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kaisacobra · 2 months ago

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Speak No Evil - Sam Carpenter

Part 1 of Dark Knight series

Summary: You think Tara's sister hates you, or, at least, she is embarrassingly aware of your little crush on her. You couldn't be further from the truth, but Sam wouldn't let you know the length she'd go to protect you.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Stalker!Sam, violence, blood, character death (not main) mentions of sex, cursing, mostly following canon.

w.c: 5.6 k

“Ugh, I just want to get home and throw myself on the couch.”

“Real.”

You and Tara climbed the stairs to her apartment side by side, dragging your feet more than anything else due to the exhaustion of the grueling day in college. You almost sighed with relief when you arrived in front of the familiar door, seeing your best friend take the key out of her pocket and open the lock with her shoulder already against the wall.

She entered the house already throwing her own bag aside, without even noticing the object sliding across the wooden floor. Being a visitor, you couldn't afford the same carelessness, opting to leave your bag on one of the small sofas. Your shoulders thanked you when they were spared the weight of the textbooks after long minutes on the subway and walking.

“You're home early, Sam.”

Automatically, your heart started racing when you heard Tara's simple words and you turned around at lightning speed to see Samantha Carpenter emerging from the kitchen, wearing nothing more than a gray tank top and black pants, comfortable to wear at home but dangerous for your eyes.

“They robbed that electronics store next to the bar.” She shrugged at her own explanation, but you were more focused on the way her biceps seemed to bulge when she crossed her arms. “The boss chose to close it for safety reasons, plus no one would want to drink with a police car parked right outside the door.”

“H-Hi, Sam!” You raised your hand to greet her, but your brain froze as you decided between a gesture, and you ended up with a strange three-fingered salute.

Your cheeks felt like they were on fire as you instantly regretted your action, especially after Sam barely reacted to your presence, with nothing more than a nod to indicate that she had heard you. She had barely finished greeting you when she turned to Tara again. “Since I'm here, I can cook something for dinner instead of getting takeout.”

“Great!” Tara agreed beside you. “Just don't do too much. Y/n and I are going to make popcorn and watch a movie right now, I won't be that hungry later.”

“And I'm not staying for dinner!” You hastened to say, not wanting to give Sam any more trouble, especially when she seemed to stare into the depths of your soul with those piercing dark eyes. “I-I still have a lot to study, I have to get back early.”

Still remaining a woman of few words, Sam merely nodded and began to retreat to the kitchen again, before stopping to point at Tara. “Just don't make it too loud. Last time I had to listen to a lot of complaints from the lady upstairs.”

“You got it.” Tara replied with a joking salute and the older sister just rolled her eyes before finally leaving the two of you alone. It wasn't long before you became the butt of Tara's jokes, as she mimicked your voice in an annoyingly high-pitched tone. “H-Hi, S-S-Sam...”

“Fuck you.” You punched the girl weakly in the shoulder as you walked over to the couch, throwing yourself against the cushions with your arms crossed. Tara paid no attention to the micro-aggression, laughing even louder as she sat down next to you, crossing her legs on the furniture.

A sigh escaped your throat as Tara turned on the television and flipped through the catalog of some streaming network, probably looking for another horror movie. “I think your sister hates me.”

“Nah, that's just how she is.” The shorter girl threw a gesture of indifference. “But she surely knows about this big ass crush you have on her.”

You felt your face catch fire again at the accusation. “I don’t- .”

“Yes, you do. It's obvious and it's disgusting.”

“Yeah?” You decided to join in Tara's teasing game, knowing that this was just one of your usual friendly banter. “Like the crush you have on that blonde from the basketball team?”

“Look, i’ll have you know that-”

You interrupt Tara with a shush escaping from between your lips, parted in a smile. Your phone had just beeped with a notification and you quickly pulled it out of your pocket to see Mindy's text on your lock screen.

Unfortunately, the content of the message instantly broke the fun mood. “Shit.” You cursed through your teeth, feeling the corners of your lips drop.

You could feel Tara stirring on the sofa, dragging herself to your side as she tried to read what was on your screen. “What?”

A sigh. “Mindy's asking me about what happened at ARCS.”

“Oh.”

Analysis and Reflection on Contemporary Society, also called ARCS, was an elective that you and Tara were taking and it basically consisted of having a debate on a topic proposed by the teacher every class. You had joined because the proposal was interesting, but most of the students were only there because Professor Ross graded you through attendance and not through exams.

