked if you and Ryan would be ready to do reshoots in two weeks." You nod and bite the inside of your cheek before laughing. You feel crazy standing there, laughing so hard that the ache in your chest blossoms into sharp pain. Joel says your name softly, and you shake your head.

"I just had the scariest experience of my life, and the only thing she called to ask about was my fucking reshoot schedule?"

"I told her to wait."

"No, that's not how it works with her. She needs an answer immediately, or she doesn't get auditions, and if she doesn't get auditions, then I don't work, and she drops me," you scrub a hand down your face and take a deep breath. "I'll call her when I get home."

"What're you gonna say?"

"I'm gonna say yes."

"What?" He asks. "You just said this was the scariest experience you've ever had, and you wanna just go back to work?"

"I don't have a choice. The entire schedule gets thrown off if we don't go in and do whatever they need us to do. Thousands of people are relying on us so they can make money to feed their families. If I say no, production gets halted, it takes longer to get the movie to screens, and we lose money," you shrug. "And they'll put makeup on the bruises and stuff. It'll be like it never even happened. Just how they want it."

"You don't have to go through with this. I'm sure Mel would understand." He insists. 

"You don't know Mel, then," you say. "I'll message her later. It's easier to just shut up and do it than fight about it."

"But-"

"It's fine, Joel. Please, just drop it." You blame your brain pulsing against your skull and the searing pain in your knees for snapping at him. It's not what you wanted to say, but you're so tired. And angry. And in pain. You pull away from him and sit back down on your hospital bed as a nurse comes in with your discharge paperwork. She's incredibly cheerful for ten in the morning. It almost hurts your head having to listen to her describe different types of infection and how to prevent it. Joel nods as she speaks, obviously taking in every piece of information he can and clutching the paperwork to his chest. 

"Other than that, I think you guys are good to go. Do you have a way of getting home?" The nurse asks you.

"I'm takin' her back to my house," Joel answers, and you have to bite your tongue before you say something about him speaking on your behalf. The nurse leaves you with a wheelchair so you don't have to walk all the way to the car, and you look at Joel.

"I can take care of myself,"

"I know you can," he says as he begins gathering your things around the room. "I just wanna take care of you, too." He's being incredibly kind and helpful, you realize that, but that does nothing to stop your frustration with the whole situation. 

Mel will always be Mel, this much you concluded years ago. But Joel butting into your professional life feels like a step too far. You know this business like the back of your hand. He doesn't. It's unfair for him to try to tell you how to deal with your agent when he doesn't know the repercussions. He doesn't understand just how many people are relying on you and Ryan to come back to set for a few reshoots. It would literally waste hundreds of thousands of dollars in studio money to push this back. Answering the nurse's question without consulting you first did nothing to make you feel better. 

Joel seems to notice the silence filling the space between you at the same time as you because he turns and leans down so he can look you in the eye. All your things are stuffed into the huge bag Carolina fished from your closet, and the hospital room looks identical to when you arrived. Joel takes a deep breath and grinds his teeth as he thinks.

"Please, let me take care of you." He says quietly, his tone gentle and borderline begging. Nobody's taken care of you during a sickness or an injury since you left your parent's house. Especially after you started becoming more famous, you didn't want anyone to see you in that vulnerable state and exploit it. People like you are expected to suck it up, keep going and hope it'll go away in a week or two. 

This is different. This is letting Joel assume responsibility for you for at least a few days, something you're sure you'll feel horrible about after the fact. This is staying at his house, eating his food, and sleeping in his bed because you're too wobbly to do those things alone. This is trusting him way more than you ever have. But he wants to. He told you he does. He took notes on how to change the bandages on your fucking stitches. He obviously cares. So, why does this feel so hard? You sigh and swallow your pride, and nod.

"Okay."

Joel's house is not what you expected it to look like. Most musicians you know stick to a very sleek, very boring black and white theme for their homes. White couch, black coffee table, white rug, black piano, white walls, black art. It's typical and almost a running joke between you and your friends each time you end up in a musician's house, but Joel's is different. His house looks lived in with scattered shoes by the door, backpacks slung over chairs, and colorful art on the walls. Some frames depict vast Texas landscapes or longhorns mean mugging the camera, while others are just abstract, bright paint splashes. There are smaller ones, too, with Ellie's loopy signature at the bottom. The couch is oversized and plush, with pillows and blankets nearby for movie nights. Report cards and family pictures hang on the fridge via silly magnets from different states and countries. You realize it feels like a real home after your first night.

You've gotten into a routine by the third day at Joel's house. Joel will wake up before you, sneak out of bed to make breakfast, and gather the pills you need to take to get through the day. Sometimes, he brings it to you, and other times, he helps you down the stairs and into the kitchen. You'll drink coffee and eat breakfast together as the sun slowly peeks over the Los Angeles skyscrapers. After you eat, he'll check your stitches and change the bandage to ensure they're healing correctly. Then, you'll just sit together and hold hands until one of the girls stirs awake, and you get to watch Joel be a dad. 

Sarah is the next one up every morning, but especially this morning, walking down the stairs a full hour and a half before school starts and giving Joel the rundown of her schedule for the day as he makes her breakfast. She asks how you're feeling and then makes sure her dad gave you your medication. You really can take it yourself, but watching them work together to make sure you're alright is sweet. They tease each other for a while before Joel checks his watch and curses under his breath, making his way to the stairs after kissing your and Sarah's foreheads. 

"I'm surprised he doesn't just yell up the stairs for her. That's what my dad used to do." You say as you sip what's left of your coffee, and Sarah shrugs.

"He doesn't yell very often. It scares Ellie. Besides, she wouldn't wake up even if he did." She says nonchalantly, and you immediately want to stuff the words back down your throat. 

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You didn't know," she shrugs, and you shake your head. "In the wise words of Hank Miller," she says before assuming a slouched posture and putting a hand on your wrist. "You're too hard on yourself, darlin'." You laugh at her Texas accent but still can't shake the feeling that you keep getting this— your relationship with the girls— wrong. 

"Well, your grandfather sounds like a very smart man."

"And he's right, y'know," she says, looking at you with those beautiful brown eyes. You wonder if she can see right through you like Joel can. "The whole time you've been here, you keep apologizing."

"I only apologized once this morning."

"Yeah, to me. How many times have you apologized to my dad?" She asks, raising her eyebrows, and you sigh. "It was a family decision to have you come stay with us. Three out of three Millers voted yes. I promise it's really okay."

"It's not that." 

"Then, what is it?" 

"I don't... I've never..." You struggle with the words. "I've never dated someone with kids, and I don't want to overstep or make you guys feel like I'm taking your dad away from you. I don't know how to do this, so I keep saying things and then just feeling stupid or like I messed up. Like I should've remembered the thing about Ellie's foster homes." You don't know why you're disclosing all the information to an eighteen-year-old, but she seems receptive. 

"Ellie doesn't want any of us to treat her differently because of her past, and I'm pretty sure if you tried, she'd rip you a new one. The fact that you're even trying makes such a difference. My dad has dated... some really not great people he never even told about us. But not only do you know about us, you care about us enough to freak out about us, which is totally unnecessary, by the way," she says. "My dad, Ellie, and I are a team, and we have been for a really long time, so we were a little worried when he told us he was dating again. But he's so happy. Like annoyingly happy." You both laugh at that and feel the weight on your shoulders ease off. 

"And Ellie and I kinda agreed that as long as you made my dad happy, we'd find a way to be happy for him, but you make it pretty easy. I like having you around. We both do."

"Yeah?" You ask, and she hums with a big smile on her face. You bump her shoulder with your own and smile too. "I like having you around, too." 

"So, no more worrying about us, okay?" 

"I can't guarantee anything, but thank you. I really appreciate you saying all that." 

"You're welcome." She says as you wrap an arm around her shoulder and kiss her temple. Joel walks back into the kitchen with a knowing look but doesn't say anything, and you wonder how much he heard. A groggy Ellie, still in her pajamas, trails behind him and blindly reaches for the orange juice in the fridge. 

"Oh, motherfucker," Ellie mutters as she sloshes around the last inch of orange juice. She holds up the mostly empty container and gives Joel a deadly serious look. "This is child abuse."

"That ain't child abuse," Joel says, already halfway to the garage. Ellie rolls her eyes before landing on you and softening.

"How're you feeling?" She asks, and you laugh.

"Better after watching you fuck with your dad."

"He's easy to fuck with," she says as the garage door opens again and Joel's footsteps get closer. "Watch this." 

"Here you go," Joel says, handing Ellie a new container of orange juice. She furrows her eyebrows and looks at him.

"I didn't ask for this."

"What? Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Oh, my God, Dad's losing it." Sarah chimes in. Joel looks confused and like he's genuinely trying to remember if Ellie asked for it, and you can't stop the snort from leaving you.

"You little shit," Joel says, making Ellie laugh. Then, in the blink of an eye, Joel tickles Ellie, and her screeching laughter fills the kitchen. You and Sarah laugh, too, especially when the laughter turns into squeaks. Ellie tries to slip out of his grip, but he picks her up, hauls her over his shoulder, and makes for the backdoor. 

"Joel Miller, do not throw your daughter in the pool!" You yell, and he groans before turning back around and dumping a still giggling Ellie on the couch.

"You win this round, kid," Joel points in her face before kissing her cheek. "Alright, we're gonna have to leave for school soon. Can you be ready in thirty minutes?" 

"Yes, I'm not Sarah."

"Hey!" Sarah shouts as Ellie runs back up the stairs to get dressed, giggling the whole way to her room.

As you and Sarah talk about school, Joel puts eggs, bacon, and toast on a plastic plate for Ellie to eat in the car, forever worried about her missing meals. He takes a little longer than he needs to so he can watch how you two interact, his eyes twinkling in the sunshine. You and Sarah have been friends from the jump, but you have to admit that there's something a little more sacred about her letting you into her space. You and Sarah do your best to ignore his puppy dog eyes, but when Ellie comes downstairs with her backpack slung over her shoulder, she makes a face.

"Why do you look like that?" She asks, making Joel quickly snap out of it.

"Why do you look like that?"

"That's so funny. Did you come up with that yourself?" She rolls her eyes. Joel does a squeaky, high-pitched voice to mock her as he grabs his keys from the counter. He walks over and pecks your lips before walking to the front door.

"Alright, Miller bus is leavin'! Let's roll out!" He yells. The girls bid you a quick goodbye before chasing after him, leaving you completely alone in the house. 

