#ditch disposables

[prachitatwa]

Reasons I Stopped Collecting Mini Hotel Toiletries

Those mini Hotel Toiletries are very lucrative but once you understand the toxic waste they create, you will understand why not to use them. They can even be terrible for your hair and skin as they are not suitable for all skin types. They are okay to use if you forget to pack your shampoo or soap in case of emergency but not meant for filling your suitcases and carrying them around.   After one…

[whitefang93]

One of my biggest issues with Kageyama role in the movie is it's there but not enough for people to understand why this moment is so pivotal for kagehina together in their numerous strides of trust/threat.

Kenma wasn't being illogical here. And any setter doesn't want the game flow to be hampered at the cost of emotional needs of one player. While all the same a setter should try to raise the morale, we see kageyama do that for Tanaka In the inarizaki match.

As far as Hinata is concerned for kageyama, no matter how much he says that "as long as you are essential for winning" putting it in Rough words for hinata, has hurt him the second time during the tokyo camp. He gets angry and hurt as he talks to Yachi, he is emotional and says it was even harder to get along with back then. But after all this time hinata expected Kageyama to be there for him. He says I don't expect closeness via friendship but he thought kageyama understands his desire to get better.

While that's another discussion on hinata pov, as far as kageyama is concerned, while he said those words, he himself fears change or isn't sure how to keep having hinata around. And he wants hinata to be able to play with him, kageyama for the first time found a partner who matches his speed. Both kagehina crave speed.

When hinata has his slip ups, kageyama is concerned. But also he asks hinata to get better at receives as that's basic for playing volleyball.

Now Hinata is ofcourse concerned if kageyama is going thru a choice of should I toss to him?, and.hinata only replies with strong conviction by receiving and being in position to always be ready for a quick.

Recieving and then getting in position for a quick attack is not an easy feat. He is openly targeted. So how does kageyama who wants to toss to Hinata, but has to have restraint to not let game slip by mistakes, BUT wants to reward Hinata for doing his best??? He let go of his obsession with speed. Hinata also let's go of his sole purpose as only hitting quick, with mutual trust that they haven't abandoned each other and to show off Hinata to kenma, to display his need, his want in tossing to Hinata he raises him to a new height. A tall king of the court, giving a simple four toss is almost like a gutsy ballsy move along with the kindness and ease and consideration for his spiker to shine above him.

It's also important to learn that Kageyama does have an emotional need to see hinata flying. Hinata represents his freedom to play anywhere across the court. Kenma also notes that by restricting of Hinata they aren't at a big disadvantage so why does Kageyama give??

Well long story short Kageyama will not leave Hinata behind, he isn't only essential to winning and was never that, he wants him to improve too and wants to sneak in tosses whenever he can, like someone giving treats to their fav. He adores the relationship he has with Hinata. And by extension Kageyama bonds with many others like tanaka, tsukishima too by raising limits and trusting their best is upto them. Kageyama core development is stability and loosing control and let his spiker shine.

[bringsin]

@toxitrosia

"you're a big bug... but you're pretty..." she muses, staring intently up at him with a twitching eye and crooked smile.

[highraccoon]

it's so fun when the people who took everything from you claim to be the real victims. like, y'all want to dump a years-long friendship in a dumpster fire just cause you're in a romantic relationship and that's the only thing that matters to you, go fucking ahead. but don't pretend to be the victim when you were the one who destroyed it.

you don't get to take literally everything from me and claim that you were the real victim when the only thing you didn't take was the skin off my bones.

[world-healt]

Ditch the Disposables: Lighting X - A Reliable Flame for Every Adventure

I've always been a bit frustrated with traditional lighters. Running out of fuel in the middle of a camping trip, battling wind gusts to light a fire, or simply the environmental impact of disposable lighters – it all added up to a less than ideal experience. That's why I was so excited to try the Lighting X Plasma Waterproof Rechargeable Lighter. After putting it through its paces for a few weeks, I can confidently say it's become an essential part of my outdoor gear.

Never Be Caught Without a Light Again: The Power of Rechargeable Convenience

One of the biggest advantages of the Lighting X is its rechargeable battery. No more scrambling for spare butane canisters or tossing lighters in the bin. A simple USB cable (included) is all you need to top up the battery, ensuring you'll always have a spark handy. This is a game-changer, especially for camping trips or long hikes where access to replacements might be limited. Plus, on a single charge, I've gotten a surprising number of uses – a big thumbs up for battery life!

Wind and Water? No Problem: Built for the Elements

Traditional lighters can be notoriously unreliable in windy conditions. Forget about trying to light a fire on a breezy day! The Lighting X, however, thrives on what would normally defeat a standard lighter. The windproof plasma arc ensures a consistent light, even in less-than-ideal weather. This was a lifesaver on a recent camping trip where the wind kept trying to extinguish my attempts at a campfire.

The waterproof design is another impressive feature. Getting caught in a downpour with a traditional lighter can be a recipe for disaster. The Lighting X, however, laughs in the face of rain. I even tried submerging it briefly (not recommended for regular use!), and it fired right up afterwards – a testament to its durable construction.

More Than Just Lighting Campfires: A Versatile Tool for Everyday Use

While the Lighting X excels in outdoor situations, its uses extend far beyond campfires. The compact and sleek design makes it easy to slip into a pocket or backpack, making it a convenient companion for everyday tasks. Need to light candles for a romantic dinner? No problem. Want to quickly ignite a grill for a backyard barbecue? The Lighting X handles it with ease. The uses are truly diverse, making it a handy addition to any household.

[herunswithscissors]

Restaurant Hacks and A Reformed Prank

When I was younger all the restaurants carried these refillable glass salt and pepper shakers with metal screwed on lids. They made every table feel a little classy. It was a nice touch that saved the restaurants from the insane mark up on disposables.

If you are ever in the restaurant business, rethink disposable anything. All that waste and plastic and permanent poison in our Mother. And all that lost profit.

Go with classy or distinctive refillable everything you can possibly think of. Go local handmade to reinvest in your community and customers and bring in more of that local feel. And you bet grandma is going to bring her friends to eat and see her bebito's water jug or her own hand made plates, bowls, cups, and flatware. Everything locally made extremely well with local support who want to keep you happy and coming back for more of their distinctive stuff. It doesn't have to be the perfectest, trendiest, best brandiest, or serious or whatever. Just unique is good enough. Your customers want local, not generic classy or fake classy like the Met Gala.

Unique is just another word for beautiful.

YOURS TRULY

Just try to find things that vibe.

==================

Here's where things get personal.

All children, no matter how young, knew the old joke to unscrew the lids of the salt and pepper shaker as a joke. And all children, no matter how old still laughed at it. And sometimes little old Amish ladies would do it and giggle like girls.

My more progressive friends pointed out that this ruined somebodies meal who was likely on a short meal break and wasted the restaurant's money and reputation.

So I started playing my own version of the old prank.

The reason the salt and pepper shaker heads prank is so funny is because everyone knows it and knows that if any such children have ever sat at this table, the lid might be off. So everybody just casually checks the lid before they shake. And then somebody who's too trusting or forgetful aligns with a child's mischievousness and happenstance gets hit and everyone laughs, the restaurant apologizes and makes a big show of reminding the busboys to check after every table

I knew everyone checked. And I always liked messing with people's heads rather than their food. (You don't mess with people's food. That is my poverty mindset and I really resonated with those arguments about time, money, and quality of life for hard-working low-income folk, and not making things harder on the workers.)

So I took a napkin, opened it all the way up, put it over the mouth of the open salt shaker, made a little indent, filled it with pepper, screwed the cap over it all and tore the napkin carefully away from the edges now that it was firmly held by the lid.

Did the opposite with the pepper and thus my mind trap was laid.

Like a playful mimic, they waited for the unsuspecting patron to add salt to their fries only to get pepper!

The confused diner would look down at their hand and the clear salt shaker full of salt in it. then look back at the pepper on their fries. Perhaps it was just some pepper dust? More salt! More pepper? What witchcraft be at work here? They shake the shaker and see the salt sparkle and tinkle. They pick up the pepper, look at it and shashshake it, look down on their fries, it couldn't be... they pepper their fries and see salt scatter. da fuck? They continue to salt and pepper things out of the magic opposite shakers in disbelief until they open them up and laugh. I used to even leave my own little "Hi! 🙂" just to leave my mark on this world.

I got my brother into doing this and we taught our friends as well. It was a fun little thing to share that protected a lot of people from asalt.

I like to think that my humor brought some joy into some worlds and make some people's dinner a lot more fun.

[etherfabric]

Why things will be easy now

Choose a pile by which picture you resonate with the most.

If your mind is too busy to clearly decide, take a few deep breaths, and use the finger of your non-dominant hand to hover over the images. One will give off the most subtle yet prominent signals, like tingles, a magnetic pull, or temperature. This is your pile. Multiples are also possible.

more PACs

Pile 1

Queen of Swords, The Emperor

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Things will be easy now because you learned what works for you, and are confident to ditch the rest. Your intuition is razor sharp and wielding it is second nature to you now. Other's opinions don't sway you anymore. You know everyone has their own path, and them doing thing A has no influence on your thing B. You are a master now with drawing boundaries with others as well within your own thoughts - you know which ones are from your true, authentic, eternal, beautiful self, and which one are just silly downward spiraling habits you can opt out anytime. Those doubts are like fluffy clouds on a breezy summer day - superficial, fleeting, never able to stop the sun from reaching you. You know where to put your energy and your focus, and feel the results instantly. How come mood is now so easy? And the best part - it doesn't actually feel new. You remember how this was always at your disposal. How you just forgot about it. But it was always there. Memories of past successes are cut and dry proof of all the blessings to come. It feels powerful, it feels true, it feels good - it feels you. Like actually you.

Pile 2

The World, Page of Pentacles

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Things will be easy now because the minute somethings stops feeling satisfying, another perfect thing will pop up. Talking about divine orchestration, and this is your symphony. You enjoy every step of the journey - the idea, the initiation, the progress, the habit, the finish. You marvel at the infinite combinations of those currents through your perception, and the world is your oyster now. So many prospects that hold reliable promises! It's all up to you. Things that used to be dull and monotonous suddenly bring a sparkle to your eye again. Food tastes rich, water refreshes you with every sip, your body is a miracle you have access to every living second. The physical plane got its magic back. With the eyes of the eternal child, you feel abundant beyond limits. I get the feeling specifically of having beautiful interactions with nature, with an emphasis on animals. Spotting a rare bird, petting a cat, a butterfly landing right next to you. Serendipitous timing with weather - sun right when you want it, rain right when it adds to the athmosphere, a breeze caressing your back as encouragement on a stroll towards something exciting. Beautiful sunsets, stargazing, moonlight moments. You have everything you could ever want, and then some. This is what life is about, and it's so easy. And you know how to stay in it.

Pile 3

3 of Cups, 2 of Wands

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Things will be easy now because it finally clicked: You remembered how freaking likeable you are. Social interactions that used to confuse you now suddenly make sense - people are intimidated and nervous around you! They really want you to like them, and they can't fathom how you don't see that. Well, those times are over now. A calm and confident warmth emenates from within you now, and what used to be a source of anxiety and stress is now a constant uplift in your life - the people you meet, how they look at you, the words they say, just their body language from across the street are all surefire signs you can read like a children's book. They reflect what has finally once againrevealed itself to you: You are beautiful, impressive, radiant, capable, deserving, magical. This makes time by yourself like a serene island of recuperation and contemplation. Your dreams and plans with people are just as easily achievable as opening the door to your room. Mundane, easy, self explanatory, a given. Not ever a focus of your worries. Why worry about the doorknob? Why worry about things that are certain? Why worry about just the right people entering your life at just the right moment, with just the right circumstances, right words, right gifts, right intentions? That's right. As easy as the inhale and exhale. As sure as the next breath. Welcome to the truth.

Pile 4

5 of Cups, The Hierophant

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Things will be easy now because you know you don't have to fake anything to get what you want. Feel sad? Cry. You are still God's favorite and your blessings are on their way. The more authentic you are, the faster they will come. You have found comfort in what others would falsely read as "bad signs". There are no bad signs when you are set on the right path. There are only different stations all with their own rhythm, themes and energies. All parts of you are necessary and welcome. Your joy, your fear, your sadness, your frustrations - they are no longer being pushed away, but embraced. That's how they power your manifestations. The more you, the merrier. You can suddenly feel the beautiful relief and cleanse your tears bring, the empowering holy fire within your rage as it propels you forward towards what you deserve, the soothing hum of your tiredness replenishing every cell. No more thwarted sense of self that breaks you - you are perfect and sacred as you are. The less pressure, the more rewards are coming your way. Life flows through you, you are an expression of the divine, and carry yourself accordingly through all phases of life. You will suddenly see texts and teachings reflecting exactly that. You will feel validated in a way you never felt before, but it will feel just like home. Your true home of eternal love and possibilities.