Which was a good indicator of the type of person who was attending those classes.

The moment of silence was broken by your best friend's hesitant voice. “Do you... want to talk about what happened?”

Tara, bless her heart, wasn't the best person to offer emotional support and you knew that very well, both because of the long year you'd been friends for and because of the complete awkwardness she found herself in. Even so, you knew she wouldn't rest until you took some of the weight off your back.

“I don't want to pay too much attention to this.” You huffed, shoving your phone back into your pocket as if it were the reason for your anger. “E.J. Abrams called me a bitch to the whole class, who cares? Everyone knows I was getting his ass in that debate.”

Seeing that you were more annoyed than hurt, Tara jumped at the chance to curse the boy, feeling much more comfortable now that the topic seemed to be centered on hatred. “That little shit. He thinks he can do whatever he wants because he's blond and strong and some dumb girls suck his toes.”

“I think it's more the fact that he's a medal-winning swimmer on the Olympic team and he's in one of the most exclusive fraternities on campus.”

“Well, fuck that ridiculous fraternity and fuck his medals too.” Tara continued, seeming to enjoy the way the F-word came out of her mouth. “I can't believe Professor Ross didn't even give him a warning.”

“I can.” You retorted without much joy, knowing damn well that the man would never intervene in any discussion between students because it was all part of the “debate experience”. Which, in fact, seemed more like an excuse so that he wouldn't have to get directly involved in any conflict.

With the movie completely forgotten in the background, you and Tara continued to curse every last generation of E.J., transferring all your indignation into words that the boy would probably never hear.

Meanwhile, someone else was listening to the entire conversation through the thin walls of the apartment, making a mental note to do more research on E.J. Abrams another time.

Sam was glad she had decided to wear a stronger jacket. New York nights were gradually getting colder as winter approached.

If she turned around, she would probably see students rushing around as they crossed campus, trying to get to their dorms before the curfew. Without even looking at her watch, Sam knew that they had approximately 5 minutes before 10:30 pm. She liked to arrive at 10.

But she didn't turn around, choosing to keep her back against the bars of the fire exit one floor above yours. She still couldn't believe that she had a perfect, hidden view of your entire room through your window, but Sam would never complain about that gift.

It was a safety issue, yes, but you were never going to be in danger when she was right there, in that fire exit, every night. No other person would harm you as long as she was there.

“Are you still hiding behind false pretenses?”

Sam would recognize that dry, slurred voice anywhere. She barely had to turn her head to see her father, or the image of him, sitting right in front of her with that familiar mischievous smile. He looked as he always did, not that a hallucination could have such a vast closet. White blouse stained with blood, messy black hair and eyes that Sam sometimes recognized in the mirror.

“There's nothing false about what I'm doing.” Sam muttered in response, even though she knew she shouldn't.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed.” Billy continued, his smile getting wider with the attention he was receiving. “I know more than anyone that everyone needs a good obsession. Obsession makes perfect, doesn't it?”

This time, Samantha chose to leave him without an answer. Obsession. That word sounded so ugly to her ears, completely wrong too. She wasn't obsessed with you, she was just... protecting you.

At first, that hadn't exactly been Sam's intention, of course. When Tara talked about a new friendship, her protective big sister instincts instantly went on alert. No one could blame her after everything they'd been through in Woodsboro and more recently in her own apartment.

But she also couldn't deprive Tara of having a normal life and interacting with other people. Not everyone was a psycho waiting for an opportunity to stick a knife in the Carpenters. Still, Sam wanted to make sure that you weren't going to be another disappointment in her sister's life.

That's how she found herself on that fire escape for the first time, making sure that you really lived in the dorms, that you hadn't lied about your identity, that you didn't have a secret agenda or sneak out at night to play God and take some lives.

But you were... normal. Sam would even say that you were more normal than she and Tara would ever be. Everything about you was genuine and you carried with you a kindness that made Sam stop thinking of you as a suspect to someone she put on her mental protection list.

And it was by studying your normality, immersing herself in your pure and well-intentioned actions that Sam realized she was no longer watching you because she lacked trust in your person, but rather because she wanted that for herself. Those moments watching you from afar, seeing you live your life, brought an inner peace to Sam that she couldn't even explain.

It had been months since she had started this routine, so Sam knew very well that in a few minutes your roommate would open the window to use her pink-flavored vape, since you hated the smell being trapped in the room. The open window would allow Sam to eavesdrop on 20 minutes of conversation between you and your friend, which Sam thought was perfect for finding out at least a little about what was going on in your life.