After putting your dirty dishes away, you venture through the house now that you feel a little stronger. You start at the fridge, looking through all the little pictures and magnets deemed worthy of being seen daily. You decide that your favorite is the one of Joel, Tommy, and the girls at the Grand Canyon. It looks like it was taken a few years ago based on the babyish plumpness of Ellie's face and the braces on Sarah's teeth as she smiles. Joel is squinting in the sun, but he's so completely in his element in the desert with his family, hands on the girls' shoulders. It's pinned to the fridge with a Washington, D.C. magnet depicting the Lincoln Memorial. 

As you glide through the house, you keep finding new favorites. Many other celebrities you've met either don't hang up their family photos because they run the risk of ruining the aesthetic of their home or because they don't want people to see them. Joel, however, has massive frames holding multiple pictures of his family throughout the years. A picture of a much younger Joel with a baby strapped to his chest sets you back on your heels because of just how little he looks. He can't be older than twenty-three as he poses, one hand on baby Sarah's back and the other holding a diaper bag. You watch them grow alongside each other as you move down the wall. 

You see pictures from an elementary school career day where Joel and Sarah pose with different tools. Pictures of Tommy, Joel, and Sarah lined up for what looks like a Fourth of July parade when Sarah was a toddler, her chubby hands latched to her dad's as she sat on his shoulders. Then, suddenly and without warning, a round little face framed with wavy brown hair enters the pictures, but it feels like she was always meant to be there. There's a framed photo strip of the three of them making goofy faces at the camera and pretending their dad isn't cool as he kisses their cheeks and rests his head on Ellie's shoulder. You feel almost emotional looking at the worn photos and seeing their love for each other transcend a camera lens. Though, a buzzing in your pocket stops you from thinking any more about it, and you roll your eyes as you read a text from Melanie.

Heard what happened. I'm so sorry :( I got all those pictures from the crash taken down 👍 Still good for reshoots in two weeks?

You sigh and type out a response as the front door opens and Joel walks back in. 

"What're you doin'? I thought you'd be in bed." He says, and you shake your head.

"I wanted to snoop, and I'm responding to Melanie about scheduling." 

"Oh, good. When are you gonna move reshoots to?" He asks as he walks over, his keys still jingling in his hands from dropping off the girls. 

"I'm not moving them."

"What? I thought you were gonna try and change it." He says as you press send on your message confirming the dates and look up at him, confused. 

"I never said that." 

"We talked about it at the hospital."

"Yeah, but I never said I'd change the time just because you didn't agree." You say, and he scoffs. You tuck your phone away and cross your arms over your chest while he searches your face like he's waiting for the punchline to a joke he's never heard. When it doesn't come, he shakes his head.

"Wow." He breathes, and you furrow your brows.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Something."

"I just can't believe you didn't even try to fight her on it." He says in a frustrated tone, and you give him three beats of silence to rethink what he just said. 

"Melanie can be a bitch, but she's also responsible for my career. If I fuck her over, I fuck myself over." You say when he doesn't backtrack.

"Is that what she told you?" 

"Joel," you warn, but he doesn't stop.

"If you keep goin' like this, it's gonna kill you. Do you realize that?" He asks incredulously, and you throw your arms up.

"We are in entirely different worlds when it comes to our careers, so can you please stop telling me how to run mine? I don't get on you this much about your job."

"Because I don't work myself to the bone like you do."

"You're right. You don't," you snap, and he takes a deep breath. You're not quite sure where to go from here. You don't know if this counts as a fight, but you know you feel bad. "I already confirmed. I can't change it now." You say softer than the harshness that took over your voice moments ago.

"Okay," he nods. "Then, 'm comin' to set with you because we both know that if somethin' goes wrong, Mel isn't gonna do shit to help you." He says, all of his frustration pointed at your manager now, and you want to argue that what he said isn't true but can't find the words. You think it's because, deep down, you know he's right, but you won't say it. Not now. So, instead, you just nod and unclench your jaw.

"Fine." You say as you pull out your phone to add an addendum to your previous confirmation. Joel walks into the kitchen and puts his keys on the counter before leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. Once you're done typing, you look up and stare at him, watching the gears in his head shift.

"I really thought the car accident would've made you wanna slow down or, at least, take the time to recover. Make you see there's more to life than just work." He scoffs, and you bite your tongue so hard you taste blood. You move from your place by the photos and reach the bottom of the stairs, fighting tears, before you turn to him. He hasn't moved, but he's watching you.

"I hope you know that was a really fucking shitty thing to say to me. I would never take something like this and spin it against you because I care about you."

"I do care about you."

"Then, let me do my fucking job and stay out of my way." You walk up the stairs with a little stomp in your step. It feels very juvenile and petulant, but you're pissed and embarrassed. Who is he to dictate what you do and when? It's none of his fucking business how you run your own career. Who is he to make you feel bad for working? To fight with you about something that doesn't concern him? 

Still, even as these angry thoughts spiral in your mind, you cry the second you close the bedroom door behind you. The physical pain, nightmares, arguments, and guilt eat you from the inside out. And as you sit in that big house overflowing with love so real you can feel it in the floorboards and the man who showed up at the hospital for you downstairs, you feel completely and utterly alone for the first time since you signed your name on that stupid contract. 

[perkqularkreashions]

Sinful Divination

Part One: Chasing Pavements

AN: I am sooo sorry for the long wait time; I hope you guys like it! 

TW/CW: Mentions: Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Child Abuse, Mentions of Molestation, Child Pregnancy, Mentions of Miscarriage, Mentions of Child Murder. PLEASE CHECK YOUR TRIGGERS!!

Happy Readings!

COLD. It was uncomfortably cold, the kind that pained you when you finally relaxed your body to the surface; it was the only sensation YN felt as her body pressed against a rusted metal pipe. She was bonded by duct tape and rope, her wrists shifting and moving as she tried to create space to escape. Her wrists were raw and burned at the slightest moment; her senses were distorted, and she didn’t know if it had been three days or 20 minutes. The hum of light drilled into the silence, her eyes blurred from the tears and chemicals that knocked her out. In a panic, she aggressively yanked at the restraints. She tried to remain emotionless, but everything weighed on her; her eyes began to water as her lips quivered against the cloth in her mouth. Her chest heaving, as she slightly adjusted herself. The reality was harshly setting in. He spoke, yet YN didn’t hear him, his voice drowning in nothingness. Startled by the abrupt sound, her eyes snapping to his. His eyes were wide and full of excitement, dried blood painted on his face and clothes. Despite his seemingly clean look, his skin smelled of a strong bar soap, and his hair was slightly wet and had slight suds. YN took note of his hair, the color of his eyes, the curve of his chin, the deepness of his Cupid’s bow, his build, and the straightness of his teeth—the flaxen color of his skin riddle with freckles and healed lacerations. A necklace with a pendant that was tucked in his shirt; it was silver in color and looked to be a saint… He was catholic.

She sucked in a deep breath; maybe, she could appeal to his better nature as a Catholic. She shook the idea out of her head as she closed her eyes, waiting for him to strike.

“YN…YN….YN LN. It was just my luck to see you, walking down the street. Arms tucked underneath each other. Your wet clothes clinging to you, the way your hair falls against your face. The way you held me to pick up my papers when they fell. Beautiful,” he whispers, his fingers sliding against her face and moving from her brow to her lips. She didn’t snatch herself away; that was what Maria Cassidy did; he bludgeoned her to death with a hammer. He was quick to anger; YN knew she had to be still and gentle with him until the BAU could find her… until they could save her. She flinched slightly as he plopped beside her, eye to eye. His nose brushes against her; he moans softly, squeezing her shoulders tightly. “I’m sorry, I’m getting too ahead of myself. I never thought you’d notice me..U-Until you did!”

His hand moved to her lips, dry from the cloth and stained with tears. He grabbed at the back of her neck; she watched him fearfully. “I trust you, so I am going to take this off. Don’t make me regret this,” he mumbled against her lips. She nodded gently. With a swift tug, she could close her mouth and swallow. Her throat burned with the sensation of the salvia running down her throat. He smiled widely, his hands clasped around her face as he kissed harshly against her lips. His tongue darting against mouth, with disdain, she kissed back. Her eyes, were open as she watched him. He pulled away; she quickly closed them. Opening slowly, pressing a feigned smile against her lips. 

Everyone watched the screen in disgust; the only sound was clicking the keys against Garcia’s fingers. Occasionally, she would peak at the net but couldn’t stomach it. “She has to be related to all this,” Emily whispered in disbelief. “She has to be.” She spoke louder, turning her attention to the group. “He knows her, maybe from grade school or a youth group. She participated in band, Youth Art, maybe even the church?”

“The only record I’m seeing is high school and college; there was no record that she even went to a public or even private elementary or middle school,” Garcia mumbled, as she continued typing, her eyes snapping from the computer screen to the monitor. Garcia gasped as a hand collided with her face, her body jerking as she let out a soft yelp. Her head dangling for a moment as she yanked herself back. Another blow to her face, as he spits at her. She needed to keep calm and restrain herself from the noises that filtered out of her lips. He punched her again; she gasped as her head dropped against her. The unsub’s hand tangled itself in her hair as he raised her head, revealing her face to the camera. “Now, let’s play a little game. If you get these answers wrong, I'll cut you.  Simple and Fun!”

“This is a completely different M.O. than his other victims. He tortures them on camera and doesn’t utter a word. He feels comfortable. As he wants her to know it’s him. Garcia, we need you to dig deeper into how he communicates with them and how he looks at her. He has to know her.” Spencer spoke, his eyes analyzing how the unsub moved; he was careful in his movements as he was afraid to hurt her. 

“Maria, she was pretty. She was always just that, pretty. Do you remember her crime against the God?” the unsub whispers.

“N-no, I-” his knife glided against her face, blood spewing out; she hissed momentarily, biting her lip as she shut her eyes. JJ and Garcia cringed, watching the knife drag from the brow to the apples of her cheek. 

JJ explains in a hurried voice, pushing another laptop on the table, “The first victim didn’t go to the same school as her; they didn’t even grow up in the same neighborhood. They went to rival schools.” 

“What about, Helena?” Everyone’s attention turned to the monitor. 

“She had an abortion and later tried to commit suicide,” YN answered quickly; she remembered that day in school. The halls were eerily quiet that day. She woke up, her bare feet slapping against the ground as she moved to the shared bathroom. She searched for her roommate; they always woke around the same time. A loud caw snapped YN back into her thoughts as she opened the bathroom. Seeing her body laid in the bathtub, filled with a mixture of water and her blood. She stumbled back, letting out a scream. She screamed for Sister Rose, Sister Anika, and Jesus. They rushed into the room, eyes moving to the tub. “Call Father!” Sister Rose would scream as she dragged Helena out of the tub, grabbing the display and wrapping it around her arms. She survived and was placed right back in the facility after her repentance. 

“What about Margot?” he hummed, the knife danced along her skin. 

She shivered, “She succumbed to her flesh,” he laughed with glee. 