[ur-mousey]

Yandere Geto, who wants the fem reader he's been pursuing to just let him do everything for her. From little stuff like open jars, getting her snacks, and cleaning the table. To bigger stuff, like paying her bills, cooking for her every night, driving her everywhere, feeding her, bathing her.

But she constantly denies that she needs any help and has and will always be independent and she won't let him. Until one day, she "magically" gets fired from her job, and he is invited to her crying session of how she can't handle everything that's happening to her and she wishes she could get some help with everything (which is exactly what geto has been wishing for!)

Geto would obviously take it many steps too far and have her live with him and he would do everything for her, only letting her be his girl and shower him with love like she does in his dream world.

You Need Me ~

Yandere! Geto Suguru x F!Reader

Part Two

warning mature, smut, caregiver kink, manipulation, mastrubation, dependency, dub-con. 2.2k

..............................

You tried not to lose yourself to the temptations of your lover. He had once again cooked breakfast. He spoke gentle words of what today's outing would bring as he brought spoons of rice porridge, decorated atop with apples doused in honey, to your mouth and his. Your giddy squeal caused your boyfriend to chuckle. It was no use fighting Geto Suguru on the small stuff. He laid out a modest outfit of lilac wool to protect you against the forecasted winds without prompt. It was not something that you previously owned. You knew he had spent more money on it than you would've liked.

But, you'll find another time to knock sense into him. Suguru had you purring at the touch of his fingers. He combed through your hair that he tended to like a precious flower. And he rocked your body with his as he captured the final morning hours from your couch. You relaxed into his motion. Today marked four years together, and the last thing you wanted to ruin the mood was a simple present.

His lips fretted along your neck, dancing around bloomed hickeys. At each nip, your hand squeezed tighter at your breast. Suguru told you it's about time you relented to his demands. He wanted you to be his completely, and the implications didn't go over your head.

Becoming his would mean losing so much.

If he could, he would do everything for you. He already commanded a budding ache to pool in your stomach. And with your soiled undies, he had an excuse to bathe, dress, and take care of your laundry.

He loved doing it all for you despite your hesitation. And, you'll allow yourself to sink deeper into his command, only for today.

>>>

Geto thought of you as a little feather duckling. You waddled through life with your head held high. Constantly, your attention floated away from him, bouncing from shop to shop. He admired how enamored a single trinket locked behind storefronts could make you. If you would let him, he would buy it all for you, but you rejected it all with a smile. And you continued on, skipping as he gripped your hand in his. 

Now, your guidance led you two in the line of a famous bakery, where you proceeded to talk his ear off about the different cooking styles of bread. Why you would know that wasn't of that much concern. 

You tended to fill your head with meaningless factoids.

Geto had your M.O. figured. You were at surface level, either dense of the world around you or purposely stupid. You could find humanity in depraved places, including him. Six years ago was his undoing when you walked off that bus. Geto had sat out in the rice fields, a cigarette lit in the night air. His chest heaved. He understood Shoko's habits a little more. The burn distracted him. He wanted to go wild. It was his last-ditch effort to control the bloodlust. Earlier, he had disposed of his parents.

Their corpses were now lost. Remnants of them scattered across the small village which Geto had camped at. He could barely keep his lips from an upturned smirk. He was ever closer to his ideals. A world for the sorcerers.

Without a low-life monkey in sight, he hummed a faint tune. Tainted in smoke. Then, a city bus stopped ahead of him.

Only you had walked off. At that moment, Geto's leg twitched. Hair of yours smacked against the backdrop. A flush of warmth washed over your smiling face. You yapped goodwill onto the driver. He could hear the traces of your thankfulness in the breeze. Your mouth never once settled into quietness. You hopped in place, and both your feet never landed in tandem.

Geto regarded the interaction. Minutes dragged into each other. You wore a student uniform. Considering the time, he assumed you were back from cram school. You bowed, and with a wave, the driver set into motion. And you had made your way to him.

What a setting to a romance that you were naively unaware of.

He still remembered how you had fretted over his well-being. You had paced the dirt road, throwing rapid-fire questioning at him pertaining to his identity, afraid he contracted amnesia. You'd wondered aloud if you should personally walk him home or call the local police to escort him. You even called him a drunkard after he'd explicitly corrected the statement. He found you amusing. "Working yourself over nothin'," He had scoffed. You replied:

"It isn't just nothin'! You're on the side of the road. And I can't leave you here. Whatever got you hating the world is your problem. But, I can't have you throwin' yourself away in the fields."

At your core, below the surface, you were weaker than a monkey. You were a fragile duckling. You continued, "I don't help all drunkards. I'm here, helping you 'cause it looks like you wanna die." You had failed to see him as a threat or as a man. He couldn't get you out of his head.

Pure curiosity turned into an intangible obsession. Humanity could rot for all Geto cared. He would see to it. However, the thought of you, his precious duckling, smeared by the monkey's malice, set his cells on fire. You stood the fairest in a world riddled with cruelness. 

He had given you enough freedom. He needed to foster your warmth behind closed doors. Soon, he planned to rip everything from you out of love. This world, this city you loved dearly, is riddled with curses born from the inherent will of those monkeys. And Geto would be damned if his dreams weren't realized and he couldn't have you at his side. He'd force you to depend on him entirely. 

"Suguuu~ Are you paying attention? What do you want?" You pushed a finger against his chest. You motioned towards all the baked goods. You pouted and dawned a mocking tone, "I guess I'll have to buy you my favorite treat."

"Buy?" Geto gave a slight sneer. "You sure know how to piss me off. I got you, don't I?" He pulled your hips into him, resting his head atop yours. "Y'a know I pay." He had given you enough freedom. Truly.

>>>

You couldn't believe your luck today. You had slept past your alarm. Cuddled in the comfort of your boyfriend's arm. While in your rush to get ready, you felt unease. Your doting lover, Suguru, sat back in bed and observed. You fought the urge to cry and throw a fit.

You wanted him to carry you on his shoulder as he powered through your routine, not you. It might seem ridiculous to most, but you relied on Suguru's guidance. It was shocking enough that he didn't wake you for work. You'd awoken to his pointed stare, nonjudgmental as if he expected you to figure out your mistake.

Your nerves worsened as you went through your morning routine. The fact that he didn't pounce you for dressing yourself made you insecure. Was he mad at you? What did you do? Was he not in love with you anymore?

It was his digression, after all. He decided what you wore and what you ate for breakfast. While you playfully nagged and snatched at things to do it yourself. Yet, Suguru insisted until you relented.

That was the routine.

It's been a month since your anniversary. Suguru assured you at first that work kept him more days than not. He rarely had a night off like yesterday to cuddle in your bed. But, the signs of distance grew.

He was more in his head. Last night, when you initiated, hoping that he would coax an orgasm from you, he denied. Opting for a shower. Suguru never came back to relieve your hormones. He prepared the both of you for bed, halfheartedly so. It broke your heart.

"Sugu. Baby," You called over your shoulder. "I'm heading off to work. I should be home around five. I love you."

No response.

You gathered yourself, tripping over yourself. You crashed into the door, hissing as your finger flew back with the weight of your purse. A frustrated groan accompanied your head smacking the door. No signs of Suguru coming to your aid. Maybe you weren't made for it. Being an adult meant being able to ready oneself. And you were an utter failure with your boyfriend's aid.

You shook your head, gathering your last sliver of courage, and left your desolate apartment.

And, the series of misfortune continued. The trains were crowded that you had to missed two possible trips, you got harassed by some weirdo with blue pigtails, and lastly, you were at your latest to work. The worst hasn't come to pass. It was typical to feel berated over the phone due to the callers's unsatisfactory complaints. But, by lunch, you were over the mean-spirited words. You fiddled with pens and nicknacks coating your desk. You wanted to reconcile. You love him. You need him. You recognized your sense of loss without him. In four more hours, you'd make things right in your relationship.

How? You didn't quite know that. Maybe cook a romantic dinner? Before you could figure that all out, your superior collected you.

>>>

Geto tided your place. First, he organized your footwear into the shoe cupboard, which you would neglect to restock. He had done it all for you since you moved into this apartment separate from him. You had fallen here. He wondered which shoe you tripped over. That accident of yours wouldn't have happened under his care. It took all his energy to neglect your pleading gaze for help. His cock threatened to take over his head. He desperately wanted to fuck that look off of you.

You needed him. That fact was evident enough. You had even chosen a pair of flats, too tight on your heels. Geto meant to throw them out, however, this past month, he's disregarded his tasks. You had to learn that you needed him.

You made it seem like a bad thing to rely on him. You fussed when he took the initiative to open jars and heavy set doors. You fumed at the mention of living with him or him paying rent when you were low.

Was it all that bad to be reliant on him when that's all he wanted from you? He then set aside a pair of slides to alleviate your pain if needed. But, your heart wouldn't be in it. Geto knew that today would be filled with stress. Therefore, he will relieve your fears.

Your lover had the answer. You needed to trust that.

He prepped food for the impending dinner. He chopped veggies and set aside chicken to thaw in the sink. Geto kept glancing at the clock, knowing time was of the essence.

His phone buzzed. Geto fished it out from his pocket, and he was met by your teary, trembling voice. Your breathing ran cold along his back, and blood rushed to his erection. He softly grounded himself into the counter. "Duckling," He cooed. "I don't understand gibberish. Be clear. Take deep breaths." Geto demonstrated, and you followed.

"Su-uh," You whimpered.

He balanced his phone on his shoulder blade. He brought his trousers lower on his hips with one hand. Geto muffled his hum into the palm of his other hand. A few moments passed. His ear sought each sharp intake and languid exhale from your lips. "Sugu, please…" You whined, "Gu- get me. Please. I-I uh, I need you. Like I really need you." Geto bit down on his flesh. He salivated over your lovely words.

He swiped his thumb over the tip of his dick. "What's wrong? You're at work, aren't y'a?" Geto stroked his shaft. Massaging down to the base of his girth. He pinched around the flesh, and he imagined his precious girl begging him to help her forget.

"Ye, I got fired." You sobbed, "My boss… she said some hurtful things. Sugu~ please pick me up." He pumped his cock. His pre-cum bubbled to the surface, lubricating his hand further as he chased his pleasure.

"Why should I?" Geto teased, and the silence of yours permeated. A new wail pushed through the quietness. What's this? You questioned his love for you. What a stupid little brat. He spoiled you dearly. It was you who fought him. However, a month of minimal attention and an orchestrated bad day, had you pleading for his care. Your insecurities laid themselves down on a silver platter for his taste. Maybe he was too rude. You'd questioned his love for you. What a stupid little brat. "Duckling, I'll get y'a. Just joking. Say it. You need me."

You sniffled, "I need you."

.............................. Thank you for reading! And, thank you @appleblueberry-pie for the awesome request. I had so much fun with it!! Please read my other Geto fic, Yandere Landlord x F!Reader! Request rules are here! Feel free to leave comments down below.

>>>

NEXT JJK POST: Yandere! Husband! Nanami Kento x Curse! F!Reader

Since this was my first time doing a request, I put my all in it to make it. Low-key wanted to make this into a two-parter... so possible part 2. This just had my brain going. Also I've been playing an otome game so I made the first lines you said similar to what I see in those dating sims. LOL Anyone knows about Collar x Malice - love Shiraishi!!!

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Cash Slave, reporting in...

Good morning, master. State Trooper Hernandez reporting!

I hope you're doing well since the last time we saw each other. Again, I can't apologize enough for pulling you over on the highway. I had no idea you were such an amazing hypnotist. Thank you again for letting me get off easy and only making me taze myself twice! I was paralyzed in that muddy ditch for awhile, but you could've given me a helluva worse punishment!

Your instructions aren't negotiable, so I made sure to snap a photo before I started my shift today. As you suggested, I've been eating a box of donuts every morning, and I've packed on a hefty 30 lbs since I've started. My wife has complained, but I know you want me to look more like a cliche of law enforcement!

I'll stop by your house to drop off my paycheck tonight after work. I won't forget to pick up some pizza for you and your friends on the way: extra sausage, just like you said!

See you tonight, master!

Hello sir.

It's been a week since you came into my shop, and I've followed everything you said. I didn't agree with it at first, but you convinced me with that little pendant.

You were right! I really am beneath powerful men like you. Filthy blue-collar workers aren't worthy to lick the dirt off your shoes. You were right to point that out, and you were right to tell me to embrace it. When the world looks at me, they shouldn't see a man. They should see a grease monkey at the bottom of society.

That's why I haven't showered or changed in seven days. My BO is uncomfortable to work in, but I know it's just a reminder of what I am. I used to be proud of my job. Ha! I used to look down on suits like you, but I'm nothing in comparison; just a tool at your disposal.