Just as planned, the blonde opened the window and leaned both elbows on the sill, letting the flavored smoke escape through her lips as she took another drag of the pink device. Sam didn't like your roommate, Sammy - yes, she had also found the coincidence of names a bit ironic - because she thought the girl was... too clingy with you.

But as far as Sam knew, it wasn't a crime to be a clingy friend. It was just annoying. Annoying wasn't enough reason for Sam to do anything about it.

“... Well, frat guys are shit.” Sammy spoke over another puff of smoke, probably finishing answering something. “They must have a total of two neurons combined.”

“I knoooww...” You whined, rubbing a hand across your face in frustration. Sam could see you lying on your bed with your phone in your hand, certain that you must’ve been scrolling on your social media, as you always did at that time. “But the people in class laughed at me at the time and, I don't know, I don't want to be made a laughing stock.”

Sam felt an angry pulse in her neck. It was outrageous that you were afraid of being ridiculed in your class because some idiot thought it was funny to interrupt your debate to call you a bitch. She could almost picture the scene if she closed her eyes, and just the thought of seeing your lost and embarrassed expression made her blood boil.

“Did they put any videos online? If you want, I can delete it.”

The proposal was genuine. While Sam was still doing her own research on your life (for safety's sake, of course), she had found your roommate's data as well. Sammy was a computer science major and, from the internship she had landed with a great salary, she must have been very good at what she did.

“I'll take a look.” You answered in a low voice, your eyes frantically running over the phone screen, looking for something that Sam would never be able to see from that distance.

Billy chose that moment to come back to torment his daughter, his evil smile almost shining in the moonlight. “It's so good that there are so many people who care about our girl, isn't it?”

“Shut up.” Sam grunted through her teeth. He could even be a figment of her mind, but Sam was never going to let Billy ever refer to you as his possession.

In response, he just laughed, his dead head falling back as he amused himself at the girl's growing annoyance. If Billy had a material body, Sam would already have provided a fresh wave of red on his stained shirt.

“FUCK!”

Sam turned her head towards the window like a bolt of lightning as soon as she heard your cry of outrage. Sammy had also done the same, removing the vape from her lips as she turned around with wide eyes. “What?! What?!”

“Look at this shit!” You squawked, waving your phone in the blonde's direction. From a distance, the most Sam could see was the layout of the app. It looked like twitter, but she couldn't be sure.

Not that that was going to be a problem. Carpenter quickly took her phone out of her pocket, opening it to the app that used to have a bird as its icon. Fortunately, the account she wanted to use was already open and she had no trouble finding what she was looking for.

Yes, Sam had also created one or two fake social media accounts when she was investigating you, just to be safe. She had gotten the data from a Gordon Wu, who was majoring in engineering at your university and had apparently never created an account for himself. Sam thought he wouldn't mind if she borrowed it.

It was easy to create a profile with no photos and start following other students at the university to keep up to date with everything that was going on, as well as other random accounts such as soccer memes and Pokémon just to keep her little disguise authentic. Fortunately, the app's algorithm seemed to understand that what Sam really wanted to know was what was going on at Blackmore.

So it wasn't long before she saw E.J Abrams' verified account on her timeline, with a tweet that had over 2k likes:

@themanEJ: That bitch in ARCS just got mad cause she wants this d again

Sam's eye twitched.

“I can't believe he posted that!” You complained even louder, a mixture of anger and dread in your voice. “I've never slept with him! Never! And I never want to!”

The comments were horrible. Men encouraging E.J., calling you crazy and giving reason to his lies, women saying they wouldn't miss the same opportunity or adding fuel to the gossip, asking for the name of the mysterious bitch.

“I'll see if I can delete it, okay?” Sammy patted your shoulder before going to her own side of the room, opening her computer while trying to somehow take down that tweet. Meanwhile, Sam's hands clenched into a fist in the pockets of her jacket.

“You know what to do, Sam.” That familiar voice whispered in her ear, like a snake tempting her to bite the apple. “Are you really going to let that fucker hurt our girl?”

“She's not your girl.”

“But she's yours, isn't she?” Billy retorted without wasting any time, his dark eyes sparkling at the mere idea of having fun in his favorite way. “Don't you remember how good it felt to finish off Bailey? How amazing you felt sticking that knife, my knife, in his eye after he played with your family?”