“And what about you? Mm?” Yn froze; watching him closely, she shook her head. Her eyes flickered back to the camera. His eyes flickered down, tracing over a scar resting at her stomach's base. YN screamed as she plunged the knife slightly into the scar, yanking harshly to the left. Snatching the knife out, he watches her squirm against the restraints. “You are a whore! You don’t remember, that day. I do; I remember, you adjusting your blouse as he stumbled out of his office. You smelled of sin, but you smiled at me, you smiled at me, you smiled at me. You smiled at me.” He plunged the knife into her leg, and she gasped, the air getting stuck in her throat as he yanked it out. Chocking on pain and air, she sucked in cool air around her. 

He cut at the restraints behind her, pushing her on her back. He brought himself to his knees, his face scanning her body before moving back to her eyes. He caressed her gently before moving his hand to the hem of her shirt. YN froze, her eyes wide in distress as she soon began to recognize him, his features tugging together to create a vivid picture in her mind. Her heart stabbed against her chest, her head shaking softly as she mumbled softly, “Please don’t.” She couldn’t recall his name. He was always just around, thick circular framed glasses hanging from the bridge of his nose. His hand played with each as he spoke, sat, walked, and did anything. He was often frightened and hid behind the oak desk, that Headmaster Fletcher would rape her on. His eyes would peek over to hers, full of tears and soft pleads. After Headmaster Fletcher was done, he’d kiss the top of her head before leaving YN alone with him. 

His knife met the Cesarean scar; she couldn’t feel it for a moment. Feel him dragging his across the dewiness of her skin, the pain not yet reaching her brain, she sat there in a state of acceptance and solitude. Just as she did when she was a kid. The smell of burning sage and vanilla candles filled her senses, and she was back sitting on his leather couch, hands placed on her lap as she anxiously waited for him to speak. She finally apologized, her eyes brimming with tears as she met the eyes of her father and uncle. “I have sinned” was all she was able to muster out.

 YN was yanked out of thoughts, from a searing pain in her abdomen; she screamed out and jerked upwards, causing him to lose his balance. Violently, she shook, her legs flailing about, wanting to put as much distance from the unsub and herself, finally freeing your right hand from imprisonment.

“I'm pregnant,” YN cries out, “Please, I’m pregnant,” she whispers again. Their eyes met before the unsub’s moved back to her stomach. He thought she was lying; she wouldn’t keep this information from him; she knew she was lying. His grip tightens on the knife as he watches her in disbelief. 

“You’re a liar,” He screams erratically; he shakes his head for a moment. YN yanked at one arm, slipping it from the already loosened restraint; she didn’t have time to subdue him. She saw his hand raise steadily, and without thinking, she blocked her stomach. The knife collided with her palm. YN was stuck, her mind warping to insignificant details that surrounded her. She could suddenly see everything happening outside: the chirp of the bugs, the soft drops of the rain against the roof, and the hum of the air conditioning turning on and off. The wind howled in the night sky. The way the house shook when trucks drove past.  She could feel his breath against her face and the smell of Bourbon and cheese. He yanked the knife back, and finally, her eyes flickered to his. A look of terror was written on his face. Slowly, the unsub’s eyes shifted to her stomach, now covered with blood.

Garcia screamed, her hands slapping against her mouth as she watched the scene before her. Tears burned her eyes as her mascara streaked across her face. “W-who,” the unsub spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. Aaron watched the shift in his demeanor; he cared. His face scrunched in dismay at the news, and his body shifted away from him as if he were a scorned lover. 

“He’s family,” Aaron started, his eyes shifting to everyone, landing on Spencer’s momentarily. “I remember, her saying that she went to this-” 

“Catholic Boarding School funded by her church when she was younger,” Spencer finished; everyone was brought back to life, over-talking one another to connect her life to the unsub. 

“I-I don’t know,” YN admitted, “I’m four months along with twins.” Both Spencer and Aaron were standing, gawking at the screen. Emily watched the both of them, as they were trying to register what was going on.  

The unsub stood up quickly, “I will get you a towel for the blood.” With that, he was gone. His footsteps retreated upstairs as the door slowly creaked shut. 

“It’s still raining; we are still in Virginia. The forest surrounds him, maybe a one-lane highway. You could feel the house shaking when trucks go past. He lives alone; he went to an all-boys charter school; when I was 13, I got pregnant, and my parents sent me to an all-girls catholic school. He was punished heavily during his stay. Our father abused the girls, but I never suspected the boys. I see scars and healed bruising shaped like a paddle and whips. He wears a necklace Nicodemus—a saint in the bible.  It was our saint, too.” Garcia vigorously typed as she searched through her databases, typing in one screen before transferring to another. “Spence… Aaron – I am so sorry,” she whispers out. 

The unsub came back downstairs, a towel in his hand with some alcohol and gaze. “You don’t-” he shushes her, grabbing her hand. YN hissed in pain, squirming as he doused her hand in alcohol. 

“It was like when we were kids, remember.” 

. Finally, she was looking at him. She saw him. His hand pressed on the wound as he robotically cleaned it up, just like when they were kids. She remembered his darkened face as she lay restless on the ground, blood pooling on her legs and the mahogany wooden floors. He hesitantly rubbed her thighs and would mumble apologies, but nothing would stop her from sobbing in her elbow.

“Thomas Fletcher, 26, went to Saint Nicodemus school for troubled youth. They had a school for girls and boys. But, it doesn’t seem like this school was doing good for the “troubled” youth. The head minister was charged with 29 counts of child molestation and rape cases. None of the girls testified, and the charges were dropped against him without their testimonies. That’s not all; half of the girls attending this school were pregnant, not by him but by many of the pastors and advisors who came to speak with them about bettering their lives. YN LN had her child on December 25, a healthy baby boy. She named him, Ezekial LN, but he now goes by Zeke LN and is legally adopted by her MaryAnn and Paul Fletcher, the former headmistress and minister of Saint Nicodemus. On the birth certificate, the parents are listed as YN LN and Paul Fletcher, the head minister. For three years, YN was legally married to him.” Garcia moved her findings to the screen. 

Rossi’s face contoured in dismay as he watched the BAU. “How could her parents let their child go through with something so traumatizing?” 

“Because it was her uncle,” Garcia whispered. Her fingers moved swiftly, as she pointed to the screen. News articles block the camera, showing black-and-white photos of YN’s father and the pastor. “Her father was the church pastor and appointed his brother to the head minister of his charter school.” A picture of YN pixeled on the screen, her hair tied behind her, her face emotionless as she held a minor plague in her hand that covered her stomach. “Her uncle raped her, and her father covered it up.”

“We need to know the properties listed in her father’s name,” Aaron demanded. Aaron didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared; he feared losing YN, just like how he lost Hayley. He knew there was a chance that the children weren’t his, and at the moment, he didn’t care. He wanted back in their home, lying in their bed. 

“There’s a house, just bordering the Appalachian mountains. The address is, 5687 Wieme Road, Wise, Virginia, only 45 minutes away from her,” she pronounces. The team moved; no words were spoken as they gathered into their respective cars, ready to save YN. 

Spencer’s heart was racing against his chest, his gum aimed in front of him as he watched his surroundings, eyes flickering from left to right, trying to capture every minute detail. The basement door was ajar; Aaron moved first, wasting no time to rush down the stairs, gun aiming at Thomas’s head. He hadn’t yet noticed, the BAU filling the room, carefully, one foot over the either they closed in. 

“Thomas Fletcher,” Rossi called out, his finger dancing along the trigger as he watched the man freeze. “It’s over. Drop the weapon.” Thomas held his hands up slowly, his eyes flickering to YN, pleading for her to help. All she could do with laugh, tears blinding her as she sat up slowly, letting her body fall limp against the metal beam. Her sobs echoed through the room, her hand pressed against her stomach as she exhaled. 

She gasped softly, feeling the blanket tossed over her shoulder. Aaron knelt, cuffing her face as he watched her. “You okay?” he whispers, and she nods frantically. Wrapping her arms around him, she let out a quiet sob. 

She repeats through her sobs, “I’m okay.” Aaron’s arm wrapped around her lower back, bringing her closer. “Are you mad at me?” she could barely find her voice. 

“No…no, please, I could never be mad at you. I love you.” He pulls away, cuffing her face, taking in all her features. The bruises that started to form, the laceration marks, her busted lip. He grew angry; he should’ve killed him and killed him for hurting her, killed for almost killing his children. Aaron moved, as the paramedics came, kneeling beside her. The rest of the team joined, scared she would be gone again if they left her sight. 

They moved her to the back of the ambulance, and the last to see her was Spencer; she was searching for him. He climbed in the back, asking for a moment alone, in which he happily obliged. He sat down. “I love you, YN – I know you love me too. No matter what happens, I will always be here for you. Even if they aren’t mine,” he whispers. Standing up, Spencer pressed a kiss to her forehead. He held it there as he tried holding in his emotions. 

“Wait, Spence, please don’t go,” YN whispers. Spencer smiled, sitting back as he took her hand, while the other gently rested against her stomach.

[ashtronomyys]

Thinking of Soap and Ghost coming back from a mission gone south, shell shocked and just needing the touch of another human to ebb away the horrors of the things they saw. It's emotional and uncoordinated as the two fall into bed, fumbling out of tac gear and clacking teeth together when they kiss. The harsher the better, the sting of skin breaking and metallic taste of blood on their lips a solid reminder that they're still breathing, in one piece.

Fears that were eating away at them on the field are whispered into bruised and battered skin as clothes are shed, the dread of what could've been making the two bodies tremor.

"I thought I lost you"

"I'm still here"

"I'm not leaving you"

"I'm not letting anything happen to you"

"I'm not gonna lose you, damn the whole world if I have to"

"I love you"

All this and more declared amongst cut off moans, hitched whines, and whimpers as hands travel south in between them. The feeling of being flush from head to toe with warm skin while pleasure begins to course through their veins can only be described as euphoric. Fists knot into and yank at hair as mouths and fingers work at each other with zero mercy, both of them desperately needing what comes next sooner rather than later.

For a second, time seems to finally slow down for the first time when hips are aligned and the first shallow thrust is made, eyes locking onto one another. The two bump foreheads with the first slap of skin, droplets of their own blood still drying on each other's faces as they hold each other's gaze.

The pace is brutal, an intense passion for the other half unleashed from deep within, hidden behind layers of doubt and uncertainty but brought out full force by the harsh reality faced that day. It's somehow both intimate and yet far from it in the way that arms wrap around each other in a near crushing hold, legs intertwine and trap one another, and nails are dragged across flexing muscles, biting into the flesh and adding to the litany of new scars gained throughout the day.