Anyways, I cleaned and waxed your old car as fast as I could. I know I lent you my convertible, but you're welcome to keep it. I put a lot of sweat and blood in fixing her up, but like you said, fancy cars are meant for you to drive and me to maintain.

Stop back in my garage anytime. White-collar men like you get free service here! It's not the place of any lowly laborer to get in the way of what you want.

Thank you again, sir.

Hello boss.

Just started another long day of window washing! It's another hot one, but I'll keep my head down and sweat through it like usual.

I've gotta say, it's days like this that make me miss the comforts of my old corporate desk job. I'd kill for some AC right now, but I remember how much you made me realize I hated that career. Like you said, I'm much better suited to a life of mindless cleaning.

It turns out you're the real one with a knack for business strategy because all of your advice has been genius! The income is dependent on the hours I put in, and since I'm working for half the price of all competitors, I've gotten a monopoly on the market! I've fully booked all seven days for the next five or so weeks, so I'll be washing windows non-stop!

The business is already booming! I've been billing customers to your bank account, so you should already see all the profit in there!

Later today, I'll make a note of the minimum I need to replenish the cleaning supplies I'm running through. I'd also be grateful if you loaned me a bit for personal use, but it's understandable if you can't spare any! We agreed that I wasn't working for a salary, and I'm fine with that! I've been sleeping in the company van the last few weeks and it's more than good enough for me!

Don't worry, boss. I'll get back to work!

Tell my wife hello for me, master!

Working on a rig has been isolating. The job is brutal, the days are long, and every night I head back to our bunks covered in oil. I thought I'd at least get to bond with the other guys, but most of us are too tired to do anything but eat and sleep after our shift.

The only thing that's getting me through it is thinking about you. I know I also have a girl at home, but you were the one that gave my life purpose. I was never going to make money as an actor, and you helped me see that! You were the one that convinced me to go for this ridiculous job in the middle of the ocean, and now I'm making a ton of money!

You deserve it all.

I wouldn't have seen any of this cash if I hadn't stuck around after your stage hypnosis show. I still remember the wild look in your eyes when you came up with this idea for me. I also remember that hungry look you had when you saw my wife. It was impossible to say no.

Oh, and thanks for keeping my wife company while I'm gone. A man like you deserves her attention more than I do. Like you said, I doubt I was pleasing her to begin with. The only thing I'm good for is earning money, and I hope you're enjoying it because it sure isn't easy to earn!

I gotta get back, but I wanted to let you know that I signed up for another six months like you suggested. It's lonely, but I'm happy to do it, master!

Son, or should I still call you 'sir'?

I'm not sure if I your new title applies through text as well? Being your dad and your servant can be a bit confusing, but I don't mean disrespect you! Just let me know.

My workout is done and I'm headed back to your house. I signed the deed over to you this morning, so you officially own it now! Like usual, I'll clean the place from top to bottom. I've got all the mops and cleaning supplies in my van and ready to go. Since it's Friday, I'll start on the weekly yard work; mowing, weeding, etc... I don't want to bore you with the details, but it'll take the majority of the day to keep your place in tip top shape!

As I understand it, you are having friends over tonight, so I'll prepare a three course meal for eight. I ironed my apron this morning so I should look like a more presentable waiter than last night when I served your food!

As always, please let me know if there's any other way I can be of service today or tonight.

I'll be awaiting your return, sir.

Hey little bro,

I just finished my workout at the gym with dad. We're both hitting PRs and we're really starting to see some results! Still can't believe you hypnotized his dumb ass to think he's your butler! That man looks so stupid changing from gym clothes into a bowtie and gloves. He's constantly calling you 'sir' too, even when you're not around.

He's such an idiot.

Anyways, I'm all dressed and ready for my new job. You were totally right. I'm going to be so much happier as a clown instead of a wrestler. I'm about to head out to my first gig; a ten year old's birthday party. I think he's the kid of someone I used to compete with. It might be a little awkward, but it won't affect my routine. I've got an afternoon of pies in the face and self-deprecating humor ahead of me.

I made sure to tell the guy who hired me that I'm willing to stay after and clean up. Kids make a huge mess after all. I just hope he won't be too weird about me being a clown at his son's party. We may have been rivals in the past, but that was back when I wrestled. Now I'm just a joke for hire. He's technically my boss for the day, so I'll have to get used to taking orders from him.

Wish me luck, bro. I'll give you the money after the dad dismisses me. Let's hope I make a good clown!

[papercranesandpride]

Being aroallo is weird because I feel like Schrödinger's polyamorous person.

Observe me in a romantic setting? Obviously I'm not polyamorous. I don't have any romantic partners.

Observe me in a sexual setting? Yeah, I'll screw whoever and I don't care about any kind of sexual exclusivity. My sexual partners can be having sex with other people, and I'm not going to have sex with people who expect me to only be having sex with them. So that's multiple partners and thus I'm polyamorous.

Observe me in the case of love?Polyamory means many loves, and I'm loveless, so obviously I'm not polyamorous.

Observe my opinion on exclusivity? I don't care about it at all. I understand being monogamous because only having one partner is easier; I don't understand being monogamous because you actually care if your partner is involved with other people. So obviously I'm polyamorous.

It's all very weird. In the end, I go with polyamorous because it makes it clear that I'm only interested in polyamorous people (or other people in the aroallo middle ground). Anyone monogamous is eventually going to want a romantic relationship and ditch me. I don't want to be something disposable to fill someone's time until they feel like being in a "real" relationship.

(And yes, I know aros who are fully polyamorous with QPRs and stuff exist, but I'm aplatonic so I definitely don't want to be that kind of polyamorous.)

[prachitatwa]

Ditch the Disposables

Any new change or trend can change the face of the market within a day. In the present scenario, markets are experiencing promising & prominent markets around the globe. Our markets are presently dominated by single-use plastic products, disposable items, or styrofoam products. But slowly we are even realizing the harmful effects of using plastic and styrofoam products too. It’s high time we need…

[samueldays]

I see this shit and I wonder: is there, even theoretically, anything which can be done about it in general?

(To back up Domenech, here is the 2021 interview, the clip is taken from about twentyfive minutes in.)

The obvious first problem is the lying. Legally, this is protected by the First Amendment, and one has to clear a high bar of showing specific harm (such as being defrauded) to prosecute lies in America. Socially, it is one of a great many lies being told by a great many liars. Getting just one to stop would be ineffective, getting them to stop en masse would be a Herculean task. Specifically a task like cleaning the Augean Stables.

The second problem that comes to mind is that even if there were a remedy like "Legally compel @harris_wins to issue a correction", such remedies are extremely prone to abuse as a class. It would take law-writing that is both unusually clever and unusually moral to give Vance some way of punishing @harris_wins for this, without also risking collateral damage to speech protections, and exploitations of the power to punish.

The third problem is that an account like @harris_wins is disposable and replaceable. It is not the official Kamala Harris account. It's a sort of credibility-printer or the product of one, that can be spun up, tell loud and flashy lies, and be ditched when it comes under fire. It's cheap chaff, it's moderately polished with the signs and language of journalism like screaming "BREAKING" on everything, and it gets a million views.

The sort of punishment one can practically inflict on an account like this is only a cost of doing business for whoever's paying the cut-outs and interns and troll farms for Kamala's campaign.

Fourth, I think, is the aggravating nature of this particular lie.

Trump's lies usually involve saying he's the best, he's the greatest, everyone loves him, he'll fix all your problems, et cetera, which are colloquial English for him being moderately above average, some people love him, he might mitigate a couple of problems. I'm autistic and I dislike the way people casually lie in ordinary speech and say "it's hyperbole", but it's hard for me to feel any extra hate for Trump over exaggeration-to-the-point-of-falsehood when it's so common.

Whoever is running @harris_wins does not have the hyperbole excuse. This is not partial support for Project 2025 being exaggerated into complete endorsement, this is a false source and they're claiming it contains something it does not contain at all. Vance never mentions Project 2025 at all (how could he, in 2021?) in the clip, he is saying routine politician things about taking power and replacing the existing ruling class, that is not "Vance completely endorses Project 2025".

[glimmeringwinchester]

hell house

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — grace winchester has more skeletons in the closet than she and her can fight, and as they race against the clock to find their missing father, slowly but surely everything unknown comes into the light

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) — canon supernatural violence, gore, and themes. mentions of past abuse, ptsd, anxiety, indications of claustrophobia, sickness, john winchester being an absolute asshole. deans a dick (what’s new) but he’s soft with his sister, oc au

Grace Winchester rolls her eyes as she watches Dean reach across the car with a disposable spoon in hand, his smile wide and a little too mischievous as he wedges the thin plastic into their brother's slightly agape mouth. Sam is passed out in the passenger seat, his seat reclined despite the person that sits behind him, and his head is falling slack to the side as he catches up on much needed rest. The days had been long in the seven months that had played out since Dean had pulled them both away from life at Stanford, and instead back to the lives they’d lived before, though not by choice. Grace remembers how long the days used to feel when she was only a kid, but for whatever reason, the last seven months have felt excruciating. She can only sympathize with Sam as she watches him sleep, light colored eyes ghosting across the subtle motions of his breathing – the only indication he’s actually alive up there.

She would’ve found the energy to smile in wry amusement if her head didn’t feel so heavy on her shoulders. Her body is slouched against the door, her knees pulled up to her chest if only to allow Sam the space he needs to sleep, and her head cheek pressed against the window somewhat uncomfortably; though she appreciates the coolness that spreads across her flushed skin too much to adjust her position. Her eyes are glassy, bloodshot and stinging, but she blinks rapidly despite the pain, determined to keep herself awake as nausea pools in her lower belly.

She manages a weak eye roll as Dean finagles his phone into a specific position, peeling his eyes away from the road to snap a picture that will certainly be used as leverage in the next battle over music choice. She barely has the time to prepare for him cranking up the volume, an involuntary wince making her aware of the sudden soreness in her muscles as she leans away from the abrupt sound, unable to deny the way it seems to pierce through her skull like pinpricks.

Sam bolts awake, his eyes wide and panicked for a handful of seconds before he’s batting at the spoon between his lips, a grimace of utter annoyance overtaking his once relaxed expression. Dean couldn’t care less, grinning with pride in the driver's seat as he drums along to the chorus of a song Grace has heard too many times since only last week. He turns his head to Sam, eyes squinted as he beams, though Sam’s not easily amused by Dean’s clear enjoyment.

“Ha ha. Very funny.” He huffs, fixing the position of his seat with one hand while the other reaches for the stereo, turning the music down to an acceptable decibel, though Grace still thinks it's too loud as she barely conceals another involuntary wince.

“Sorry. Not a lot of scenery here in East Texas. You kinda gotta make your own.” Dean apologizes, though both of his siblings know he’s not being the slightest bit sincere. Grace wants to roll her eyes, but a deep and incessant pressure at the front of her temple prevents her from so much as looking to her left.

“Man, we’re not kids anymore, Dean. We’re not gonna start that crap up again.” Sam scoffs, his jaw clenched as he expresses his annoyance, his eyes trailing toward the backseat as he searches for signs of life from Grace, hardly reacting when he finds her curled up into a tight ball, blanket ditched around her ankles, and her eyes closed as she gnaws on her lower lip. He can see exhaustion rolling off of her body – her eyes sunken, her face flush – and so he assumes she’s annoyed, not treading any deeper into that isolated spiral of thoughts.

“Start what up?” Dean, ever the antagonistic older brother, reaches into the backseat, his palm tapping against Grace’s blanket covered ankles in a silent greeting. He can only chuckle beneath his breath when her foot kicks out at him in response, an annoyed huff rolling off of her lips as she curls further toward the seats, just out of reach from his assault should he try again.

“That prank stuff. It’s stupid, and it always escalates.” Sam groans, slapping Dean’s hand when he reaches out for Grace again, his eyes rolling when Dean only shakes his shoulder in admitted defeat, looking entirely too smug about irritating his younger siblings for his own entertainment.

“What’s the matter, Sammy? You afraid you’re gonna get a little nair in your shampoo again, huh?” Grace doesn’t even have to see her brothers to know that one quip was enough to entirely change Sam’s attitude, his ego still bruised from the epic nair prank of 1990. Grace can only wonder how boys never mature past the age of fourteen, unable to believe they’re actually considering rehashing ‘prank wars’.

“All right. Just remember, you started it.” Sam can barely conceal his smirk as he shakes his head, eyes now glancing out the window, watching as rows of lush trees blur together into evergreen flashes.

“Oh, bring it on, Baldy.” Dean smirks, though his eyes flicker to Grace in the rear view mirror, “You in, G?” He sings smugly, only able to laugh in amusement when he receives nothing more than Grace throwing the bird his way in response. She’d never wanted to be part of their prank wars as a kid either, but Dean was never so quick to relent, always effectively dragging her into them whether that be by deception, or simply pranking her anyways.