Sam remembered the excitement, the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she took revenge for everything he and his family had done, the smile that automatically opened on her face after he had stopped moving. She remembered how satisfying it had been to slit Richie's throat as if he were a fish, watching him beg for air as the blood dripped to the floor.

E.J... he hadn't killed anyone, but... he deserved it, didn't he? He shouldn't have messed with you. Someone had to teach him a lesson.

“You know you want this, Sam. Don't fight your instincts.”

She felt the weight of Billy's knife in her pocket, serving as a nudge, as if it were another way for the universe to tell her that she was right, that she should do it.

For the first time in months, Sam looked behind her at the fire escape, now no longer focused on your window, but on the entrance to the house of a famous fraternity that wasn't that far from your dorm.

It was incredibly easy to get into the house. Really. The front door was open.

Sam didn't even have to make an effort to get to the boy's room, as her footsteps were completely drowned out by the loud trap music that was blasting from the speakers. She caught a glimpse of four guys playing ping-pong in the kitchen and another two playing video games in the living room.

None noticed her presence and she didn't make a point of being seen either, especially while she was dodging protein bar wrappers and plastic cups that were lying on the floor. She climbed the stairs two steps at a time, wanting to do what she needed to do right away to get out of that nightmare of a place.

She took her phone out of her pocket as soon as she reached the top floor, looking at one of the photos E.J. had posted on his Instagram that showed a bit of his bedroom from the back. The walls were dark blue with some of his medals hanging on them, along with photos of him receiving them. Sam hoped that the boys' rooms weren't all the same.

Fortunately, the first door she walked through was exactly where she needed to be. E.J.'s room wasn't much better than she had imagined. Pants and boxers (which she hoped were clean) were scattered all over the floor and the room smelled of an uncomfortable mixture of aftershave and an extremely woody perfume, to the point of making Sam's nose sting in response.

And there it was, the blue wall full of medals and photos of the boy, like a mural entirely dedicated to his narcissism. Sam was tempted to destroy some of those pictures, punch them right in the middle of that static smile of the boy-next-door that she knew very well was completely fake. There was nothing good about E.J. The world would be a better place without him.

Sam sat on the completely messed up bed, with one sheet turned over and two pillows completely crumpled. E.J. seemed to be the kind of guy who had someone to do the cleaning for him at home, of course he wouldn't be able to do something as simple as making his own bed. He probably thought it wasn't his job.

Speaking of the devil, it didn't take long for E.J. to walk into his own room and be surprised by the sight of the brunette in his bed. He was tall and strong, as an athlete should be, of course. Some people would say he almost looked like Captain America, if you completely ignored the part about having moral values.

Not that that would intimidate Sam. If anything, it would only make the result all the more satisfying.

“Heeey, babe.” Abrams cracked a mischievous smile, analyzing Sam as if she were a piece of meat. “I don't remember having anything scheduled today. Did the guys fix you up for me?”

She had to press her black gloved hands against her thighs to stop herself from immediately jumping on the boy's neck. Act, Sam. Billy's voice and her own were mixing in her head, trying to keep her in line. Sam cracked the best smile she could manage.

“I just had to have a chance with the hottest guy in Blackmore.” She winked, trying to swallow the disgust she felt at those words. Sam got out of bed slowly, her movements being followed by E.J. like a hungry predator. “Better lock the door, huh? We don't want any interruptions.”

“You're right, beautiful.” The boy quickly agreed, turning the lock behind him at the same time as Sam reached him, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. “You've got attitude, kitten. I like that.”

“I bet.” Sam smiled again, knocking him onto the bed just as he made a move to try and grab her waist. She tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying her best to maintain a seductive voice. “Why don't you take it off for me, E.J.?”

“Right away.” He nodded, making a show of opening the only three buttons on his polo shirt before pulling the green fabric off over his head, as if Sam was interested in seeing that pile of muscles that would soon spasm until they stiffened.

Sam took a single step closer to the bed, watching the boy crawl through the messy covers until he rested his back on the headboard, spreading his legs as if to invite Sam in. She just tilted her head to the side, her arms crossed. “E.J… What does it stand for?”

“W-What?” The athlete muttered, his eyes widening for a brief moment before he tried to pull himself together in his fake suave persona. “You don't need to know that, kitten. Come here and I'll give you something else to think about.”