With the two soldiers dancing closer to the edge with each passing second, proclamations of love, their deepest desires rarely shared are uttered against a bruising kiss. Welled up tear ducts begin to spill over under the intensity of raw emotions, the words being babbled out now in between broken pleas and a flat out low sobbing one of them let's out.

When the dam hits, it hits just as fierce as the headboard meeting the wall was moments prior. Hands desperately reach out to clutch at anything they can find, grasping for dear life onto the metal frame of the bed, a hip, a shoulder blade, the meeting place of hair on the back of someone's neck, leaving red marks where they meet skin in their wake.

When all is done, neither move to clean up, tac gear and clothing thrown on to the floor and a mess of the sheets left to be dealt with in the future. With all their strength gone, all they can do is collapse from exhaustion, both feeling raw and laid bare in more ways than one with the fervent and intense lovemaking.

More tears are likely shed, a much more gentler embrace is shared and hands massage the shuddering of their bodies. A discussion of a future outside of this, one far away from the traumas of the battlefield and taking place in a beaten down farmhouse in the Scottish highlands, or tiny apartment nestled in the outskirts of Manchester is shared.

Soap promises loud, rambunctious get-togethers with the MacTavish family, holidays spent under the warm glow of a fire and a table full of Scottish family recipes. Ghost promises lazy mornings in bed, a fresh cup of tea (Yes tea, Johnny!) everyday, a garden filled with all kinds of vibrant flowers, and a few cats, maybe even a dog.

Hell who knows, maybe they can even see about trying to raise a kid after all this, make something good out of this life, sheltered far away from the horrors that they've faced.

A small peck or two is placed on bandaged hands and bruised ribs, bringing them back down to reality. It's all a pipe dream for now, the world still needing their skill set to fight the good fight.

But with each passing year, as knees grow weaker and each passing night like this leaves them more and more haggard by the end, the idea of finally retiring and leaving it all behind becomes all the more tempting...

[torturing-characters-101]

hi!! so, in my fantasy novel, my character gets stabbed through the lung; he survives, but suffers from a collapsed lung and his family believes he's dead. Eventually, he's taken as a prisoner of war (he's a king) they patch him up, and he ends up escaping. He then meets a woman in the woods, who lives in a village nearby, who tends to his wounds.

My first question is, in a medieval setting, how would they go about patching him up enough for him to 1) live, since he is a big part of the plot and 2) be able to make his way through the woods for the woman to find him? They don't have magical healers, but they would've planned for a life-threatening injury. The woman also has advanced knowledge + access to medicinal herbs and medieval medicine.

Secondly, what would be the long term effects of his chest wound? He ends up being found by the enemy and tortured for around seven months, and his wounds wouldn't be cleaned or dressed from that moment on unless they absolutely had to. Would the wound still heal and just leave a nasty scar? Or would it never close and heal? How would this affect his day-to-day life after he's rescued? Would it still be pulled open and start to bleed, or would it be healed enough so that that wouldn't happen? He winds up with pneumonia too, and I assume this wouldn't bode well for his lung?

I know there's a lot, I'm sorry, but I've been really struggling with finding the proper information about this! It's hard, because it's in a medieval setting where they don't have modern medicine, or hospitals, or anything of the sort; this character has to live though. I appreciate any help / tips you can offer!!!! 🥹🥹

Your character might be able to survive a small closed pneumothorax, and they might be able to survive a stab to the chest that was only muscle deep, but any injury that opens the chest cavity (say, a stab wound that goes into the lung) would generally not be survivable in the medieval period with the resources and knowledge available.

The problem is that what you're describing is something called a sucking chest wound. You breathe in when a muscle called the diaphragm contracts and pulls your lungs downward. This creates more space in the chest, which causes air to enter your lungs and fill the space. If there's an opening in the chest wall, though, air goes in through that instead of filling the lungs. This fills the chest cavity with air outside the lung, which causes the lungs to deflate. The person then suffocates.

The absolute most rudimentary way to fix this is to put an occlusive dressing over it ASAP (like, within seconds) and hope the pneumothorax fixes itself (which is possible, as long as it's small) and no infection results. An occlusive dressing is a water proof, air proof bandage that prevents any more air from getting in, usually duct-taped on 3-4 sides.

Unfortunately, even if someone knew what to do here, the materials of the day and place would not do the job. While rubberized garments existed in the Americas in this time, it did not exist in Europe. Even oilcloth didn't exist in Europe until the 18th century, and there was no waterproof, airproof material before that in this area.

The closest he could have gotten was a thin sheet of tanned leather, probably pasted to his chest with something like pine resin, which hopefully would harden into a non-breathable layer. This would have to be put on within seconds and stay on for about a month. This was not a known technique at the time, but if I were to time travel into the middle ages that's what I would do. And again, since it would have to have been done in seconds, you'll have to get creative on how it happens.

Assuming he did survive (which would be a miracle), he'd have a scar on the outside and probably scarring on his lung, which might mean he lost the use of part of his lung. This might mean he would get out of breath more easily, and could be life threatening if he did get the pneumonia you mentioned.

Since this is for a piece of original fiction, if you want to discuss this further, you can hire me here.

[iwahajii]

That Certain Shade of Green

You, Iwaizumi and Oikawa's cat. How chaotic and romantic will that be?

You see, I'm not the type of person who likes confrontations or arguments. In fact, I do my best to avoid such situations unless necessary. Why? Because they're exhausting. I must also admit that I'm not a saint. I can run out of patience, scream in frustration, and do many others that meant visibly expressing my emotions. I cry, as in my tear ducts producing tears by processing my bodily fluids into salty, fat tears. Just that I don't cry too often, and if I do, I make sure it's worth it by waiting until I reach the last strand of my sanity before crying, or on special occasions, from grave frustration. Contrary to popular belief, I do have emotions. I'm human, not a robot or an android, much to my friends' amusement and frustration.

I also believe that I'm rational. I think things through, over and over in my head, before doing whatever it is. I do my best not to act on impulse, and I do my best to remain respectful regardless of whoever I was dealing with.

It must be a wonder why I'm saying all this... Let's just say it all boils down to me reaching my maximum boiling point and doing something unexpected it started derailing my life until all hell broke loose.

Because there's a reason why I'm currently banging on the door of my neighbor at 1 a.m. on a Saturday morning, holding a cat between my arms, with mascara and tears streaming down my face.

There's a reason why I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes, why my legs ache from standing for hours, why my head is pounding from overuse and lack of sleep.

There's a thousand more reasons I could name why I'm doing something borderline crazy, like slam my fist on someone's door in the middle of the night, but at the moment, I didn't care whether I'd get the cops called on me.

Screw this cat. Screw this neighbor. Screw this fucking life because I am so fucking done.

I must have looked fresh from the deepest pits of hell because when the door swung open, the man on the other side jumped away, eyes wide in surprise.

Opening my mouth to speak, I find the string of disrespectful words clawing at my throat two seconds ago vanishing to thin air, leaving me opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water. Even my tears stopped the second I caught sight of the person on the other side, as though my brain stopped everything that's not involved with sight.

Time seemed to freeze in that moment, with the two of us locked in a stare-down, though technically, I wasn't... really looking at his eyes...

But honestly, who could blame me?

When I decided to storm up to my neighbor after seeing the crime scene in my apartment, I never really expected to find a half-naked greek god glaring down at me for interrupting his sleep. I mean, If I did, I wouldn't really do it with mascara-stained face or with clothes still from yesterday's. I could've cleaned up a little, at the very least.

Or whatever.

I balled my hands into fists to stop my train of thoughts.

Embarassed, warmth slowly crept up my cheeks as I sneaked a glance at the washboard abs seemingly gleaming even under the poor lighting from the nearest post.

"Shut up," I growled under my breath, but Mr. Greek God seemed to have heard, and he blinked himself awake, frowning at me.

"Excuse me?" he asked, confusion etched on his face as he continued to frown. When his eyes drifted down my arms, recognition seemed to finally dawn on him. "Why do you have Mr. Cuddles?" he asked, voice deep and gruff.

The snort came swift. Mr. Cuddles? Seriously?

"Oh, him?" you quipped, flashing the greek god a bright smile before giving the cat a back rub, "Mr. Cuddles, huh? Well, Mr.-" you paused, leaning to your right to glance at the nameplate, "-Iwaizumi, I would like to inform you that Mr. Cuddles has broken into my home and destroyed my apartment."

It took him ten seconds to react to my words. Ten seconds. I counted it in my head.

He froze, hand still holding the knob, before he visibly sagged and brought his hands up to wipe down his face. He groaned into his hands, the sound so deep the vibrations reverberated.

My eyes inavertedly shifted to his arms, strong and thick and sinewy as he raises one to run down his hair in visible frustration. The force of his glare was so potent that when he turned to look at me, my body flinched on impulse.

He'll kill me for waking him up was the first thought that ran through my head.

He frowned, silently watching me squirm under his heavy glare. Suddenly, he sighed, running a hand through his hair again. "Sorry," he grumbled. "It's not you I'm pissed at."

Is that why his hair's so spiky? It's short, too, so maybe it's the reason why it's sticking up. Too much running through it.

"Oh," I replied, surprised by his admission. "That's... good, I guess."

It took a good full minute of silence before any of us spoke, somehow focused on staring at anything besides the other.

"I'm just gonna go-"

"Wait here a sec-"

I stopped, motioning for him to go ahead.

"Go on," he replies, nodding his head at me.

"I-I'm just-" I began, cheeks reddening from embarassment when I stuttered. Good grief, why the hell am I stuttering? This was embarassing enough. Clearing my throat, I tried again.

"I'm gonna go. It's late," I tell him, jabbing a thumb towards my unit. As though he needed the information when he had been sleeping peacefully before you decided to disturb him, the cheeky devil in me snickered. Bowing slightly, I continued, "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

Without looking back up at him, I pivoted on my heels to go back to my apartment, but was pulled to a stop. Frozen in place, I turned to the hand on my arm, following it through a toned arm and up to a handsome face.

I knew he looked good, based from what I could make out from the dim lighting the nearby post provided, but out here, with more light illuminating his features, it truly made me wish the concrete would somehow open up and swallow me whole from sheer mortification.

Here I was, grimy, stressed and exhausted, with mascara and tears staining my face, while this man looks like he walked straight out of an Abercrombie billboard. He had dark locks of hair, spiky and cropped, a prominent nose that's a little crooked, probably broken once or twice, a strong jaw, and his eyes- they were green, but not much, more like a mix of brown and green- and they were beautiful. He is beautiful.

I could feel my breath get caught in my chest, at the same time my heart began thudding loudly. It physically hurt to look at this beautiful person, even in the poor light of a street lamp. I must've stared a little too long because he was frowning again, eyebrows scrunching together. "Y-yes?" I squeaked.