“Where are we, anyway?” Sam asks, changing the topic as he glances out at the passing scenery.

Dean glances out the window, his face a neutral expression as he assesses the road surrounding them, never able to truly be secure in the temporary safety they find between places. Grace pretends not to notice the fault in Dean’s stoic persona as she shifts in the backseat, tugging off the sweatshirt that’s only trapping in unwanted heat. “A few hours outside of Richardson. Give me the lowdown again.” Dean reaches into the backseat again, although this time his gesture isn’t so playful, but softly he catches his sister's attention as Sam rustles through their current case information. “You should get some sleep. Need you at your best.” Grace wants to remind Dean of all the sleepless nights that haunt their pasts, but instead she nods, finally finding a moment of ease where not every part of her body is aching and churning at once.

She just barely hears Sam begin his refresher when her head lulls to the side, resting just below the leather headrest as she finally submits to the exhaustion that’s been crushing her for hours.

When she wakes, the Impala is parked in front of a record store, and Sam is ruffling through his bag that’s on the floor beside her feet. Grace bats his hand away with an exasperated eye roll, ignoring the wave of simultaneous nausea and dizziness that hits her as she sits up. Her muscles ache at the change in position, and she’s vaguely aware of her shoulder cracking as she rustles through the bag instead, pulling out the worn leather wallet she knows her idiot brother was searching for. Sam offers a bashful smile, his eyebrows furrowing after a handful of seconds as he takes in her appearance, but Grace only shrugs him off, cracking her fingers as she waits for Dean to make the first move, able to grasp why they’re here without the step-by-step break down she knows Sam wants to give her.

“Let's roll, Gracie.” Dean whistles as he opens the door, only acknowledging his younger sister, aware of how Sam wants to roll his eyes in annoyance every time he’s singled out. Grace follows his motions, though unlike her brother who has entirely reframed his mannerisms by the time their doors close in tandem, it takes her a minute to gain her bearings, only managing to deflect the discomfort radiating through her body as she steps ahead of Sam, through the door he’s holding open for her with that same stupid furrow in his eyebrow.

Her eyes are immediately drawn to a vinyl on one of the farthest shelves from the door, and naturally she lets herself float towards it, aware of how Dean and Sam are trailing behind her instinctively, though Dean’s eyes are definitely wandering as he gathers his critiques.

Grace looks up as a young looking guy approaches, a beat up record in his hands that he flips with indifference, his eyes scanning the black and white labels that differentiate the slots on the shelves. She picks up the record she’d been eyeing, effortlessly playing the role of inquisitive customer. “Gentlemen, ma’am, help you with anything?” The man asks, his eyes trailing over Grace an unnecessary second time, though he seems innocent enough as he lingers on the design against her chest. She’s only vaguely aware of the fact that she’d never changed out of her Spice Girls t-shirt, and that she’s holding one of their albums in her hands; definitely a conversation starter when standing in the middle of a music store.

“Yeah. Are you Craig Thurston?” Sam asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he analyzes the employee. Grace turns the vinyl over in her hands, reading over the tracklist as she tunes into the conversation happening in front of her.

“I am.” Craig nods, reaching over the rack as he shuffles through alphabetized slots. Grace can only roll her eyes at the sight, her thought of how boys never mature past puberty coming back once again.

“Oh. Well, we’re reporters with the Dallas Morning News. I’m Dean. This is Sam. Grace.” Grace brings her eyes away from the vinyl at the mention of her name, offering Craig a polite smile as she fights to stay balanced on her feet, even the slightest movement amplifying the dizziness that’s fogging up her senses.

Craig smiles at the information, his posture relaxing as he nods along to Dean’s fabrication. “No way. Yeah, I’m a writer, too. I write for my school’s lit magazine.” Despite his earlier display of reaching over the shelves, Craig peels from his post, stalking around the shelves as he grabs a seemingly sought after vinyl, showing no indication of contemplation as he reaches for the slot and pulls one up.

“Well, good for you, Morrison.” Dean huffs out a laugh, his smile entirely insincere as she gazes down at the vinyls, batting Grace’s arm when he notices one of his favorite bands at the very front, his fascination somewhat amusing as Grace’s lips quirk into a smirk.

“Um, we’re doing an article on local haunting, and rumor has it you might know about one.” Sam sways slightly, appearing hesitant, uncertain even, but both Grace and Dean know he’s anything but. They’ve learned a thing or two in the decades they’ve been doing this job, and one of those things is people are always more inclined to help you out when they think they have an opportunity to gossip or gloat.

“You mean the Hell House?” There’s a certain tick in Craig’s eyebrow that has Grace hooked, her eyes analyzing his movements because she knows her brothers won’t focus so much on the physical. They’ve always focused more on voice inflection, but Grace has always known a thing or two about body language.

“That’s the one.” Dean nods, his smirk almost condescending as he stares Craig down, but the employee hardly bristles, a subtle glint of arrogance in his eyes as he inclines his body just the slightest inch towards Dean, like he’s fascinated, or maybe transfixed, by the things that he knows – or thinks he knows.

“I didn’t think there was anything to the story.”

“So why don’t you tell us the story?” Grace smiles sweetly, her head tilting to the side, allowing her thin hair to spill over her shoulder. She’s aware of how her voice wavered in the middle, and how it feels like hellfire’s tearing through her throat as she swallows, but she makes no indication that anything’s wrong, keeping her eyes fixed on Craig.

“Well, supposedly back in the ‘30s, this farmer, Mordechai Morduch, used to live in the house with his six daughters. It was during the depression, his crops were failing. Didn’t have enough money to even feed his own children. So I guess that’s when he went off the deep end.” Grace tries not to wince at the mention of hungry children, but the grimace that wrinkles her upper lip is a dead give away that it strikes her. Sam doesn’t notice, his interest entirely in Craig, much to her relief.

“How?”

Grace rolls her eyes as Dean sneaks up beside her, throwing his arm over her shoulder as he tugs her into his side annoyingly. She has to fight the nausea that threatens to climb up her throat at his jostling, elbowing him between the ribs as she pulls herself away.

“Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quick rather than starve to death…so he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop. But he just strung them up, one after another. And then when he was all finished, he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl who goes inside.” Craig looks entirely too fascinated with the harrowing details of the story, his eyes becoming wide as he loses himself in the details like a kid fascinated by a fairytale. Grace only barely hides her grimace as she continues to analyze his posture.

“Where’d you learn all this?” Dean inclines his head interestingly, squaring his shoulders as he stares Craig down.

“My cousin Dana told me. I don’t know where she heard it from. You gotta realize, I didn’t believe this for a second.” There’s a quip in his tone that has Sam shifting on his feet, and Grace isn’t blind to the way Craig’s fists clench in his pockets, that gleam of fascination slowly becoming a mixture of terror and uncertainty.

“But now you do?” Sam questions, his tone somewhat incredulous though there’s a hitch toward the end that keeps Craig hooked and spilling.

“Guys, I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to god, I don’t want to go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?” Grace understands the fear that becomes fascination all too well, and she offers Craig a sympathetic smile as Dean and Sam lock eyes, the elder of the two extending his appreciation toward Craig before he tapped Grace’s forearm, already beginning to lead the way back to the door.

She wobbles on her feet as she follows after him, looking over at Sam when his fingers ghost across the small of her back, reaching to catch her if she fell. She ignores the questioning look in his eyes, picking up the pace as she aims to catch up with Dean, eager to get away from Sam and his incessant questioning and analyzing.

She breathes a sigh of relief when the cool air hits her as she exits the music store, her flush face seemingly burning as its assaulted by the chilly wind around them, but all she does is deflate at the exposure, temporary relief settling in before she’s rushing into the backseat, not wanting to hold up the boys or raise anymore suspicion than she already has.

Despite how warm she feels, she reaches for the hoodie she’d thrown on the floor hours earlier, knowing Dean’ll grow suspicious if she doesn’t react to the cold soon. For men that rarely pay any attention to minor details, somehow they always pick up on the things that Grace wants to be left alone. She flips Sam off when she catches his eye in the rear view mirror, pleased when she watches his lips quirk into an amused smirk, his eyes no longer so clouded by concern. She hates that lying to them comes so easily.

Sometime later, the Winchesters are trekking through the Tennessee woods, searching for the so-called Hell House that Craig informed them of. The warmth that had once felt suffocating had fully abandoned Grace, and she shivers as she pulls the sleeves of her hoodie over her fingers, trying to keep out as much of the chill as she could manage without her jacket that’s buried in the trunk of the Impala. She looks up questioningly when Dean nudges her shoulder, but soon a grateful smile spreads across her lips as she realizes he’s extending his jacket. She slips it on eagerly, zipping it all the way up to her chin before she’s pulling the drawstrings of her hoodie even tighter, creating a barricade around her face that has Sam laughing.

“It’s not even that cold, G.” Sam rolls his eyes at her dramatics, unaware of the chills that are rolling down Grace’s spine and her arms, or that she’s fighting off a violent wave of nausea that has her practically seeing white from the discomfort.

“Do I need to remind you that women’s bodies and men's bodies interpret temperature differently because of our core temperatures?” She huffs, beyond irritable as she fights off the stinging sensation in her eyes, the burning sensation in her throat, the foggy pounding in her head, and the churning in her stomach. She’d been hopeful that those symptoms were just a result of her exhaustion, but she’s not so sure anymore, though she’s also not willing to admit that she’s sick. Definitely not willing to admit that she’s sick.

“Let’s go, nerd.” Dean only rolls his eyes at her snarky comment, nudging her forward with his shoulder. Grace stumbles on her feet, eyes becoming unfocused as her vision blurs for a second. She fights the urge to grab at her temple, instead keeping her hands in the pockets of Dean’s jacket as she steadies her balance.

Sam frowns, only steps behind her. “Dude, you okay?” He finally brings himself to ask, but all he gets in response is a huff from Grace and an indifferent shrug from Dean.

“Shark week?” The elder Winchester suggests, his expression neutral though there’s the slightest quirk in his lip that suggests he’s a little too smug about the suggestion.

Grace wants to cry in frustration, her eyes stinging with tears she refuses to let her brothers see. Her head is pounding, black spots dance in her vision if she turns her head too quickly, her stomach is in knots, but she refuses to accept that she’s sick. She refuses to even acknowledge the possibility. Instead, she scoffs, shaking her head as she moves past Dean, now being the one to lead the way through the wooded area.

“Definitely shark week.” Dean nods, to which Grace flips him off, her footsteps heavy as she quickens her pace, not sure if she’s aiming to lose them in the trees or simply express every emotion that's overwhelming her.

“Can’t say I blame the kid.” Sam comments, his eyes trailing over Grace’s frame before he turns his attention to the abandoned houses around them, an eerie feeling creeping up his spine as the miles of land around them appear barren and worn down.

“Yeah. So much for curb appeal.” Dean scoffs, finally catching up to Grace who isn’t so intent on ‘accidentally’ losing her brothers anymore. He slings an arm over her shoulder, but she shrugs him off, her glare unwavering as she looks over at him.

She sticks closer to Sam as they continue down the gravel path, annoyance rolling off of her body in thick waves that has Dean shaking his head as if he’d not been the one to agitate her. Twenty years with a little sister and he still doesn’t know how to not be a dick around women. Grace hates to think that she loses more and more hope in men every time her brothers get too comfortable with their precious masculinity.

When they come up to a specific house, she peels away from them both, her eyes squinting as she approaches the abandoned building cautiously. Neither Sam or Dean attempt to stop her, blindly following her onto the dying blades of grass, equally as curious. Sam kicks around at broken branches, but Dean hangs back, the EMF detector in hand, his fingers tapping at the small device incessantly.

“You got something?” Sam questions, walking closer to where Dean is standing, having abandoned the corner of the house where he’d initially been searching, coming up with nothing of importance to them or the case at hand.

“Yeah. The EMF’s no good.” Dean sighs, the machine buzzing in his hand. “I think that things still got a little juice in it. It’s screwing with all the readings.” His eyes glance toward the power lines, and both Grace and Sam follow the motion, looking at the wires that cross over their heads.

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” Sam agrees quietly, only looking down at Grace for a second as she comes to stand beside them, not finding anything important on her end of the house.

“Come on, let's go.” Dean nods towards the house, and both Grace and Sam follow. For an instant, Grace almost wishes that they had even the slightest bit of reluctance to be entering an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, but it's certainly not the creepiest of settings they’ve wandered into with less information than what they currently have. She’ll never understand how this became her life, but she’s too far into it to start asking questions now.

The house is somehow colder inside than it is outside, and she shivers as she steps over the threshold, pulling the leather jacket tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes sweep over the interior, noting the cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings, and insignificant piles of debris scattered around the baseboards.

“Looks like old man Murdoch was a bit of a tagger during his time.” Dean comments as they walk farther into the house, eyes scanning over the decor that’s still sitting on shelves and pinned to walls.