“Can I guess, then?” Sam continued, finally climbing onto the bed, her knees sinking into the soft mattress right next to Abrams' thick thighs, pinning him in place. He only nodded, biting his lip as he appreciated the sight above him. “I'd say it's... Edward Jacob Abrams. But you tell everyone you're Edward James, so you don't have to admit that your mother named you after the two hot guys from Twilight. You don't think that's a very manly name, do you?”

E.J.'s expression went from surprise, to panic, to pure hatred. His set jaw quickly clenched and he made a point of getting up to confront Sam. “Listen here, you bitch - OOF.”

Whatever he was going to complain about was interrupted by a swift punch right in his Adam's apple, causing the boy's hands to go up to his throat as he searched for air. His white face quickly turned red and a few tears escaped from his eyes as he struggled to breathe.

Sam smiled at the scene. “You're really like calling women by that word, huh? It's about time someone shut your filthy mouth.”

With a lot of effort and his eyes twitching, E.J. managed to spit out a few words. “Y-You're c-crazy!” He coughed, the veins in his throat widening with the effort, his skin almost turning a purplish hue.

“Maybe.” Carpenter murmured, calmly taking the knife out of her pocket, admiring how the metal of the blade glistened against the moon rays coming through the window. “But you need to learn a thing or two about swallowing your words.”

In one swift movement, Sam used the handle of the knife to strike E.J.'s fingers with a resounding crack, making him grunt in pain and pull his hands away from the front of his neck, which had been Samantha's target all along. He raised his hands, trying to reach the woman to strangle her, but Sam had been faster.

With a single blow, now with the blade, E.J.'s throat had been slit open, spurting wine-red blood from his neck down his bare torso like a waterfall. He opened his eyes wide, his vocal cords gurgling in an attempt to speak, or to call for help, but nothing came out.

He struggled with one last effort to escape, but Sam also had strength in her lower limbs and trapped E.J.'s thighs between her own, forcing him to stay in place while he lost more and more blood and oxygen.

In a way, it was as if Sam was stealing his soul. Her eyes glowed maniacally as the brightness of the boy's eyes dimmed, his muscles growing weaker and his limbs abandoned him, giving up any chance of salvation.

Sam leaned forward, not minding the way her gloves got stained with the blood that now covered the entire bed. She moved closer to E.J.'s ear and whispered, “Who's the bitch now?”

Taking advantage of the boy's almost deoxygenated state, Sam opened his mouth without resistance, aligning her knife with E.J.'s tongue. Through the reflex of the blade, she swore she’d seen Billy’s eyes staring back at hers.

The sharp object descended on the tip of the athlete’s tongue, cutting the muscle with fluidity and letting the small piece fall back into EJ’s trachea, making it even more difficult for the boy to breathe, who at that point was a few seconds from fainting. His mouth was filled with blood, escaping from his lips and mixing with the red that drenched his neck.

E.J was finally unresponsive, breathing non-existent as well as his pulse. The boy’s blue eyes were completely lifeless, staring at Sam in an empty expression. She thought she’d feel a little bad. He was young and had not done much more than stupid mistakes of a 20-something asshole.

But she didn’t feel bad. Because that stupid mistake had been made against you, so he deserved it.

"You didn’t have to do this thing in the end, you know?" Billy commented in a faux bored voice, walking through EJ’s room with his hands behind his back, admiring the walls. "You’re more of a dramatic killer than I am."

"Shut up." Sam muttered back, feeling the tiredness begin to take over. She looked at the digital clock by E.J’s bed, which marked 00:04. Maybe she could be in bed by 1 am, which would give her six hours of sleep before she needed to get up for work. It was more than Sam usually slept, but she had the feeling her sleep would be hard as a stone that night.

Sam stood up from bed carefully, murmuring swears as she saw that the blood had stained her gloves and pants. She had expected to throw the gloves off but, man, she liked these pants.

"Who would’ve guessed that the impulse you needed to become like me was to mess with your heart and not your head."

"I’m not like you." Sam denied, turning to the image of her father in the corner of the room, his damn smirk seemed bigger than ever. She did not try to deny the rest of the sentence, however, because she knew it was true.

Her heart was her greatest weakness. And you seemed to be taking up a lot of space in it.

Billy laughed, approaching his daughter with slow, calculated steps. "You can deny as much as you like, Samantha. You have my blood in your veins and other’s blood on your hands. You cannot escape your family line."