"The cat," he said, looking at my arms still crossed on my chest.

"The cat?" I repeated, following his gaze. I was met with a pair of blue eyes gleaming in the dark. I jumped, effectively pulling my arm out of his grasp. "Right! The cat!" I exclaimed, my nerves making me laugh.

"Sorry about that," I tell him as I shifted my hold on the cat, ready to pass it to his waiting arms.

All of a sudden, the cat hissed, quickly followed by a shout of pain as the cat jumped out of reach and ran straight back to my apartment. Before I could fully process what happened, Mr. Iwaizumi was hot on his tail, bolting down the hall towards my apartment.

"Wait!" I called after him, catching up as quickly as I could while he stood frozen by my doorstep.

Stopping at his side, I watched as his eyes slowly took in the state of my apartment, his expression getting dimmer and dimmer the longer he looked around.

To simply call it a mess was an understatement. From the scattered shoes, scratched sofa and pillows, ripped curtains, broken stems and shattered pots, you'd think this was a crime scene, with paw prints on soil as evidence.

You!" he barked, jolting me out of my reverie from the mess I call my apartment. I followed his line of sight, stopping at the slimy little bastard who caused this disaster.

We all froze, me, him and the cat, locked in a staredown before the cheeky demon, seemingly smirking at us from his high throne, thrust a paw at the sole survivor of his havoc, my domino cactus perched on my countertop, pushing it on its side. As the pot rolled side to side, Mr. Cuddles skipped away from view, leaving me and Mr. Iwaizumi holding our breath as the pot continued its motion.

"No!" I screamed when the pot started to teeter over the edge, slapping my hands over my eyes to save me from the heart-wrenching sight.

The sound of ceramic breaking didn't reach my ears. Instead, a loud groan echoed through the apartment, followed by a string of curses that filled the deafening silence of the night. It took me seconds before gaining the courage to sneak a peek. What I saw made my breath and my heart to stutter, feeling electrified by some current that made me feel all jittery inside.

Mr. Iwaizumi was lying down on the messy floor, hand outstretched and holding the plant safely in his hand.

Wait, the plant?

I watched as he used his free hand to push himself to a sitting position, groaning with the effort. Once seated, he took the pot with his other hand, hissing in pain as his palm is freed from the sharp thorns of the cactus.

"Shit," he cursed out loud, groaning as he flexed his right hand, assessing the damage the plant has done.

"Shit," I echoed.

-

I am back from the dungeons of life with this ancient draft I have on my notes. I know I still have works in progress but this one wanted to come out sooner than later. Thanks for stopping by!

[witchersmistress]

The road to Hell

Hello my darlings!! this man almost, ended back in the punishment room!

Trigger warnings: age gasp, foul language sassy FMC, forced marriage

Word Count: 2.7 K

Amelia’s POV

Your wedding day is supposed to be one of the most exciting days of your life. Just like my mother, I’m about to marry a man I didn’t choose and who I don’t love. I actually despise him and everything he represents—money, greed, and power are just a few of them. My mother hates my father, but there was nothing either one of them could do. Their fate was decided, their destiny sealed. Same as mine. Same as my children’s. And my grandchildren’s. We are bred for the sole purpose of power. Control in numbers. Fuck that!

Women in my world—the secret society of the Ravens—should not reproduce. I don’t want children. The cycle will end with me. It has to.  The Ravens will only find a way to use its members. They marry us off to ensure we add to their army. The next generation of Ravens and Ravenia will help them take over the world.  Phil though he was so smart and allowed me to see a  Raven approved Drs only, well the joke was on him, that particular doc, i saw his wife instead who was a fellow Ravenia and a Nurse practitioner. By the end of my first appointment, I had an IUD and that idiot was none the wiser. I’ll be damned if I allow them to have any say over a son or daughter I'll never have.

 I stand in the middle of the room, overlooking the white dress in the mirrored wall, running my hand down the mulberry silk—some of the finest silk available in the world. I take in a deep breath. It cost a whopping two million. Two million dollars for a fucking dress? My soon-to-be husband had it custom-made by a designer in France. I know this because my mother reminds me every chance she gets. Why would I get to pick out something so important in my life? That’s insane, right? Give that money to charity, or he'll let me loose in a bookstore, not that i could spend two million dollars but i'll try like hell.

 To think I should have any say in what I wear on the day I give my life to another. It’s as if she thinks his wealth will impress me. It’s blood money. I know this because it’s the same fortune I grew up with. I never did want the finer things in life. I know a poor person would roll their eyes at that statement, but it’s true. Give me a beer, a cheap hoodie, and a hat to hide my three-day old mop of bleach-blond hair, and I’m happy. But no. That’s unacceptable. The one percent aren’t allowed to look anything less than perfect. Not in public anyway. I’m surprised they even let us speak. We as women might as well walk around with duct tape over our mouths dressed in nothing but chains. A Raven needs a Ravenia but not because of the reasons you may think. It’s a way to hide who he really is. He’ll have fucks all over the world, but we’re expected to cook, clean, and spread our legs for him when he’s home. Worship him like he’s God himself and birth his children. I’ve never been religious, and I’m not going to fall to my knees and start worshiping a man now.  

My brother comes up behind me, his eyes scanning over my dress in the mirror. “At least he has good taste.” I roll my eyes. “As if that matters.” “Just pop out some kids and get fat.” He shrugs. “Then he’ll screw anyone but you. Oh! Hire a hot, much younger nanny.” He nods to himself. “Let me try her out first, though. Make sure she’s good enough.” His words just prove that all Ravens are the same. He’s been a Raven for years but has yet to marry. He has the privilege of fucking his way around the world while I’m forced to sign my life away. A cell rings, and he pulls it out of his tuxedo jacket to answer. “Hello?” Sighing, I pick up the dress and walk over to the stained glass window. You can’t see shit out of it. This place is ancient. The Cathedral is to a Raven as a church is to a religion—their sanctum. It holds a hundred years of secrets like a sarcophagus encloses a mummy. 

It was handed down to them years ago—a place to perform their sick and twisted rituals. There’s nothing fancy or special about it, if you ask me. I could be walking down the aisle in blue jeans and a T-shirt or lingerie. Doesn’t matter. Not all Ravens and Ravenia are required to wed here. But it’s where my future husband picked. Our parents wanted it to be as traditional as possible. It’s a bullshit reason. They just want to make a spectacle of handing me over to him. We might as well be standing in a courtroom with a judge sentencing me to life in prison without the chance of parole for a crime I didn’t commit. I place my hand on the cold glass, listening to the rain fall. It’s been storming for the past two days. It's like the world knows I've been destined for a lifetime of servitude to a man I'd rather kill than kneel and suck his dick. 

I blame my mother. She raised me to be strong-willed and determined. But now, I’m just supposed to turn it off and believe that I'm to devote my life to a man that will neglect me during the day but demand I spread my legs at night. I won’t accept that. I deserve more. I want more. My brother ends his call, getting my attention, and looks at me. “We have a problem,” he states. My whole life is a fucking problem. “What?” “Phil is missing.” I snort. “Don’t toy with me like that.” That’s not a problem; that’s a prayer answered. “I’m serious.” He swallows, looking around the large room nervously as if Phil’s going to appear out of thin air. “He’s not here. He never arrived. He’s also not at his house. He’s missing. No one has seen him.” “I’m not sure why that’s a problem.” I don’t want to marry the sick bastard. Phil Buxton is the highest-ranking Raven you can come by, which just makes this even worse. Ravens are like anything else in this world. You have some at the bottom, and others at the top. There are different tiers. 

But honestly, it doesn’t matter; they’re all sick fucking bastards who will kill anyone to get to where they are. Even the bottom feeders will destroy anything to get a chance at serving. He steps over to me. “Amelia …” The door opens, and my father enters with my mother. I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m guessing this good fortune has nothing to do with you two?” My mother’s injected lips seem to thin a tad at my comment. She’s told me a million times that this is just the life we live. That it’s a “tradition” and I just have to accept it. That as far as Raven and Ravenia goes, we’re royalty. Bull-fucking-shit. I’d rather be someone’s bitch than a Raven’s Ravenia. My father, however, stares at the floor while running a hand through his dark hair. “Daddy?” I step over to him, holding my dress in my hands so I don’t step on the hem. “What’s going on?” His throat works, swallowing before his eyes find mine. There’s a look of regret in them, and hope fills my chest. Maybe he’s realized that I don’t want this life. He clears his throat. “I just received a call …” “Please tell me you did this—called off my wedding?” I rush out, my words hopeful. “I’m sorry, Amelia, but the wedding is still on.” He sighs. And what little hope I had is now smothered. “But Dylan said Phil’s missing.” I point at my brother. Had my father received the same phone call that my brother did? Or was it someone else? “You are no longer to wed Phil.” He yanks on the collar of his tux. Picking up the dress so I don’t trip over it in my six-inch hooker heels—that my soon-to-be husband also picked out—I take a step back, my heart picking up speed. This is good news. Why does he look so concerned? “I don’t understand. If he’s not here—” “A new Raven has chosen you,” he interrupts me. My mother places her hand over her mouth, trying to quiet a sob. “No,” I argue. “That can’t be.” It was decided that Phil would be my husband when I was eighteen—three years ago. 

Things like this aren’t just changed at the last minute. I’ve lived the past few years preparing for this day. To be his wife. What he wanted. A Raven can’t choose to marry me, not when I’m already promised to another. “Who?” my brother demands. “Who in the hell would make this change?” He fists his hands at his sides. I reach up and grab the pearls my mother gave me. She thought they would give me some kind of comfort, and I laughed, but now I hold on to them as if they’re an anchor to a lifeline. “I—” The door swings open once again, this time hitting the interior wall and making me jump. A set of baby-blue eyes meet mine, and my stomach drops. The wind knocked out of me. I haven’t seen them in years, but they’ve haunted my dreams ever since.

Three years ago

 “Where is she?” my mother demands, entering the hospital. She received a phone call that my sister was brought in tonight, but no other information was given. “Ma’am—” “Where is my daughter?” she screams at the nurse, pounding on the check-in desk. I turn around to see my sister’s boyfriend walking toward us. His white T-shirt and jeans are covered in blood, and my chest tightens to the point it restricts my air. My mom’s legs give out when she sees him. “N-o,” she chokes, placing her shaking hand over her mouth. Walter catches her and holds her body to his, but his baby-blue eyes meet mine, sending a chill down my spine so cold, it’s paralyzing. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “She’s gone.” 

“Walter,” my brother growls, shoving me to the side and pulling me out of that memory, and steps in front of me.