Sam follows Dean’s line of sight, looking straight at the reverse cross that Grace had already set her gaze on, her thoughts spiraling in every possible direction as she pulls on everything she’s ever learned about religion and its branches. “And after his time, too.”

“The reverse cross has been used by Satanists for centuries, but the sigil of sulfur–” Grace starts, looking directly at Sam, who knows exactly where she’s going with that specific train of thought. He doesn’t hesitate before jumping in, their brains attempting to unscramble the puzzle in front of them in tandem. “–didn’t show up in San Francisco until the ‘60s.” He finished, eyebroward furrowed as they shared a single glance before Sam was lifting his phone, snapping a picture of the cross.

“This is why you never get laid.” Dean scoffs, never above making a dig at Sam about his lack of sexual activity, though he seems to bristle when he realizes he’s unintentionally looped Grace into the insult, and the slightest grimace of disgust that crosses his features at the insinuation of his little sister having random hookups is enough satisfaction for the woman, not feeling it necessary to call him a pig when he’s already regretting his choice words. “What about this one? You seen this one before?” Dean nods toward the opposite wall, stepping away from Sam and Grace who are still trying to memorize the image of the cross.

“No.” Grace shakes her head, stalking closer to where Dean is standing, his head tilted like he’s trying to remember something just out of reach. She shuffles closer to him out of instinct, their arms brushing at the newfound proximity, but if Dean thinks anything of it, he doesn’t comment on it. Sam comes up on the other side of Grace, his phone already raised as he snaps a picture of the symbol on the wall.

Dean keeps his eyes on the symbol, his head turning as he further analyzes it. “I have… somewhere.”

Sam reaches out inquisitively, brushing the pads of his fingers over the markings. “It’s paint.” He notes as he pulls his fingers away, glancing at the residue that comes off on his hand. “Seems pretty fresh, too.”

“I don’t know. I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but the cops might be right about this one.” Dean sighs, turning away from the symbol on the wall as he takes in everything else in sight, Sam trailing after him as he contemplates the truth in that statement. Grace doesn’t move, her head lulling on her shoulders as fights off a sniffle, suddenly congested despite the fresh air that streams into the house from beneath window sills and door frames.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Sam agrees.

Just as the three Winchesters let their guard down, a crash comes from somewhere in the house, instantaneously raising their guards. Sam and Dean take initiative, stalking through the house until they come upon a closed door where the sound seemed to have come from. Grace stands to the side, her eyes on both of her brothers who wait a single second before nodding at her, Dean reaching for his gun just as Grace reaches for the handle and pushes it open. She’s immediately blinded by a shining light, her eyes squinting as she quietly groans and backs away. Sam pulls her behind him, equally as frazzled but ever the protective older brother.

“God!” A man choirs, his heart undoubtedly racing as he glances at the siblings in front of him. “Ugh. Cut!” He calls, posture deflating as he regains his bearing, the flashlight lowering and no longer blinding Grace who thinks the black spots in her vision have doubled now. Still, she makes no indication that she’s not at her best, keeping her chin high and her shoulders square despite how Sam’s wide frame keeps her concealed. “Just a couple humans. What are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean throws back at them, his eyes watching Grace as she steps away from Sam, though he makes no indication that he sees the way she closes her eyes tightly and masks a wince of discomfort. His theory on her odd behavior being a symptom of shark week is dwindling by the minute, but he’s not brave enough to quiz her again, still highly aware of the fact that he has to be in a car with her later on, and he does not want a pissed off little sister on his ass in confined spaces.

“Um, we belong here. We’re professionals.” The man with the camera explains like its obvious, his hands waving at his sides as he addresses Dean.

“Professional what?”

“Paranormal investigators?” Grace notes how the frames of his glasses do little to compliment his features, the blue button down he wears only another factor that aids in her analysis of his character; and whether he’s going to be a royal pain in their ass throughout the duration of the case. She’s not always so quick to judge, but nerdy men who think they have a chance at social redemption have a thing or two in common. She scoffs quickly beneath her breath when he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a card with a little too much finesse to be authentic. Her analysis is quickly proven correct, his air of false confidence already annoying her as she watches the scene unfold, not willing to help her brothers out with this one. “Here you go. Take a look at that, boys.” He entirely ignores her presence, and she can only roll her eyes. Not all men are the same, she knows and appreciates that, but most of the ones she stumbles across in this line of work do not fall very far from the same misogynistic tree.

She glances down at the card in Dean’s hands, rolling her eyes as she reads over the blocky black text. “You got to be kidding me.” Dean comments, not an ounce of humor in his tone.

“Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler, hellhoundslair.com – You guys run that website.” Sam looks up at them, disbelief in his expression though Ed and Harry take it for what it's not, pride filling their features as their shoulders square and their chins rise the slightest inch.

“Yeah.” Ed hums.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re huge fans.” Dean mumbles as he passes them, Grace following behind him, eager to find something to look at that isnt the two men who couldn’t care less about her presence. For once, she’s thankful that they have no interest in her, not sure if she’d be able to handle the high levels of masculinity that twinge the air with something almost hostile.

“And, uh, we know who you guys are, too.” There’s a stiff beat of silence that elapses as Dean and Grace lock eyes, their gazes trailing toward Ed and Harry curiously, though cautiously.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam questions, being the only one to find his voice quick enough.

Ed clears his throat, “Amatures looking for ghosts and cheap thrills.” Grace rolls her eyes, opening a cupboard on the left of her body, not so entertained by the conversation anymore. She grips at the hinges for support when a wave of dizziness crashes over her, knuckles becoming white from the intensity of her grip as she forces herself steady and coherent.

“Yeah, so, if you guys don’t mind, we’re trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here.” Harry not-so-subtly attempts to get the Winchesters to leave, his eyes trailing across Grace’s petite frame as she searches through the cabinets for something undisclosed. She’s entirely unaware, but Dean’s not, and his body quickly shields her from sight as he turns around to look at the men fully.

“Yeah? What do you got so far?” He picks up a camera, playing it cool despite the annoyance thats radiating off of him.

“Har, why don’t you tell them about EMF?” Ed looks entirely too smug, and when Sam questions it, Harry only beams with arrogance, his smirk deeply unsettling as he nods like he knows everything that the Winchesters couldn’t even dream of one day finding out. Grace really wants to punch him, but she’s aware of the fact that she’s more irritable than she usually is as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, only slightly apologetic about the action that he’s not at all aware of.

“Electromagnetic field.” He boasts, and Sam can only smile as he scratches at his head, enjoying this far too much. “Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector like this bad boy right here.” Harry pulls an EMF detector out of his duffle bag on the counter, and Grace can only roll her eyes as she moves through the space, standing beside Dean now as they watch Sam lead the conversation. “Woah, woah. It’s a 2.8 mG. It’s hot in here.”

“Wow.” Sam fakes interest, his lips curving downward into an impressed expression as he glances at Grace and Dean, amusement sparkling in his eyes that only his siblings can pick up on.

“Huh. So, have you guys ever really seen a ghost before?” Dean questions, hands vaguely gesturing around the room they’re occupying.

“Once.” Ed nods, “We were investigating this old house, and we saw a vase fall right off the table–”

“ –by itself.” Harry adds, though the statement is quickly undermined by Ed who snaps his gaze to meet his partners.

“We didn’t actually see it, but we heard it. And something like that, it– it changes you.” Grace wants to bash her head into the wall as she listens to Ed talk, his tone entirely too filled with pride for something so insignificant.

“I think I get the picture.” Dean nods, “We should go, let them get back to work.” Nothing has ever sounded better to Grace, the woman desperately craving to seek warmth from the Impala, hoping to get another few hours of rest as well, though that's not looking too promising anymore.

-

Grace Winchester is definitely sick. She grimaces at the aftertaste on her tongue as she walks down the street balancing three hot drinks. While Sam and Dean had gone off to gather more intel on the case, she’d sought out a local coffee shop, thinking it was time that they put a little something in their bodies other than dust and debris. She hadn’t expected to make a b-line for the bathroom as soon as she’d entered the quaint little shop, but she was glad her brothers weren’t around to hear her wretch over the toilet, wanting to keep her sudden illness far off their radars, although she knew she was off to a terrible start already. She sneezed for the third time in the last five minutes as she approached Dean and Sam on the corner, standing outside of the Impala waiting for her to return, though they look to be having a pretty in depth conversation as Sam grips a handful of papers and pamphlets in his hands. Grace is painfully aware of how her eyes are glassy and swollen, her cheeks flush and yet somehow also pale, but she hopes that they think nothing of it, willing to lie and say she’s simply cold if they start to ask too many questions.

“I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals.” She only hears the tail end of their conversation, and a pout forms on her lips instantaneously as she glances down at the cups of coffee in her hands for the both of them. Sam winces sympathetically, taking one from her as she steps up to him softly.

“Thanks, Gracie.” He smiles softly, but his eyes stay fixed on her face for longer than necessary, and she sighs as she anticipates his next question. “You okay?”

“Fine. Definitely inhaled too much dust.” She plays it off, though the excuse is timed perfectly with another soft sneeze, and for once Sam doesn’t question it any further, nodding as he offers a quiet bless you. She’s about to get into the car, but Sam stops her with a hand on her forearm, a smirk on his lips that tells her everything she needs to know.

“What the–” Dean startles easily when he turns the car on and a spanish song starts blaring through the speakers. Sam can only laugh, entirely unaware of how Grace flinches at the sudden noise, her eyes pinching shut as she attempts to focus on her breathing and not throw up for the second time in ten minutes.

She gets into the car when Sam opens the passenger door, handing Dean his coffee before she’s making herself comfortable in the back, her cup of hot chocolate held between her kneecaps as she curls up tight, reaching for the blanket that’s crumpled up in a heap toward the other end of the seat. She tunes out their conversation, already half asleep by the time Dean puts the gear in drive and peels away from the curb.

She’s passed out when Sam glances back at her, his eyes filled with concern. He reaches for the hot chocolate that’s still between her knees, pulling it away from her unconscious body before it has the chance to spill and burn her. He frowns when he realizes she’s hardly even taken a single sip from it, his eyes immediately trailing toward Dean who isn’t so subtly watching her through the rearview mirror. “She’s sick.” He notes.

“Knew that the second she started with her ‘womens bodies run hotter than mens’ bullshit.” Dean rolls his eyes, though there's a twinge of concern etched across his brows as he reaches for the stereo, turning the music down despite it already being practically inaudible. “Just– don’t say anything. Don’t need her slashing my tires.” He’s only partly joking, and Sam knows that, but still they both can’t help but dread the anxiety and fear that plagues Grace whenever she comes down with something. Guilt pools in Dean’s chest, his heart hammering as he questions how their lives turned out so shittily that his sister can’t even find it within herself to admit to being sick.

-

The next morning, Grace somehow feels worse than she did the day before, and it's evident in the way she winces with every move she makes, soft sneezing filling the backseat as she masks groans of discomfort every time her muscles tense. After the seventh sneeze, Sam can’t take it anymore, his eyes trailing over her frame that’s partly concealed by the thick blanket she has pulled up to her chin.

“I know that you’re sick.” He comments, not blind to the way Grace tenses with fear, her eyes wide and vulnerable as she shakes her head, attempting to deny the truth they’re all aware of.

“I’m not sick.” She denies the accusation, her voice wavering, though whether it's a result of the fear that grips at her belly and twists it into knots, or the throbbing ache in her throat that’s not quelled by any amount of honey or tea, not even Grace is certain. All that she knows is that it most definitely does not help her case, and that’s evident in the way Sam’s lips twitch with sympathy.

“Gracie–” He starts, only to cut himself off, shaking his head as Dean pulls up to the Hell House, seeing officers and squad members surrounding the abandoned foundation. “It’s okay if you are. Dean and I got this.”

“I’m not fucking sick, Sammy. Would you just get the fuck out of the car already?” There’s a clip in her tone that neither of her brothers have heard in a while, years even, and they can only sigh as they agree to her demands, straightening out their jackets before they push the Impala’s doors open and step out into the awaiting cold. Whoever said Texas was warm year round was most definitely lying through their teeth.

Despite the soreness in her muscles and the way her head begs for reprieve from the constant moving, Grace climbs out of the car after Sam, not even glancing back at her brothers for a loose game plan before she’s stalking up to one of the officers in the yard, an air of confidence surrounding her as she moves, though its not at all genuine, rather, fabricated from the deep-rooted fear that just won’t relent no matter how hard she pleads with herself to just breathe.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 1999

Grace Winchester pants for breath as she looks over at her father, her green eyes glassy and incoherent as she lays limp on damp grass. She can’t remember how she got here – sprawled out in Bobby’s yard, covered in blood and what she thinks is monster goo – nor how long she’s been here. John stands in front of the Impala, arms crossed over his chest as he seethes. It was meant to be an easy fight, a sure fire win, but when he’d handed Grace the gun, when he’d told her to shoot the thing without a single second to prepare herself, all hell broke loose for both Winchesters involved.