"But, of course, you only did what you did because you needed to defend the honor of the poor and helpless Y/n." he continued, mockery escaping from his non-living lips, feeding on the growing anger in Sam’s chest. "Her knight in shining armour. No, scratch that. There’s nothing shining about you, Sam. You’re her Dark Knight"

She looked into the eyes of her father, seeing her clenched jaw being reflected in the pupil surrounded by an onyx iris. As much as she hated the way he talked about you, Sam couldn’t say that she hated the idea of being your knight, however twisted it was.

"I’ll up the dose of my medication."

"Ha! It’s gonna take more than a few pills to get rid of me, Samantha." Billy shook his head, a humorous smile still on his face. He bypassed his daughter, analyzing the crime scene as an art expert analyzes a painting. "Now let’s clean that up, shall we? No Loomis leaves behind evidence."

"If anyone asks me about E.J today, I’ll kill myself."

"Woah! Okay, how about we avoid suicide here?" Mindy replied from your side, gently pushing her shoulder with yours as you walked around the campus.

"Yeah, if someone has to die here, it’s got to be the people who come and try to fuck with you." Tara added, walking on your other side with the headphones hanging from her neck. "I’ll do it!"

"How about we don’t kill anyone?" Chad joined the conversation, a little further behind you while still struggling to put on his football jacket. Anika, next to Mindy, rolled his eyes with the boy’s words.

"Stop being boring, dude."

The familiarity of the conversation with your friends relieved some of your anxiety, but not completely. E.J’s tweet had gotten more than 3k likes throughout the night and most of them came from people from your college. As stupid as he was, people liked to be siding with a pretty face.

As you approached the communal area of students, more you felt a weight falling on your shoulders. It was almost as if your body was anticipating the looks, whispers and fingers pointed in your direction, as if you were a circus attraction - "The girl rejected by E.J Abrams"

But that never came, not even when you approached the tables occupied by several students. They all seemed more concerned to look at their own phones, apparently immersed in some gossip by the increasing volume of whispers in unison.

"What happened?" You turned to your friends with furrowed eyebrows, watching Mindy mumble a brief I don’t know while pulling the phone out of her pocket. Around you, people seemed scared, as if something terrible had happened.

You unconsciously thought it might be something else related to the ghostface attacks and the hell your friends had experienced in the past. You had heard the stories, had sympathized with the trauma experienced by them, although you secretly wished that the same fate would never fall on you.

Maybe that was the universe signaling you had no escape.

"Oh My God!" Mindy exclaimed as she opened her phone. Anika, beside her, took a hand to her mouth in complete horror and shock. You, Chad and Tara rushed to surround her, trying to read the news that had left the entire student body in a state of dread.

Athlete and fraternity member is found dead this morning. Suspicion of foul play falls on his roommates.

Gasps were slipping out of your throat as you kept reading the news. E.J Abrams was dead. His throat and tongue had been cut and the boy had bled to death in his own bed. The police had found some traces of hair from the other residents of the fraternity on his nails and they were the main suspects, with the current theory that it had been a prank that ended very badly.

You had a ringing in your ear. You’d woken up this morning wishing EJ would die, but now that he was really dead you felt... What? Relief? Revenge? Disgust? Fear?

A silence fell on your friends, but you could understand the thought that was being shared even without words. None of you felt bad for EJ, but the idea of your cursing suddenly being materialized seemed eerily real.

"Well, I hope they don’t cancel classes." Tara shrugged, being the first to give up pretending to care about the situation. "I didn’t walk all this way for nothing."

She pulled you by the arm, taking you out of your inner thoughts for a moment as you went towards the ARCS room, both knowing that one of the chairs would be empty but with the sketch of a body that was once there.

E.J was dead, but instead of relief, you felt in your guts that something was wrong.