[weaksspot]

sam splinting dean's broken fingers for @preseriesdean <3 (read on ao3)

In some grimy gas station bathroom mirror Dean stares down his reflection until he can’t stand it a second longer. His fist goes through the glass and right into the brick wall behind it. The angle is bad and there’s the snap of two fingers breaking, but no pain. No pain as he picks out the little shards of glass and flecks of grit and drops them into the sink, turns the water on, a swirl of blood chasing the pieces down the drain.

He tapes the broken fingers—right hand, little and ring—to each other with duct tape from the trunk of the car, tears it off the roll with his teeth. He drives back to the bunker barely touching the wheel. It still doesn’t hurt.

Sam doesn’t see him till the next morning, when he catches him by the coffee maker, both of them still kind of bleary. Neither one of them’s been sleeping much, not for weeks. Sam mumbles hey, Dean, without really looking at him, and Dean hms back, goes on pouring himself his coffee.

Then Sam asks, quietly: “What happened to your hand?”

For a second Dean just stands there not saying anything. Thinks about saying nothing, not answering at all, just going. Even being in a room with Sam just now—he can stand it, because he has to, but it’s—difficult. Some days are worse than others.

“Dean?”

He looks down at his hand. His knuckles are swollen and scabbed over and there’s still blood between his fingers, in the creases of his skin, because he slept in his clothes last night, didn’t shower. It looks like it should hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt.

“Nothing,” he says, feeling Sam’s eyes burning into his back. “Just hit something too hard, it’s fine.”

“Let me see,” Sam says, not really a question, not quite a plea.

“I said it’s fine.” Dean turns to go and Sam is closer than he’d thought, just behind him—Dean turns and almost knocks into him and it’s just about the closest they’ve been to each other all week.

Sam grabs his wrist and the contact fizzes under Dean’s skin. Crawls right up his arm. Sam’s skin on his skin. Jesus fucking Christ he misses him, and he sees him every god damn day. He stands there and stares at Sam’s hand while Sam looks at his taped up fingers, his busted knuckles. His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

“Dean, I need to splint these properly,” he says. His voice is steady but there’s something in it that makes Dean’s throat hurt, scratchy at the back. “They’re gonna heal crooked.”

“What’s it matter,” comes out of Dean’s mouth without him really meaning to let it. Sam doesn’t say anything but he exhales slowly, that zen yoga breath shit he does when he’s trying to keep his temper. What are you mad at me for now, Dean wants to ask him, but doesn’t. Sam is still holding his wrist and Dean can feel his own pulse under Sam’s thumb.

“Come here,” Sam says, and steers him, by the wrist, to the table. “Sit down.”

Dean sits. Sam leaves the room just long enough to get a first aid kit, comes back and sits down beside him, scoots his chair over so their knees are almost touching. Not long ago Dean would’ve knocked them together on purpose, or slung a leg over Sam’s, maybe, if he was in that kind of mood. Now he twitches his leg to the side to avoid it, even as Sam reaches for his hand again, lifts it up and sets it on the table as if Dean wouldn’t be capable of doing that himself.

Sam’s got tweezers in his hand and he starts on picking the little bits of dirt out of Dean’s knuckles that Dean had missed, the tiny pieces that are stuck in deep. Dislodging them makes him bleed all over again, breaks open scabs that had spent the night forming, and Sam all calm and steady mops the blood away and goes on working. He uses scissors to cut away the duct tape, so he doesn’t hurt Dean’s broken fingers by pulling on it.

It hurts anyway. For the first time, now, here, with Sam handling him so carefully. Now it hurts.

“Ouch,” he murmurs, as Sam real careful cleans up the surface damage first, alcohol stinging the scraped-off skin. As he fits the splint to Dean’s fingers the bones shift and pain shoots up right into his wrist, so sudden the shock of it makes him jerk. Sam squeezes his wrist to keep him still and goes on working until Dean says, breathless, “Sammy, you’re hurting me.”

Sam lets go of him altogether and Dean looks up at him, for the first time this morning, and sees him put his hands over his face. Watches his shoulders shudder as he breathes in. Then he takes his hands away and for just an instant Dean is afraid he might be crying. He isn’t. He looks Dean in the face, steady, and says: “We’re almost done.”

No answer from Dean, so he goes back to what he was doing—secures the splint, tapes gauze over Dean’s knuckles, and Dean sits there with his whole hand throbbing with pain and it’s the realest sharpest thing he’s felt in an age and for just a second he wishes, fleetingly, that he could stay here and go on feeling it and not have to go back to—to the constant fear, to the guilt that feels like a bear trap is crushing his throat all the god damn time, so huge and unfaceable that guilt feels like far too small a word for it. To the dead nerve numbness that consumes all the rest.

Let him have this glowing pain instead, and the warmth of his brother’s careful hands.

Anything else. Let him have anything else.

“There,” Sam says, when he’s done, and Dean looks at him and there’s that rock in the pit of his stomach as he thinks, he’s not ever gonna love me the same way again. Dean looks at his brother and knows he’s looking at something that he’s broken beyond repair. Sam looks—pensive, hesitant, like there’s something he wants to say but hasn’t decided if he’s going to yet. It’s a look he wears often, lately, and most of the time he doesn’t end up saying anything. They don’t talk a lot, these days. What would there be to say.

Sam is still holding his wrist, and Dean misses him like his chest is caving in.

He lifts Dean’s hand, then, and without reason, without warning, presses his knuckles to his lips and kisses him there, just once, over the gauze, with his eyes closed. Then he lets go and gets up and puts away the first aid kit, and leaves the room without a word, and Dean sits there where Sam leaves him, and the pain is unbearable, and there is nothing he can do but bear it.

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

Track Marks And Dial Tones IV

Summary: A cigarette smoked in the dead of night comes back to bite you…

Pairing: Clay Roach x fem!cop!Reader

Word Count: - 2.1k

Content Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat 18+!, We're Back On The Angst Train, Mentions Of (Past) Self-Harm, Crying, Clay's Dirty AF Flat, Mentions Of Used Needles And Drug Paraphernalia, Mentions Of Withdrawal, Agent Rohr Being Agent Asshole

A/N: *sits down with a grilled cheese sandwich and strawberry milk*

Find The Other Parts Here!

Tagging the horde:

@crypticsewerslut @quicksilversg1rl @cc-luvr @icarus-star @milaeth @roryculkinsgf @spookyorchid @arch1viste @whoareyoi @angelsanarchy @blueberrypancakesworld @rocketqueen-world @r0ttenmess @doddernix @svgarcaine @amayalul @basementgrl222 @kristennero-wallacewellsver @iiheartsai @fan-goddess

Love like a needle full of methadone

Potent but not real, left you wanting more

Lipstick track-marks bleeding wet

Like Montagues and Capulets

For us child, the stars refuse to shine

Why for us child, do the stars refuse to shine?

- Methadone By Rise Against

"Time to unfuck this hellhole…" You sighted to yourself, the seams of a pair of thick nitrile gloves tight around your wrists, as you crouched down to shove piles of rubbish into a blackened trash bag.

Involuntarily, memories of this morning, from mere hours ago, flooded your mind because you had knelt down just the same in front of your wardrobe, shoving t-shirts and left-behind shorts from your ex into a gray duffle bag. The bare necessities to drop Clay off at rehab with, before you could pick up some preferably more personal things for him later in the afternoon. Cleaning out his flat alone would pose as a multiple-day-endeavor for which you had called in sick. It hadn't exactly felt like lying to you because you indeed felt sick to some degree. Sick with worry, sick with anxiety and sick with sheer uncertainty about what kind of situation you had conjured for Clay and yourself.

You felt the fuse short-circuiting inside of your brain way before you could do anything against it and with it, a violent rush of hot tears spilled from your tear ducts, soaking your cheeks in no time.

"God, you're so stupid, girl.", You taunted yourself, your torso involuntarily leaning in further forward until your forehead touched down on the dusty, wooden panels, "All you had to do was drive him to fucking rehab, but no, you just had to mess it up."

Your own sore voice echoed back, cutting through you over and over again as heavy droplets pooled down from the tip of your nose. Breathless cries and poorly choked-back sobs rattled through your ribcage and your entire body gradually felt like falling apart in this self-made misery.

"Pathetic…", You sniffled, clawing your shaking hands around your chest, a desperate attempt to physically keep yourself together, "Pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic!"

For a moment, you sensed the pressing urge to just hammer your head against the floor until the bodily pain would wash over the emotional one. For a split second, you considered it, raising your forehead from the wooden panels whilst closing your burning eyes but instead of thudding it down the way your senses told you to, you halted, stifled even your shallow breaths for a moment.

No, that wouldn't be what Clay wanted you to do right now. He wouldn't want you breaking down over the ridiculous, anxiety-driven nightmares your brain was spewing out like venom for they were nothing but a panicked, blown out of proportion fever dream.

"It'll be okay, it'll be fine…" Trying to bounce right back from the pit of darkness that threatened to swallow you whole, you took a deep breath and sat back up against your heels, arms still tightly wrapped around your torso.

Reluctantly, you raised one palm to your face, wiping it clean from the spill of tears and snot before you inhaled again, reaching for the trash bag and continued on your tedious journey through seemingly endless amounts of clutter and debris.

The hallway for sure wasn't even the worst part. That spot of dubious fame was reserved for Clay's "living room". Careful, avid to not just clutch down right into a hidden away needle, you skimmed through every accumulation of litter with utmost attention to everything, discarding orange plastic caps and syringes alike into a hard plastic container while sorting the plenty of used-up test strips into the general waste.

"Good lord…" You commented on your findings with a murmur, your mind trying to piece together just how many test kits and clean rigs you'd brought him over the past months.

It really must've been quite the amount. All that shit better be gone after detox was over. Just to make sure that this wouldn't just pose as a massive violation of Clay's private space, you had asked him about it on the way to rehab, as he stared out of the window of your car with watery eyes, while the first treacherous, tell-tale droplets of sweat had started to soak through the collar of his shirt.

"You don't have to do that, you know that." Clay had answered to you, his leg nervously bouncing up and down at an erratic pace.

"Yeah, but I want to help you, you know that, too." You had tried to work up a faint smile but it was more of a weirdly lopsided contraction of your lips.

"Don't you think that you've already done more than enough of that? That's more than I'd ever ask for…" Clay had cleared his throat while he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Well, then, good that you aren't asking for it, huh? I'm offering it and all I need to know is that it's okay with you." You led your car to turn right after a crossing, eventually turning into a long avenue leading uphill toward the facility.

"I don't think you'd find anything you haven't seen already. So yeah, thank you." He had agreed with a short nod of his head, his eyes flickering right back to the building that slowly came into view.

With that, he had sealed himself the deal of a clean place to start anew after making it through detox, which would be a journey he’d have to take on his own.