Grace’s chest throbs as she hyperventilates on the grass, not sure if the ache in her ribs is from the monster she’d been pit up against, or her fathers assault. It doesn’t matter why she hurts, it only matters that she can’t pull herself up and John is waiting; waiting for her to get up, to dust herself off, to put up her fists and prove that she’s worth keeping around. Grace can’t move though. She can’t even lift her hands off the ground, let alone raise her entire body. Her head is pounding, but it has been pounding for days at this point, her throat is raw, and her eyes sting so horrendously that she thinks it might just be better to keep them closed forever, but that’s not an option. It will never be an option so long as John Winchester expects obedience from her.

“Get up, girl.” He demands, and another rock is hurled in her direction. It thumps against her thigh and becomes yet another sensation for Grace to try and ignore as she continues to try and stay conscious. She knows she’s in even more trouble if she faints, but she hasn’t eaten in days, she’s thrown up every ounce of water John’s let her consume, and she’s practically numb after trying to hold her own against her own father just hours after being thrown against a wall by whatever monster she’d been tasked with ending. “I said, Get. Up.” John growls, pushing himself off of the Impala with impatience. Grace can barely even flinch as he comes closer, too close, and before she knows it, or even has time to prepare, his steel toed boots are crashing into her ribcage, and the pain that she’d been dealing with before suddenly triples.

Grace tries to stand, attempting to get her limbs working again, but just as she lifts her head up off of the rain-soaked grass, she’s throwing up all over herself and John’s shoes. It’s not just stomach acid and water anymore either, and she cringes as she feels blood drip from her lips onto the blades beside her head. She can only whimper when her father grabs her by the collar of her blood soaked t-shirt, pulling her up off the ground without a moment of hesitation. Nothing’s broken. She’d know if something was broken, but that doesn’t mean everythings right either. Her face is flush, her throat is on fire, her stomach churns and not just because she’s terrified. Three days ago, she’d come home from school sick. The flu had been going around her dusty, and very temporary, middle school, and it came as no surprise to anyone that she’d been unlucky enough to catch it. John hadn’t taken kindly to her complaining, though all Grace had done was cough into her elbow at dinner, but apparently that was enough to put her on his chopping block – not that she ever left the very top of that list. He’d dragged her out to South Dakota that very next day, something about a strange death and a monster to hunt slipping past his lips when he’d informed Dean of the case. It wasn’t often that John took Grace on a hunt without her brothers, but it wasn’t uncommon either, and with that logic in mind, neither Sam nor Dean questioned why John wanted only Grace with him, naively assuming it was to keep them away from the flu that had her practically bedridden and imobile until he’d dragged her out by her wrist.

The only thing keeping Grace on her feet is John’s hand around her neck, and when he lets go, when he finally relents and allows her to breathe, she crumbles to the ground, landing in the pile of sick that's already begun to cool. She whimpers, both in pain and disgust, and attempts to get to her feet again, but John’s hand on her shoulder keeps her where she is. She’s little, only thirteen years old and barely half the height of her youngest older brother, but that’s never stopped her father from treating her like an adult. She moans in pain when he backhands her, but headlights shine brightly in the distance, and Grace knows it's the end, at least for now.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bobby rushes out of his car, his breath visible in the air as he races to where Grace is, her blood laced vomit smeared into her hair and her clothes tattered and stained as she succumbs to darkness, finally passing out. The last thing she can hear is John saying something about her being useless, needing to teach her that even a fever doesn’t exempt her from earning her keep in the family; his family.

Present

Grace tries not to panic as she crouches behind wilting shrubbery, the jacket around her shoulders zipped all the way up, though it barely does her any good as she continues to shiver. She has a fever, she doesn’t need a thermometer to tell, but she refuses to let Sam and Dean see this through on their own. She refuses to be a waste of space and air when there’s good to be done, evil to be ganked. It’s been years since she’s seen her father, but his words still echo through her head, and his irrational anger that only increased whenever she came down with something still flashes against her eyelids whenever she lets herself rest.

Her brothers still don’t know half of what she endured at the hands of John Winchester, but with the pieces of the puzzle that they have, Sam especially, they aren’t surprised by Grace’s reaction. None of their childhoods were ideal, none of them had white picket fences and lovey-dovey moments to steal, but Grace had the shortest stick there was to draw, and neither of her brothers can – or try to – deny it. It’s a miracle that she’s even here with them at all, searching for a man that put her through hell for the first eighteen years of her life, but she’s always known a thing or two about loyalty, and Dean hates to think that she’s faithful to a fault. She’ll get herself killed doing this job before she ever lets them go off without her.

“Guess the cops don’t want anymore kids screwing around in there.” Sam notes, watching as flashlights shine bright on the expanse of land surrounding them. For a moment, Grace is back in South Dakota, she’s sprawled out on rain-soaked grass and on the cusp of unconsciousness from a fever and physical injuries, but she forces the memory away, biting down on her bottom lip to focus on something other than the trauma circling through her mind.

“Yeah, but we still got to get in there.” Dean sighs, looking out past the branches, only to snap his gaze to the side when a twig breaks in the distance, leaves crunching beneath footsteps that approach as a pair. Grace follows his line of sigh, her hand falling onto Sam��s thigh as she steadies herself. She doesn’t make a big deal out of needing Sam’s support to find balance, and thankfully, neither does he. “I don’t believe it.” Dean scoffs, all three siblings watching as Ed and Harry stumble up the hill, headlamps shining bright against the night sky.

“I got an idea.” Dean mumbles before he rises off the ground just slightly, and while he’s preoccupied with whatever master plan he's thought up, Sam forces Grace closer to his chest, one arm looping around her waist to keep her close, knowing she’ll struggle.

“Sammy, would you quit it already!” Grace seethes lowly, her voice hushed and weak as she bats at his arm, trying not to panic at the sensation of being trapped; unable to defend herself against someone bigger than herself, stronger than she will ever be. “I told you I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up!” His voice is hushed, a whisper in the night, but still loud enough for Dean to acknowledge as he scoops out the stance of the officers on the front lawn, further curating his plan of distraction, though he’s still fully tuned into the conversation Sam is trying – and failing – to have with Grace. “Dad’s not here, Gracie! You don’t have to pretend like you're not sick!”

“You don’t know what your talking about, so why don’t you just shut up and let me do my fucking job.” She snaps, elbowing him in the gut, putting distance between herself and him. Neither brother notices how she grabs at her throat, or how she seems to heave for breath like she can’t physically draw anything into her lungs. They might be looking for John Winchester, but the effects of his torment and torture have never left Grace, not even for a second.

“Who you gonna call?” Dean bellows, tapping Grace’s side as he nods toward the house. The two officers posted outside bolted toward Ed and Harry, leaving a clear point of entry open for the Winchesters to strike. Grace can only shake her head at their stupidity, but doesn’t harp on how truly terrible they are at their job, thankful that it makes her life easier for once.

The siblings rush through the cover of darkness as the two county officers further chase Ed and Harry back down the hill. Grace gets into the house first, her heart stuttering in her chest as she forces her body to keep going, keep moving, keep being worth something to her brothers. She brushes strands of hair out of her face, sighing in annoyance when she finds that the reason her hair is loose and unruly in the first place is because the elastic band around her tresses has snapped. She looks to Dean when he hits her shoulder, ready to snap, to deny the fever that’s clouding her judgement, but all he does is offer her another hairtie, not saying a single word about how her breathing comes out wheezy, or how her face is flush and she looks somewhat green even beneath the cover nightfall they’ve chosen to sneak around beneath. She doesn’t ask why he even had a hair tie around his wrist to begin with, just takes it gratefully and redoes the ponytail that swings with every crane of her head. She feels better, just slightly, but with cold air hitting the back of her neck now, she hopes that some of the fog over her senses will fall away and become a problem for later on when there aren’t innocent lives to save and monsters to put an end to.

Sam hands Dean a shotgun first, before reaching into the duffle again to hand one to Grace. She barely bristles as she cocks the gun, the metal familiar beneath her fingertips despite how much she hates these weapons. She doesn’t waste a second, because they don’t have a second to waste, before she’s approaching the wall where the unknown symbol remains, Dean’s flashlight illuminating the dried paint as well as it can.

“Where have I seen that symbol before? It’s killing me.” He grumbles, but Sam isn’t waiting around for their brother to figure it out, sneaking up beside Dean and Grace before he’s making a move of his own, peeling away from the post they’ve created beside the wall.

“Come on. We don’t have much time.” He directs them farther into the house, his flashlight illuminating corners they don’t even touch as he searches for the basement. Grace sighs as she follows her brothers, but when Sam stops in front of the staircase, shining his flashlight down the steps, she’s quick to snake her way between them, outright refusing to be the first to descend the rickety stairs or the last last. Sam looks back at her, rolling his eyes, though he’s anything but surprised. She’s always been terrified of basements, and neither Dean nor Sam know why. It’s one of the only fears that Grace can’t explain either, though she’s sure something has happened over the course of her life that would warrant such a fear, but off the top of her head, she always comes up blank.

A sneeze catches both of her brothers off guard, their flashlights temporarily blinding her as they snap their gaze in her direction, expecting to see a shadow or another idiot kid, their shoulders squared and ready for anything that may come at them. She blushes sheepishly, apologizing meekly as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket as a precaution. Growing up with two brothers that never learned how to actually be mature adults means she’s constantly worrying about having something on her face, and she knows neither of them would tell her if she did, though she holds a little bit of hope in Sammy now, but even he’s guilty of omitting the truth for a prank.

Dean’s the first to pull away from the interaction, his flashlight sweeping across the expanse of the basement before he dwells on a single shelf with mason jars of ominous liquid laid out in a neat row. He picks one up that has an off-putting orange tinge to it, a smirk curving his lips upward. “Hey, Sam, I dare you to take a swig of this.” He teases.

Grace rolls her eyes, staying silent, but Sam was never one to just ignore Dean’s wit. “The hell would I do that for?” He rebuttals, features unamused despite giving Dean exactly what he wanted in the first place, which was any kind of response at all.

“I double dare you.” Dean’s entirely too giddy about the situation, but that ends just as quickly as it began when there’s a scratching noise behind them. Instinctively, he reaches for Grace, tugging her further behind him as all three of them turn to address the sudden sound.

They stalk up to the cupboard where the sound came from with intent, shotguns raised and aimed at the cabinet as Sam ever so cautiously inches to pull it open. Grace braces herself for whatever they may face, but ultimately its not needed, rats scampering out of the cupboard the second the door is cracked open.

“I hate rats.” Dean groans, and Grace can only agree, inching backward as the rats run in all directions around her.

“You’d rather it was a ghost?” Sam questions, and Grace nods eagerly, a shriek escaping her lips when a rat tail flicks at her ankle.

“Yes.” Dean grimaces, flashlight still shining on the floor, illuminating the creatures that scamper around.

Grace is still inching backwards, away from the rats when something eerie creeps up her spine. All she has to follow is intuition, but she listens to her instincts without second thought, thankful that she did, because behind her is the shadow of a spirit, an axe held high above her head. Her gun goes off first, aimed directly at the ghost's chest. She doesn’t miss, she hardly ever misses, but even with the echoes of her brothers shooting at it too, the ghost disappears, hardly phased by the ambush.

“What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?” Sam bellows in surprise, his eyes flickering to Dean as Grace steps back into line with them, no longer wanting to be out in the open steps ahead of them. Her chest is racing, her lungs ache. She’s never been a fan of jumpscares, but it's not panic that fills her body with discomfort, it's the reminder that despite wanting to pretend like she’s at her best, there’s still a fever and nausea plaguing her.

“I don’t know! Come on, come on, come on!” Dean chirps with efficiency, all three siblings keeping their shotguns cocked as they peel away from the corner of the basement, rushing toward the stairs, hoping to escape the spirit to regroup the information that they have – which isn’t much of anything – but before they can climb the steps, the shelves are being smashed, and something knocks Grace on the ground, her head bashing against the banister as she falls.

She hardly manages to get to her feet before Dean’s grabbing the back of her jacket and pulling her with him. There’s blood dripping down her head, sticky and warm as it coats her eyebrow and drips farther down her face. She can only grimace as she runs, both hands on her shotgun ready to aim at whatever comes at them. Dean barrels through the front door still holding onto Grace’s jacket, and the both of them tumble to the ground as she loses her footing on the stairs and Dean trips over himself. They’re back up on their feet in seconds, Dean shoving past Harry and Ed who are stupidly holding up cameras that won’t do them any good.