#scream #scream vi #scream 2022 #scream x reader #samantha carpenter x reader #sam carpenter imagine #samantha carpenter #sam carpenter #sam carpenter x reader #scream imagine #scream x you #kaisa's writings #melissa barrera x reader #melissa barrera

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theonion · 4 months ago

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Apologizing for the terrifying series of events that left shocked, confused, and disgusted citizens screaming, crying, and searching for cover, Federal Emergency Management Agency administrator Daniel Gilroy announced his resignation Tuesday after accidentally playing porn on the nation’s Emergency Alert System. “This morning at 11:21 a.m. EDT, I opened up a pornographic video on my laptop, pressed play, and, instead of sending the audio to my headphones, broadcast it via our national public warning system to over 340 million Americans,” said Gilroy, adding that he was deeply sorry for any fear or panic he’d caused by playing the sounds of a nearly two-minute video titled “Horny MILF Sucks Stepson’s Huge Cock” on all U.S. cable, broadcast television, and AM and FM radio, as well as through thousands of loudspeakers used as hurricane and tornado sirens across the country. Full Story

#the onion #politics #news

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

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Look, Don't Touch 3

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, stalking, breaking and entering, possible blood and violence, and femcel energy. Tags are not exhaustive and more may be added as the series progresses.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get bored of watching and that makes you careless. (dark!reader)

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: my back hurts.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like snakes love Woody’s boots. Take care. 💖

Bucky's snores roll through the apartment. He's just as irritating asleep as he is awake. Your back racks and your legs cramp as you slump in the chair. Your eyes droop now and again only the roll open and flick to the blue digits of the clock.

The minutes tick by like hours. His peaceful tempo irks you. It adds to the restlessness of your captivity.

You don't blame him entirely. You're a dumb fucking bitch. Why didn't you do some scouting before you waltzed in? Wait it out to make sure it's clear.

You go back and retrace your steps, over and over. Fuck. You're so stupid. So stupid. But not as stupid as that fucker thinks.

Or as weak.

He has that chip on his shoulder. He thinks his trauma overrides everyone else's. That no one else has been through shit. What you've been through you don't fucking think about because it's not worth it. He doesn't realise he's wasting his energy being such a miserable shit.

You stare through the window for a while. The city sparkles here. Not like in your apartment where it blares like a broken television.

Your head sinks down as your fatigue clouds your obstinacy. Your eyelids meet and your body slackens as much as it can within your bounds. The last look at the clock read about 3am.

Your mind swirls in a miasma. Thick and viscous. Your skull thumps like sledge on concrete. Then all at once you're awake and shivering.

The ice cold water seeps into your clothes as you gasp and gulp. Your lashes are webbed with moisture as you drip with the frigid rivulets. Bucky chuckles as a bucket hangs from his grip.

"Morning sunshine."

Your teeth chatter as you sneer back at him. You glance over at the city skyline. It's still a dusky mix of grey and blue.

"0500. Up and at 'em," he proclaims chipperly.

You shut your mouth and bite down on your shivers. This is what he wants. He's trying to break you. Well it's not gonna happen so soon. You've seen the videos on the dark web. You won't be scared by this emo bitch.

"Gotta keep a routine." He taunts.

You roll your eyes. Your gaze catches on the shine on the floor. You must've been out like a light. There's plastic under you. Maybe not just for the water. Well, you're not squeamish.

"I usually start with a run. What do you do when you crawl out of your hole at one in the afternoon? Probably just the thought of Steve gets your heart pumping," he grits.

"It helps," you snicker. "I've seen the real thing so... I'm certain my imagination is much better. The vibrator too."

"Fucking smart ass," he mutters and stomps away.

It's not a victory but it isn't defeat. You can match his energy, even if he's got you tied up like a dog. You wiggle in seat as that thought tickles something in you. You're twisted just like he said but he doesn't get to do that to you. Only Steve.

He shuffles around in the bedroom. He emerges in track pants and a long sleeve tee. The legs are a bit too long for him. Steve's got a few inches on him, probably in more way than one.

"I'll do about an hour," he taps on his watch. "Now you don't go getting into trouble."

He scoffs and heads for the door. You tempo your breath as the goosebumps prickle over you in waves. Your clothes are soaked through. The door snaps shut and you huff.

There's not much you can do. You close your eyes again. You're not going to sleep but you'll save your energy. As you languish in the slow drip of water pattering onto the plastic, your clothes grow stale and tepid. The wet fabric is sandpaper on your skin.

He returns, whistling. He doesn't acknowledge you as he sets up in the kitchen. He puts his earbuds in the case and lets his music blast from the speaker. It's the kind of rock music a teenager listens to when they try to show off.

You don't move. You're not going to let him see you squirm. He rattles around in the kitchen.

"Gotta get lots of protein after a workout," he calls through as a pan sizzles. The aromas crawl over you and fill your lungs. Your tongue floods with saliva. "Lots of eggs, bacon, hm, oh Steve got the good greek yogurt."

You don't answer his mocking monologue. You know what he's doing. Well if he thinks you've never gone hungry, that's his own martyr complex fueling his ego.