Taking a deep breath whilst sitting back on your heels, your eyes wandered towards the pile of empty strawberry milk cartons in the corner. You pondered over tackling them today, but just the thought of dealing with that desolate kitchen situation led your stomach to twist and turn in disgust. Yeah, no, decluttering the hallway plus the most part of the living room had to be enough for a start.

The late autumn sun hung low as you drove back home, stopping by a pharmacy to get yourself something to deal with the anxiety-fueled nausea. You also bought a few sets of sweatpants and matching hoodies to drop them off at the rehab center tomorrow. Both of your hands filled with your car keys and shopping bags, you let the door to the driver seat fall shut behind you after parking.

"Good afternoon!" You whirled your head towards your doorsteps so hard that you heard your neck cracking.

"Agent Rohr?" Your brows arched in confusion and an unwell feeling started to settle in your stomach.

This man meant nothing but bad news and you avoided him as far as possible. Agent Rohr was an animal, a raging, self-righteous bear that not only roared but simply destroyed what wasn't to his liking.

"Little trip to the pharmacy, I see?" The gray-haired man in his 50s nodded towards the crinkled, brown paper bag in your grasp.

"I'm a bit nauseous, yes.", You strode past him, fumbling with your keys to unlock the door, "What do you want, Agent?"

"Oh, I heard you called in sick today and I just wanted to make sure it's nothing too bad. Heavy case of the flu going 'round the PD lately." The sarcasm practically dripped out of every word that left his slightly curled up lips.

"I should be back to normal in just a few days, thank you." You sneered back, wanting nothing more but to get him out of your sight.

"Does the name Clay Roach ring any bell with you, detective? The dirty junkie from the corner with the cheap diner downtown?" He eventually started shooting his verbal ammunition, causing the hairs at the nape of your neck to perk up.

"He works as my informant, why?" Your fingers clasped themselves around the key in your hand, the scratched metal of Clay's apartment key dangling right next to yours started to burn against your skin.

"We might want to have a little talk about him, if you'd be so kind as to let me in." Agent Rohr pushed against the door with the tip of his boot, forcing it to swing open with you waddling right behind it, not letting go of the key chain.

"Thank you!" He mocked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trench coat as he waltzed right into your kitchen to sit down at the table.

"Fucking bastard…" You groaned to yourself under your breath, trying to soothe your racing thoughts from spiraling out of control again.

Caly…what was going on? Did he break out of rehab or something and why would Agent Rohr even so much as move a finger about that?

"Suit yourself." You huffed at the man, sitting down across from him after closing the door back shut behind you.

"So!", He let one flattened palm hit onto the table, making you flinch involuntarily, "Clay, huh?"

"Pardon?" In a weak attempt to shield yourself from his greasy demeanor, you crossed your arms over your chest.

"Did the heroin dick get you off good?" Rohr nearly spat every word with nothing but I'll intention towards you, his other hand excitedly roaming through an inside pocket of his coat.

"Excuse me?!" You shot back at him, your stomach dropping in panic.

"I'm wondering if he could even get one up, did he?", Grinning widely to himself, he pulled a stack of pictures from the pocket, placing one after the other right in front of you, "Little fucked out lovebirds."

You recognized how your eyes wandered over a well-familiar setting captured out of a different perspective whilst everything in you grew cold as the bomb of fear detonated in your system.

"You know, a while ago I looked at the inventory lists, annoying paperwork but every once in a while I gotta check 'em, and I realized that a truly wild amount of test kits and sterile needles weren't there anymore. Plus, someone from the street worker personnel asked me if I possibly knew where all this was going? So, I started looking around a little bit and what did my eyes have to see?" He tapped the picture that was taken right in the moment you had leaned in to press a kiss to Clay's lips the night before.

"What's even up with all those scars, ew." In a mockingly disgusted grimace, Rohr taunted you.

"None of this is any of your goddamn business. If you want me to pay the department for all the supplies, fine. Done deal." You eventually answered to him.

"I don't think you're getting away with just that, missy.", He chuckled, making himself comfortable on his chair, "Petty theft and a juicy violation of your code of conduct? Hm, the HR commission won't be a fan of that, I'm sure."

"Are you blackmailing me, Rohr?" You clenched your jaws, teeth grinding against each other.

"Looks like it, no? You really kinda got yourself in a situation here now." You stared at each other for a moment, your heart raging in your chest.

“You are really blackmailing me over applying harm reduction to my informant?” Rohr nodded while he let out a biting laugh.

“You call it harm reduction and I see petty theft and fucking a junkie. Tough luck.” The Agent shrugged his shoulders in amusement.

“What do you want from me then, huh? What’s in it for you?” You felt like pouncing him to gauge his eyes out or to strangle him for that stupid grin on his face to disappear.

“Ooooh, I thought about that!”, His eyes bore into yours, a glint of malevolence flickering through them, “I think, I just wanna fuck around a little, get that heroin dick outta you. You’re a fine woman and your file is squeaky clean. Would be a shame for somebody to ruin that, no?”

“Get out of my house.” Your voice turned aggressive and loud.

“Think about it.”

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE NOW!”

[stilespeters]

As the world caves in

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

pairing: the evans x reader

a/n: im sleepy. also, i changed kit to tate, dont worry, kit is still gonna make a cameo!! i just thought tate fitted better for the story:)

words: 3485

summary: you meet an unusual group of people in the post-apocalypse.

warnings: guns? mentions of Justin Biebers hair, brief talks about zombies, carjacking

part 2: meet the Anderson's

You walked on the hill, climbing your way down to the scrawny building, and when you wanted to round the corner to the entrance, you stopped in your tracks as you heard commotion. That can’t be true right? As long as you remembered, Geeks weren’t able to talk. So only one conclusion came to your mind.

It were humans.

Your first instinct told you danger.

Raiders.

Immediately a little voice in your head screamed at you to make a run for it as you heard they were males, and you backed away a little to make sure they wouldn't be able to see you behind the wall. You carefully grabbed your shotgun, and sucked in a deep breath as your heart rate seemed to quicken. When you tried to analyze their voices, you heard they sounded quite young. You wouldn't let their young sounding voices define the people that were there. For all you knew, they were really Raiders, and the second you’d show yourself, they’d rob you. There weren't many left of the nice people in the world, so why would they?

But curiosity took over as you wanted to take a quick peek at the humans a few feet away, and you leaned a bit forward when you took a step closer.

Four boys were surrounded by a black jeep, and they all looked similar, which made you believe they were probably brothers.

Your eyes were immediately drawn towards the vehicle, and you wondered if they drove here with it. If they did, then maybe the car would still work, which is like gold. Having a working vehicle was probably the best thing you could have in the apocalypse. Another thing you noticed was that there was a ski box on top of the car, and you figured that must be where they put their stuff. It almost looked as if they were on a road trip.

Your eyes then diverted back to the brothers.

The first one that caught your attention was a guy with blue hair and a spear in his hands. The other one wore a black t-shirt, which was odd since it was winter and he had a machete in his hands. You gripped your weapon tighter at the sight of the weapons. Everything about the group screamed that they could hurt you.

Machete and Blue looked the oldest of the group. Then there were two boys who looked exactly the same, only one had his hair silver, and the other one had hair that screamed Justin Bieber. Silver wore a black jacket, and Bieber wore a black sweater with green stripes. Bieber had a crossbow in his hands and Silver had a silver baseball bat in his hands. lt matched his hair.

Taking another look at them, you noticed another thing that was gnawing at you. All of their haircuts seemed to be perfectly styled and all of their shirts were clean too. Not one sprinkle of dirt covered their outfits. Something didn't add up. It felt odd.

It didn't help that Silver had an apple in his hand. How the fuck do you manage to get an apple in the post apocalypse? It’s probably because they are from a colony.

You still peeked from behind the wall and could feel your legs were shaking as you stuck out your ass to get a better look at the group. Walking for the whole day was exhausting, since you spent most days inside your Safe Zone. You only went out for supply runs. That’s why your cardio wasn't the best, even though you tried to stay fit as much as possible. Luckily all Geeks are slow in the day time, so you wouldn't have to be afraid they'll catch up to you. Humans however, could easily outrun you.

Silver started talking to Blue, who was busy duct taping something in the jeep. And you saw that Machete and Bieber weren't there anymore. You guessed they went inside the gas station.

You could faintly hear Blue curse, and Silver was visibly annoyed. Blue ignored him as he focused on the car only.

“Kai, if you’d just-” Silver reached out for the jeep which was a big mistake.

“-Hands off my jeep.” Blue -apparently Kai scolded him and slapped his hand away with more fierceness than you had ever seen. It made you realize Blue seemed to have some sort of bond with the jeep, and Silver rolled his eyes Blue walked to the entrance of the building. At the same time, Bieber walked out and Silver looked annoyed yet again at the sight.

“Hey Peter, bring me your bat, there is a Geek here. A slow one.”

You raised your eyebrows. Don’t they know all of the Geeks were always slow in the daytime? So why did they have to add the word ‘slow’ to it? It seems completely unnecessary. As if you’re saying ‘white snow’.

Silver- apparently named Peter, scoffed, “For the last time, Tate, I’m not giving you my bat. You’ll probably break her. Rosa is too important to me.” If you didn’t know the context about Rosa being a bat, you would’ve thought it was a person.

Justin Bieber- apparently Tate, threw his hands in the air. “Forget I asked about the bat… but dude, look around. There is literally no one, you're being paranoid over nothing. And why would I break such an old, ugly and-”

“-Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Tate. I’m already coming.” Peter didn’t spare a second look at Tate, and Peter walked to the front to give him the bat. They then walked together inside the shop, and when you were sure no one was looking, you made your way sneaking to the Jeep. You opened the door and went inside.

The key was still in the slot on the steering column and you thanked whoever was up there for your luck. Usually luck was never on your side, so it was nice to finally get something in return. It’s a shame that the brothers seemed kind of nice, because now you’ll have their jeep and their stuff. It might feel wrong, but like you said before. It was everyone for themselves. If Raiders are allowed to raid, then so were you.

You laid your shotgun in the seat next to you, started the ignition and…

“Get out of the car!”

Fuck.

You froze at the voice, until the passenger door violently opened. You jerked your head to the side to meet eyes with Blue and he looked surprised.

You didn’t even hold eye contact for a second before you came to your senses and grabbed the shotgun that lay next to you, pointing it at Blue who stood on the other side, and he seemed startled as he backed away.

You kicked the driver door open, running around the car to aim your gun at the stranger. The time you took kicking open the door and running towards him gave him about 4 seconds time to get into action, but it wasn’t enough since he stumbled on the ground, headed for the entrance when you already caught up to him.