They’re heading to the Impala, the cold air hitting Grace as she races past her brothers and toward the car, desperate for a minute to breathe without fearing for her life. She wipes at the blood dripping down her face, grimacing at the familiar feeling beneath her fingertips and the stain to her white long sleeved shirt but that's the least of her worries as the throbbing in her head only grows, and the wave of nausea intensifies. Somehow she gets into the car without losing any of the lunch she’d barely been able to stomach, and she’s practically dead to the world when Sam and Dean climb in, peeling away from the scene like a bat out of hell, the engine revving as Dean books it back to the motel.

“You okay back there, G?” Dean calls once they are a safe distance away, adrenaline no longer coursing through their veins so intently. Grace can’t say she’s thankful for that, because without the fight or flight instincts taking the reins, she’s aware of how tired she is.

“Peachy.” She chokes out, grimacing as the strain in her throat. “Give me that.” She leans forward, stealing a rag from the passenger seat that Sam had been using to polish his knives. She doesn’t care about what chemicals have touched the rag, or that it’s been trampled on by both her shoes and Sam’s. All she wants is for the blood to stop pouring down her face, not sure how much more she can take before she’s thrown head first into a panic attack that neither of her brothers should need to deal with. “Fucking hell.” She winces, pressing the rag to the cut on her temple. It’s not nearly deep enough for stitches, she’s beyond grateful for that, but it's still deep enough to be a pain in the ass as she puts pressure on the wound. “My brain better not have a fucking splinter.”

-

Grace moans as she slumps against the wall in the bathroom, the porcelain of the toilet seat cold beneath her cheek as he heaves over the bowl once more. She’s been bent over the toilet for the last twelve minutes, not that she was counting, throwing up everything that she’d consumed that day. Her head is pounding, and tears blur in her vision as the breakdown she’d been desperately trying to ignore overcomes her in a moment of weakness. She bashes her fist against the wall, but even the pain in her fingers can’t distract her from the panic attack that’s climbing up her throat. A dry sob falls off her lips, tears falling down her cheeks, mixing with the blood that still smeared across her face.

A knock on the door sends her scrambling back against the wall, swallowing the bile that’s raising in her throat as she stares at the door with wide, terrified eyes. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, or better yet, who she’s expecting, but when Dean jiggles the handle, finding it unlocked, she can only sob in terror that’s wildly misplaced. He has a cup of hot tea in his hands, but quickly he sets it on the sink, crouching in front of Grace who shrinks away from him in fear, her breathes wheezy and shallow as she shakes her head, fingers tangling into her hair as she pulls and pulls at her tangled locks.

“No! No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m fine! I promise!” She mumbles, eyes pleading with Dean to believe her, to spare her anymore pain. She’s not seeing Dean, not in the slightest. The fevers made her delirious, the panic’s turned reality to old memories. She’s in a bathroom, a crappy motel bathroom, but its not the one she shares alone with her brothers. It’s one that her father rented.

West Reading, Pennsylvania. 1997

Grace heaves over the toilet bowl, coughing and spluttering as she expells everything she had at lunch that day. John isn’t with them, but he’s coming back soon, Dean told her as much when she came home early with a fever. It’s not the first time she’s gotten sick at school, not the first time she’s picked up a virus or a bug from hanging around kids her own age. It’s not her fault, not really. All of her classmates get the vaccines and the boosters, all of her classmates are exposed to illness and viruses year round as they socialize and develop their personalities based on the small towns they occupy. Grace has never had the luxury. Grace isn’t even sure she’s ever had the flu shot.

The last time she was sick, John had told her not to let it happen again. That she was already weak enough without a fever and vomiting; that she was no good to any of them if she was hunched over a toilet. He’d told her the only reason he keeps her around at all is to have an extra set of hands, and what good are her hands if she can’t even lift her head up. Grace knows the kids at her school don’t have to worry about their father killing them if they come home with a cough, but she can’t help but think that this may be the reason she dies. She doesn’t want to believe that John will kill her over a stomach bug, but she can’t deny the possibility. Not when he’s hurt her for less. Not when he told her the next time she gets sick, they’ll be a bullet between her eyes before she can even plead for her life.

Her fingers tighten around the seat of the toilet as she retches, the motel door slamming as John comes back. She knows it's him because of the way his boots echo despite the carpeted floors. She knows its him because Dean is sputtering excuses, practically begging John to take him to the diner, claiming he needs a beer. Dean’s not even old enough to drink, Sam’s not even old enough to drive, and Grace is definitely not old enough to be panicking over whether this is the last thing she’ll ever do; throw up in a shitty motel bathroom.

The bathroom door wasn’t locked. It’s never locked. Not when Grace uses it at least. She wishes she locked it when the door knob slams into the wall, almost hard enough to dent it, but it's like John’s showing restraint, not wanting to be questioned at check out if somebody happens to notice the damage before he can peel away from the parking lot. She whimpers, eyes staring straight back at her father who looms over her like a predator. Her friends at school don’t see their dad’s as the enemy. Well, Carrie does, but that’s only because he took away her favorite body spray after her brother tried to start a fire after learning about chemicals in his high school science class. Grace knows this isn’t normal. She understands that now. But understanding something doesn’t mean that it’ll stop, only that it becomes a best kept secret.

“What the hell did I tell you, girl!” John bellows, backhanding her without remorse. Her head slams into the wall, and she starts to vomit again, but this time it falls onto her chest, and she whimpers in humiliation as she stares up at her father with glassy eyes. Sam and Dean stand in the center of the room between the two beds that all four of them share. Dean watches silently, his hand on Sam’s wrist keeping him from getting between John and Grace. Nothing good happens when they do that; when they protect her, but still Sammy always tries anyways.

John doesn’t say anything else as he grabs a fistful of Grace’s hair, pulling her in close to the toilet that she hasn’t had the chance to flush. She doesn’t know where this is going, doesn’t know what to brace herself for, but when her father forces her head into the toilet, into the contaminated water that’s not just water anymore, she desperately tries to get herself free. Dean winces as he watches, Sam flinches. There’s nothing they can do. If they so much as ask him to stop, he’ll only go on longer. If Sam tries to get in the middle, tries to help his baby sister that’s drowning in her own sick, John’ll only hit her harder. They’re trapped. Forced to watch as their father that devotes his life to killing monsters, turns into one any time his youngest child so much as breathes too loud.

The toilet flushes with Grace’s head still in the bowl, her hair wet now as it falls into the water. John only relents when Grace can’t struggle anymore, but he doesn’t give her the chance to catch her breath before he’s pulling her to her feet by the handful of hair that he has. She knows where this is going. Sam and Dean know where this is going. Both brothers watch as their little sister is dragged to the closet, her body, already weak and barely functioning, thrown into it with a venomous force. She’s coughing up water, desperately wiping at her face that is covered in her own sick. She doesn’t have the strength to plead with John, but Dean knows that she wants to; that she would’ve had there not been water in her lungs she’s continuously coughing up. The door slams and the lock clicks, and it's silent for a handful of minutes before John nods toward the door, suddenly interested in that beer Dean suggested.

“Wh-What if she gets sick again? S-She’ll– Dad, she could die if she chokes on it.” Sam glances back at the closet as John demands that he steps outside and comes with them. He knows his little sister is in a ball on the floor, panicking and probably puking, but he knows if he reaches for the handle, if he opens the door now, John’ll only shove Grace right back in and force him outside and on a hunt. He knows that if either he or Dean open that closet before at least a handful of hours have elapsed, it’ll only be worse for Grace.

“You disobeying me, boy?” John narrows his eyes, Dean silently pleading with Sam to drop the subject and get moving, knowing the quicker they leave, the quicker they grab dinner and drinks at the local diner, the quicker they’ll be able to come back and let Grace out. John never has any objections when they let her out after they’ve come back from somewhere. They just need to get through the hour or so they’ll be away first.

“No, sir.” Sam sighs, glancing at the closet one last time before he’s following after his brother, fear pooling in his belly as he tries not to think about what’s happening in the closet, or if his little sister will still be alive when they come back.

Present

“Hey, hey. Hey, Gracie girl.” Dean’s tone is unbelievably soft as he steps closer to his sister, his hands extended toward her, though he doesn’t think he’s really seeing him at all. Her face is flush, her eyes are glassy and rimmed red, swollen from crying and the minutes she’s spent hunched over the toilet. He can still remember that night in Pennsylvania. He can still remember how John held her head in the toilet for what felt like hours, and his heart hammers with guilt for not being able to protect her then, but he can do something about it now, even if it is years too late. “You’re okay. Gonna be sick again?” He’s always been soft with her, always been kind and gentle, but it only shows itself in moments like these. Moments when they’re not hunters, just siblings that have only ever had each other to look out for and count on. Grace might be twenty, she might not be this little girl who doesn’t know how to defend herself anymore, but she’s still his baby sister. She’s still the only piece of Mary that he and Sammy have left.

Grace shakes her head, swallowing thickly. She’s out of it, the fever she’s been ignoring finally getting the best of her. She whimpers when he steps closer, when he brushes hair out of her face that’s damp from the pearls of sweat that drip down her neck. She thinks he’s going for her hair, thinks he’s going to pull her up to her feet and force her into a closet, and she whimpers, flinching away. Dean’s strong, he always has been, he doesn’t care to show emotion, doesn’t care to express his feelings, but he can’t help the frown the pulls at his lips as he finally realizes why his sisters so scared right now. It’s not that he forgot, he could never forget, but when it was all happening, when John was still around and Grace hadn’t yet bailed to find peace with Sam at Stanford, he’d been partly blinded by his fathers dysfunctional style of discipline. He’d always known that the way John treated Grace was abusive, he wasn’t that easily manipulated, but until now, until John wasn’t here to chastise and terrorize her anymore, he’d never realized just how much it had all affected her, and unfortunately, he’s no longer blinded by the false hope that when John pulled her away form them for solo hunts, he wasn’t doing his absolute worse.

“Okay, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed then.” He helps her to her feet, guiding her out of the bathroom, trying not to wince when her head falls onto his shoulder and he can feel the heat radiating off of her forehead. She’s burning up, and he can only sympathize. She’s always been the one to catch an illness, and although he was only six when Mary died, he vaguely remembers how his mother would always fret over her health. John used to worry too, used to tell the boys to wash their hands and never touch her face, always tell them that because she was born so early, her little body couldn’t fight illnesses as well as theirs. He doesn’t know when his father stopped caring. Doesn’t know when Grace became the person he hates most, when she was once his favorite child, but he hates it. He hates that his sister is the sweetest, kindnessest, most trusting and loving person he knows, and their father could never recognize that. He hates that after nineteen years of torture and pain, Grace still has her heart. She’s one of the best damn hunters Dean has ever crossed paths with, but at the end of the day, she’s just a woman with a whole lot of love to give, and somehow she always ends up hurt.

“I need– I need to h-help. Need to– to be worth keeping ‘round.” She wheezes, allowing Dean to lay her down in his bed. He’s a real bitch whenever they get into their motel rooms, always claiming a bed to himself, never willing to share. Usually that means Sam and Grace are bunked together, or on the rare hunts when they can splurge for a bigger room, Sam takes the couch. Grace barely even recognizes that she’s being laid down in Dean’s bed, her fever taking the reins of her consciousness despite how hard she’s trying to fight it.

“You’re worth keeping around, Gracie girl.” That nickname, something so soft, so sweet and slightly abnormal, isn’t one that she hears a lot, but in moments like this, moments when she’s just Dean’s baby sister and not a hunter with near perfect aim, it slips out. “Just take these, and get some sleep, yeah? Sammy and I’ll finish this thing up. We just need you resting.”

He hands her three different pills, and Grace takes them without fuss, not coherent enough to really fight him anyway. She’s only getting hotter by the second, her complexion pale and gauntly as she sinks into the mattress. She’s asleep within seconds, and Sam can only shake his head.

“What are we doing man? Dragging her back into this– I mean, I know she can handle this. The hunts, the monsters… but Dean, you didn’t see her when she turned up to my place at Stanford. She barely left her room for the first month, terrified that Dad would find her, drag her back to some crappy motel and beat the shit out of her for trying to leave. Are we really just going to walk her back into his life?” Sam pulls a hand down her face, and for a moment Dean falters, torn between wanting to find out what happened to their father, and keeping Grace far from him. They don’t have time to sit here and discuss the trauma that still affects their sister who isn’t so far off from still being a kid.

“It’ll be different this time.” Is all Dean says before he’s out the door, and Sam can only follow him, stealing one last glance at Grace before he’s closing the motel door, desperately hoping that Dean’s right, that this time really is different.

It's hours later when they return, and despite expecting to see Grace still asleep in bed, she’s sitting up against the wall, a takeaway container of chicken tenders in her lap. The sun is just beginning to rise again, though the sky is unwilling to let light fan across the endless expanse just yet.