“Freeze!” He froze, slowly turning around and facing you, his hands in defeat in the air. He looked rather annoyed, like he wasn’t impressed, and his brothers seemed to notice what’s going on outside as they ran outside.

“Kai, what is happe-” The front one saw everything first and halted, spreading his arms so that the other two next to him stopped as well. You aimed your gun at the three, still keeping sight of the boy named Kai.

Tate had the crossbow in his hands, and immediately shot at you, but as you closed your eyes for a split second, nothing hurt. Instead, he hit the side of the jeep, ricocheting against the side. You aimed your gun at him, which made him put his crossbow on the ground. Machete placed his weapon on the ground and raised his hands in the air. Peter did the same.

You then gestured with your gun for them to stand next to Kai, and when all four of them were in line, you didn’t know which person to point it at. So eventually you decided to just aim it at the same person. Which was Kai, ‘cause unlike the other boys, his facial expression seemed to be the most calm, so you wanted to make sure he didn’t plan on trying to do something stupid.

“Put the gun down, woman.” His voice sounded annoyed and frustratingly deep.

“No.”

He sighed, taking a step closer but when you cocked your head to the side and dared him with your eyes, he took a step back.

“Look, you don’t want to do this, just put the shotgun down and let us leave, or you’ll regret it.”

“Sorry, but I need that car and your weapons.”

Talking about the bat seemingly made Peter angry and he pointed an accusing finger at you. “Don’t you dare!” He then looked at the bat on the ground. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll make sure she won’t touch you.” He yelled it with all his heart. It made you frown. Peter just looked upset, making you shake your head and inspect the brothers again.

You needed to make sure there weren’t more people with them. For all you know they live nearby and they’ll warn their colony which makes you a target. And since you weren't in a colony it made you vulnerable since you were alone. You couldn’t afford a search party for you because they wanted revenge.

“What are your next plans? From where did you- wait,” You took a careful step forward, sniffing all of them as they stared at you in confusion. “Is that cologne I smell? What- Where did you come from.”

They looked at each other, seemingly debating something with just their gazes. It caught your eye, and you already knew that the next answer was well calculated. Meaning it would probably be a lie.

“We’re alone.”

You scoffed. Bullshit, they were definitely from somewhere. You didn't know if they think you were stupid, but if they do, they’re horribly wrong.

“You really want me to believe that? I doubt it, you don’t just come here smelling like a flower and having clean clothes if you’re not from a colony. Besides, Kai and Machete have a perfectly shaved beard. So, I’m gonna ask you again. Where are you headed and where are you from?” You swayed your gun tauntingly and Machete cleared his throat when he realized you talked about him. “It’s Colin.”

You rolled your eyes and ignored him.

“Peter.” He looked up at your shotgun, and he gulped at the sight.

“Where did you get that apple?” He simply blinked as he kept looking down at your weapon.

“The grocery store?”

You could see the other three brothers facepalm. But it set a smile on your lips as your theory was proven true. There were grocery stores in colonies and they sold products like apples who were harvested. Which meant that they were indeed in a colony so they lied to you. Which also meant that you couldn’t trust the words that would come out of their mouth next.

The boy seemed smart enough to see your thought process, and sighed in defeat as he closed his eyes. “We got kicked out.”

“How in god's name did you manage to do that?” You looked puzzled. Getting kicked out of a colony is one of the worst punishments, and it's also really rare.

Kai rolled his eyes and Peter started talking again.

“We got kicked because this idiot right here, wanted to leave the colony for some girl named Violet and literally left the Colony grounds, twice might I add! Thank you very much. Oh and also because this prick started a fucking cult,”

“It’s not a fucking cult.” Kai interjected but Peter rolled his eyes.

“We were lucky they didn’t threw us out at the start of this shithell. I can’t tell you how many times we almost got kicked out. This time the decision of the Council was final, and we had to leave. Luckily they let us have my Rosa. The only unproblematic thing in the world, me included of course.”

“Shut up idiot.” Tate hit the back of his head and Peter looked insulted as he rubbed the spot.

Colin looked down, thinking about something before he spoke up.

“How about you, are you in a colony?”

You didn’t expect that question. You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, wanting to say something but before you had a chance to do so, Kai rudely rolled his eyes.

“Can’t you see it? She smells like shit, of course she doesn’t have a colony.”

Your shotgun was immediately pointed at Kai, and your face was almost red out of anger. They didn’t know what sacrifices you had to make to get here. They didn’t know what you had to do to survive to get here. They didn’t know anything.

He then decided to go one step further by lowering his hands and crossing them over his chest. “Look little girl, that gun probably isn’t even load-.” You aimed your weapon at his head, cocking it before he could finish his sentence.

“Wanna try that theory out?”

“Do it.” He spat back, and it felt like you were in one of those western movies where it was the question who was gonna pull out their gun first. With a zoom in on both eyes for dramatic effect. Only this time, you were the only one with the weapon, you were the one with all the power, which felt good.

“Woah woah woah, easy Kai.” Colin tried to calm down the situation as he looked between you two, but you still weren't convinced with their intentions.

“What? We can figure out inside of twenty seconds whether or not you have what it takes to pull the trigger, if you wanted to shoot us you would’ve. You clearly want something else from us, otherwise you would've already taken our car and driven off.”

“Kai You’re gonna get us killed. Shut up.” Colin snarled at Kai, and he then put on a friendly face with a hint of sweat as he turned back to look at you. “My name is Colin like I previously said, this is Kai, Tate and Peter.” Peter waved at you as je smiled. “We’re from nowhere okay, we're traveling. Just give us the keys and we’ll be out of here in a matter of seconds. We won't harm you.”

Besides the ignorant little shit with the name Kai, the rest of the brothers seemed reasonable and decent. They didn’t look like Raiders. And for a split second after inspecting the group again, you thought of leaving them with their stuff. After all, if it were you, you also would've wanted someone to let you go. However, you had only gotten a few canned food and you didn't have much left in your Safe zone. If the situation was reversed, they’d probably leave with your stuff as well.

You wanted them to survive, but you needed the car and their stuff as well.

So you did the most reasonable thing.

“Alright, hands in the air and walk backwards, slowly. Unless you want this pretty boy here to join the rest of the Geeks in NowhereLand.”

“‘Pretty boy?” Kai said it with an amused tone, but you rolled your eyes and gritted your teeth. “I wasn’t talking about you, dimwit. Now do as I say and walk back slowly until I say you can stop.”

Peter seemed to want to protest but Colin shushed him and so the four boys held up their hands as they slowly stepped back until you were satisfied.

After they moved back far enough, you hesitated whether or not to take their weapons. You didn’t want them to try anything stupid. Then again, you knew night time was about to fall soon, so taking their weapons would most likely take away all their chances of survival. You decided to be reasonable and at least let them have something to defend themselves. 'Cause even though they were sketchy, they seemed decent. You weren't a total bitch.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I just need the ride.”

With that, you walked around the jeep, still facing the boys, and you got in and started the ignition. You couldn’t stop yourself from looking one more time in the rear view mirror, and you saw the four of them were already running towards you the second her gun was hidden. But you were faster, and you could see the brothers getting smaller and smaller as you drove away.

-

“Great, seriously great. Now we lost our ticket to Paradise. We’re not even a day in and we already got carjacked.” Tate threw his hands in the air, kicking a lost rock on the road. Which made Peter annoyed, and he looked at his brother, placing his hands on his hips.

“We could go back to our old colony. Oh wait, you were the whole reason we got kicked out in the first place! Actually, scrap that. You all, except for me and Colin, are the whole reason we got kicked out.”

Kai groaned hard and rubbed his hands on his face. “Peter, can you shut up for once in your life? It happened, now we need to find a way to fix it. We need to find a way to get that jeep back. And a way to get back at her. The last thing that bitch will see is the back of my fist.”

He stopped talking as his attention was elsewhere. In the distance they could all see the little figure of the black jeep getting smaller and smaller, and Kai sighed as he looked at his car.

“At least she let us keep Rosa.” Kai glared at Peter.

When the car was out of his sight, he then faced Tate. Tate got his crossbow in his hands, almost shooting an arrow into his foot, and Kai and Peter both mumbled something that looked like ‘unbelievable’.

Kai then felt anger boil at his younger brother.

“Tate, are you kidding me? You had a perfect shot at her! Why did you shoot my jeep?”

Tate wanted to say something but Kai was already first. “You know what, never mind. Forget I even asked.”

Tate simply rolled his eyes at Kai as he walked away while cursing them all underneath his breath, and Colin watched Peter gaze. Peter has always been clumsy, not really the smartest or strongest. But his puzzled face indicated he was thinking hard, probably about the next plan. Even though he was terrible at a lot of things, at least he was trying. He was good at one thing though; running and his reflexes seemed to be out of this world.

After a few minutes Colin decided to speak up from next to them.

“Did you recognize that girl?” He asked Peter, and Peter shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

Colin looked back down, fumbling with his fingers. “I don’t know, it’s just. I know her face from somewhere but I can’t remember where from.”

“I doubt it. Maybe you recognized her from some girl back in our old colony?”

“No, I swear she… She just looks familiar.” Colin sighed.

“Maybe later you’ll remember again. Now let's focus on our problem. We need to find shelter before sundown. Then make a plan on how to somehow get that jeep back.” Colin thought about their old colony. It was pretty stupid to be thrown out of it, but to be honest it was kind of a relief to him.

Ever since everything went down the drain, he and his brothers had the fortunate opportunity to land in a community. A colony where he and his brothers had made many allies, a colony where everyone participated in something to benefit the community, which kept it going. And although everything seemed fine - the place kept thriving, he just had a gut feeling. Like he was trapped. He had never seen the outside world after he’d seen everything fall apart, and he wondered what was left of the population.

But as soon as they stepped out of their colony, Colin already had his answer.

There was no one left.

Well… aside from the girl who stole their jeep. And the debris from destroyed buildings and lost hope. He guessed it was just their luck to cross paths with a survivor who was going to steal their ride. Thinking about it, Colin was always unlucky when it was about girls. One stole their jeep, one left him out of nowhere. One got sho-

“You okay?” Peter’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he looked disoriented before his brother looked at him with a worried look.

“Yeah, fine. What were you saying?” Colin rubbed his temples and Peter cleared his throat. “Maybe we can stay here?”

“No way, have you not seen the windows? They're all broken. We need four solid walls and a roof.” Peter seemed to hesitate for a moment again, before Colin's face lit up. “I know where we can go. Remember that mall Tate used to hate?” Peter had to think for a short while before he nodded. “If we go in that direction, we’ll arrive at my old high school. It’s about 20 minutes away from here. It’s our safest bet if we want to get shelter before sundown.”

“Okay, then it’s settled, we go to the high school and tomorrow we make a plan.”