“Hey.” She greets them, holding the box out for Dean, grinning when he doesn’t hesitate to grab a fry and throw it into his mouth.

“Hey. You look better.” Sam comments, already starting to pack his shit up, both him and Dean eager to get the hell out of town and hit the road to somewhere new.

“Took a nap, a shower, went out for some actual meds… and there’s nothing chicken fingers can’t fix. Had to bribe the chef at the dinner to make me some.” She’d be lying if she said her head didn’t still throb, but everything else seems to have faded now that she’s medicated, rested, and actually eating something that’s not a twix bar Dean lifted from a gas station.

“Of course you did.” Dean rolls his eyes, reaching for another fry before he’s scrambling to get his own shit together, not that any of them brought much inside, but there’s still precious items they wouldn't’ dream of just abandoning scattered around the room. “Everything’s good. Dude was a freaking Tulpa.”

Grace nods, but there’s an edge in her eyes that tells Dean he’s on his sister's chopping block. “Next time you leave me here to finish a hunt, I’ll cut your balls off.”

“What were you gonna do, puke on the spirits' feet?” Dean can only laugh when a chicken finger is thrown at his head, Grace huffing as she stands to start packing her own shit, though she’s considerably less disorganized than her brothers who are scrounging around every corner of the room for things.

“Asshole.” Grace mutters beneath her breath, though she’s just glad the world has finally stopped spinning.

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

Angel - Part 2

Marvel AU

Pairing: Alpha Steve Rogers x Enhanced Omega Reader x Alpha Bucky Barnes

Theme: A/B/O / True Mates

Summary: It's different when you're enhanced. Everything is different, every smell, every sound, touch, feelings. The way it's different doesn't make sense unless you are enhanced. Throw in what comes with Alpha and Omega instincts, and the intensity of your presentation is even more than any other. When you find yourself in need of help you can call on the alpha you trust the most, Natasha Romanoff. You just don't expect to find your alphas at the same time. Are you really enough for them? And can you really be the Luna to the Avengers?

"To be loved, to be loved by your mate is everything." - Wanda Maximoff

Reader is enhanced, has wings and has powers connected to electricity.

Chapter Summary: Clint and Nat discover what's happened to you.

Chapter Warning: Mentions of sexual assault and attempted rape.

Clint’s the first to find you.

You’re sitting in the ditch your knees to your chest, head down and your wings wrapped around you.

“I have her, slow approach.”

He slowly knelt down in front of you, keeping a two metre distance. He had never seen your wings so dark, as black as they were now. You’d told him early on in your friendship that they changed colour with your moods. The darker, the worse the mood. He’d only seen them pure white a couple of times and it was always around his kids or laughing with Nat and Laura on the porch at the farm. But right now, they were as dark as night, like Lucifer himself had given them to you.

“Y/N? Sweetie it’s me. It’s Clint. Can you let me see you?”

Your wings dipped ever so slightly and your tear filled eyes looked back at him. It didn’t take a detective to figure out what had happened. Even his beta nose could pick up the stink of the alpha on you and he knew that scent. If he didn’t kill the alpha responsible, Romanoff definitely would. Clint knew what he had to ask you and he hated having to ask, knowing he really already knew the answer, but protocol was protocol and he knew at least a dozen agents that practically worshipped you and would bring in the piece of shit, to save him and Romanoff the trouble. They’d get you settled and then have him delivered to them. Wanda would want in on this and he was sure Wade owed you a favour. Yeah that would do it but now he needs you out of this ditch.

“Y/N? Do you require a female senior officer for debrief?”

You nodded weakly in reply.

Purposeful footsteps made themselves known and you saw Natasha’s silhouette appear from the darkness, the sparse street lights being all to light the ditch.

“Angel?”

The smell and look in your eyes hit Natasha like a freight train and she knew right then she was putting some red in her ledger. She tried her best to keep the growl muffled in her chest as she pulled out a pair of medical gloves from her pocket, as Clint mimicked her actions.

“Bruce call Hill, direct line, tell her we need her on a video call immediately. AR and SA suspected. Debrief required.” Clint requested over comms as he and Natasha slowly reached out to you, their hands outstretched. You placed a hand in one each of theirs and they slowly lifted you up, both noticing how your face contorted with pain.

“We’ve got you.” spoke Clint softly as he slipped an arm around your waist, “this OK?”

You let out a shuddered breath and nodded. Nat mimicked Clint’s actions, pushing down her inner alpha’s rage. Both supported you keeping the smallest of gaps between you so not to contaminate your suit too much and damage the evidence you were covered in.

The light breeze generated from F.R.I.D.A.Y bringing around the jet blew your hair back and Clint got a clearer view of your face, and could see a clear the mark where you’d been struck. Bruce appeared on the already lowered ramp and you noticed he was also wearing gloves and a disposable apron.

“Hills online and everything is set up.”

As you entered the jet you became aware of what Bruce meant and saw a projection of a live video call from Deputy Director Hill, a stern look on her face. A plastic sheet was laid in front of the screen, and on it laid a clear bag, swabs, scissors and nail clippers. You stepped on the sheet and Hill pushed down a growl, trying to hide it as a clearing of her throat as she saw the state you were in.

“Agent, please confirm your identity.”

You signed back.

AFH 27, code name Angel

“I’m going to need verbal communication if possible Agent.”

You gesture at your throat, getting frustrated when you realised you weren’t being clear.

“I don’t think she can.” Bruce replied for you, noticing the bruising making its way up your neck. He placed a tablet in front of you, the internal state of your vocal calls displayed.

There was a muttered Jesus Christ from Hill.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y give her a full body scan for injuries, fluids and any other evidence.”

“Agent, tell me what happened.”

TAGLIST

@hnnhbananananana

[elvenbeard]

Old and Happy

😭 my feels have been all over the place since I finally finished this! Don't even remember when I started, as I kept working on and off on it over a couple of months. But I think it was after writing something particularly angsty and going "you know what, they will get their happy ending though, so it's all good".

Some details and thoughts below the read more cause it got long hhhh ;A;

This is in about 2087 maybe, roughly "ten years later". Vince changed his hair, ditched the rattail for good (or again xD) for something still colorful but a bit more easy to style. But he might change it up again, he's done so repeatedly and still likes to experiment with his hair.

Not visible, he probably would've added some elements to his back tattoo after surviving all of 2077. Johnny's tattoo he covered up as well, he would've done that first probably before the back piece. Adding some things here and there over time, with colors and patterns and wings, some cherry blossoms ('cause a thing of beauty will never truly fade away - hence just not getting laser removal but covering it with something that suits him more, but keeping some elements like the J and V visible). It started with three roses below the "V" as a little homage to Jackie, and 2077 as the year that finally put him on the right track in his life, even if it almost killed him in the process.

Overall he is a healthier weight than he was for most of his life, and finally got some therapy he desperately needed to deal with all the crap he went through pre-2077 already. He's not dyeing his first grey hairs because hell, that he's even still around to get some is amazing with his line of work and life story. And he realized that there's no need to be super well put togeher 24/7, clean shaven and whatnot, when you know you're just gonna be hanging out with your man and cat all weekend (and actually allowing yourself to something like that - leisure time and pizza in bed, unheard of to 2077!Vince). He's doing good and feels good and comfortable, physically and mentally.

Kerry also changed, also embracing the dad bod over abs, probably still experimenting with his looks a lot now and then whenever the label feels like they need to draw attention to him for whatever reason. But to the brown eyes he returned in 2078 already in my headcanon for the Sun ending timeline, and he stuck with them.

Overall I think he might finally care a little less about other people's opinions too, the buzz and the drama, cause he knows that at the end of the day there's always gonna be someone waiting for him at home who loves him unconditionally. He's a bit calmer and at ease, but of course still up to no good whenever he gets the chance to stir shit up xD Vince and him remain to be a dangerous duo you don't wanna mess with. At that point Vince is a well-respected, even if somewhat elusive, fixer, so he's probably even more dangerous now than he used to be as a mere merc with an arsenal of connections and resources at his disposal that can almost rival Kerry's.

I also gave Kerry a lil new cyberware piece on his hand - he is an old man and I think, using his hands as a musician on the daily, at some point there's just gonna be some wear and tear to your bones and joints only tech can fix anymore... Especially if you're stubborn and refuse to retire cause no, you're not done yet, you still have so much to yell into the world and music to make, stuff to add to your legacy and all.

Last but not least: Nibbles is an old lady already as well here, but living her best life with her dads spoiling her rotten, of course!

And then öalkshjdfagsdföasgdfaösfh ;___;

Y'know, "to bad decisions" and all, and two very different pieces still fitting together perfectly somehow, and light and shadows, and the sun and moon and yeah. ;___; Brb crying, the feels are back xD

Thanks so much for reading if you made it this far!! They mean so much to me and aösdjhfajsfhasfk could go on forever about every little detail xD On to the next drawing!

[brianlesshetaliawritings]

Can you do yandere canada and russia after they stop their darling from escape with a bit of violence like broken bone? Like how they treat y/n after that

Yandere Canada and Russia after breaking his darling's leg. (to stop them escaping)

would it be bad to say im excited to write this? idk. i got to thinking and decided i'll go with a broken leg if ya don't mind, sorry. also, sorry again for taking so long. and also like, sorry if this sucks ass??.. i didnt pass writing class if you can tell. but uhh.. ya, this is probably really bad so im sorry. :( another note: I JUST FUCKING REALIZED THAT THIS WAS PROBABLY A REQUEST FOR AFTERWARDS OH MY GOD IM STUPID I WAS GONNA WRITE THE WHOLE PROCESS AND SHIT😭 I NEVER READ SHIT ALL THE WAY ISTG

tw: violence, broken bones, abuse, force feeding, similar stuff

!! yandere content. if you can't handle any behavior possibly seen in a yandere please don't read this. !! (example; obsessive, stalkery, possessive, violent, or generally horrid behaviour.)

Canada

Canada honestly hated having to do this, but he really felt like he had to. That and he was just really pissed. Like a lot. Like screaming, hitting, and punching type pissed. But, again, doesn't like seeing you hurt.

After he absolutely destroyed your lower calf and beat you for a while he spent a minute staring at you, a bit in a daze, until eventually suddenly snapping out it and quickly bringing you home to properly care for the damage he has afflicted upon you.

He was way gentle afterwards, bandaging and disinfecting the wounds with much care and as thuroughly as possible. Though, it was clear he wasn't just going to let this off the hook with the way he decided to directly tie you to a hook on the wall, with very little wiggle room and no way to move more than maybe a foot.

Your progress in all the freedom you acquired was not only reset, but even worse than where you first got here. It's uncomfortable, even with the pilow he provided you. You're no longer allowed to have your hands free in general, and he has to feed you instead of letting you do it yourself. When you need to use the restroom you have two minutes in there until he starts asking what you're doing in there.

It wasn't really all that painful though outside of the ache of the previous abuse he made you endure. That and the occasional ache from the limitted positions you have at your disposal, don't worry though. Every three days he'll switch your spot so you'll at the very least have a different view to look at. In general, he isn't the worst to have, but definitely not the quickest to forget. You'll be stuck doing this for another month or two before he even considers giving you the slightest of freedoms.

Russia

Ivan is not nearly as lenient as Canada. Hell, after he beats the life out of you, probably breaking more than just your leg, he decides to lock you up in the basement—the cold, empty basement. He drags you to the stairs, shoves you down, and locks the door before ditching you for the next day or so.

Eventually, though, he returns, purely to ensure you don't die. You've been bad, but he'd never want you dead. It would be a lonely world without you by his side. His hands roughly push you around as he wraps you up in bandages and drenches your wounds, rubbing the stuff off with a washcloth afterward. He forces you to be tied up in a position where the majority of your bones will heal correctly, besides the leg. If the leg is messed up, that'll make any future attempts all the harder for you, which is what he wants.

Once he's done with that, it'll be another two days. No food, no water, no warmth, no him. Just sitting in the basement without pain medicine, starving, perhaps freezing, as he does nothing to help you with frostbite or hypothermia. Though, as expected, he returns yet again, and this time with food. The force-feeding will be rough, and you'll likely choke a couple of times, but honestly, it's better than you having been starving earlier.

This will be your life for two or so weeks, rotting in the basement, with your only human interaction being when you need to eat or maybe even for the restroom. The good news, though, is that Russia isn't a very patient man. Even if he's frustrated, he misses you a lot. So you'll be freed rather quickly compared to Canada, funny enough. Or at least, freed from the basement, that is.

Don't take this as him forgetting, though. Oh no, he remembers. You're only this lucky because he loves you, okay? You'll never know any of the freedoms you might've had in the past, and you're pretty much stuck with being tied or trapped for the rest of your miserable life. The only thing that'll really change is just the quality of how he'll treat you, the comfort in which you'll be provided, and your setting. So have fun, dear reader, and good luck. You'll need it.