He comes out with a full plate and sits across from you. He plants his feet wide, his plate in one hand as he shovels greedily with the fork. He stuffs his mouth and hums.

You watch him calmly. He smirks and keeps pigging away on the food. There's enough for both of you and then some. You grimace.

"How are you feeling? Hungry?" He asks.

"Repulsed. You have grease on your chin."

He pokes his tongue as he try to lick it up. You nearly gag at the remnants of food in his mouth. You don’t, you won't, look away.

"I can hear your stomach," he says through a mouthful. "And your heart. Your lungs, too."

"Yeah, I know you're a freak. Do you even know how the Russian fucks mangled you or did that go out the window with all the murder?"

He gnashes his teeth down and narrows his eyes. His smile faded. It's your turn to grin.

"Real fucked up from what I saw. There were some leaked classified docs after that weirdo Sokovian went off and planted those bombs." You tisk. "Children? Really? That's really der--"

He's fast. Well, he is a super soldier. In an instant, he's in front of you, the plate is on the floor, and the fork is standing in your thigh as pain sears through your muscles.

You yipe then muffle it to a groan. You take a deep breath as your lashes flick and you stare at the blood staining around the tines. You exhale through your lips and look at him. You don't stop smiling.

You cackle, "hoooooo, I got you, Buck. I fucking got you."

He stands straight and kicks the plate, scattering whats left of the eggs and bacon. He stomps away and balls his fists, grumbling and snarling. You laugh if only to keep from whimpering.

There's pain beneath the swell of adrenaline. It's going to really hurt in a few minutes but right now, you feel great. You're awake.

📷

Bucky appears again. His hair is damp and his skin is speckled with the aftermath of a shower. He has only a towel around his waist. Are you supposed to be impressed?

He doesn't say a word as he moves around the apartment. He goes to the windows and looks out at the city. You stare at the couch dully. You're getting bored and your leg is throbbing.

He circles around as you raise your brows, biding off the fatigue. Suddenly, he's behind you. He reaches around a rips the fork free. You grunt as blood pools up and spreads further along the denim.

He wipes the tines on your sleeve, "I didn't get the artery, in case you're scared." He strides around and twirls the cutlery, "strange cause judging by your pulse, you're pretty fucking content with yourself."

"Ha, is that what you want, hm?" You pout mockingly. "You wanna make a girl's heart race. Poor widdle winter baby don't got no place in this world. He wants to be wanted--"

"You talk a pretty big game for someone as tiny as you are." He comes around and bends to look you in the eye. "What do you got going on? Who's going to even know you didn't make it home?"

You hiss through a gritted smile, "you say that like I care. I've been pretty honest with you and myself. Maybe try a bit of introspection."

"There's different types," he backs up and sits again. "The quiet ones. The violent ones. The talkers. Now, there's different kinds of talkers. The ones who threaten, then there's the ones who ramble. They talk so they don't gotta feel--"

"You got me, Mr. Barnes. I'm so fucking scared of you I'm gonna piss my pants. You wanna watch again?"

He chortles, "there ya go."

"There I go." You sneer. "What's the game plan here, buddy? Starve me out? Think it'll happen before baby boy gets back? You gonna save some for him? Let him know you saved his ass. For once it wasn't the other way around huh?"

"Shut up."

"Or maybe that's a bad plan, huh? Steve might lose his shit a little. Realise he's not untouchable. I mean, a worm like me crawled right in--"

"I said shut up," he snips.

"You said it, I'm a talker. I gotta talk so I don't shake in my boots. Must feel like a big man. I mean I don't got Hydra juice in my veins and you could snap me like a twig," you scoff. "It's gotta make you a little hard."

He tilts his head and squints, "you ever think of anything else?"

"Don't worry, you're not in here," you nod your head. "It's all for the Captain. Second best again, sergeant."

"You can't help yourself," he leans his elbows on his legs.

"Well, I broke in, didn't I? Pretty clear I'm a bit off--"

"No fucking shame."

"It's really weird, don't you think? We only talk about shame when it's a woman. Men, they can do whatever the fuck they want and they're called outgoing and brave or committed, whatever."

"Cut that shit," he snips.

"It's true. But maybe that's not what this is. Maybe this is something else. Something more personal. Maybe you're jealous," you try to shrug. "The winter bozo got no fans to stalk him. Mm, sad."

He stares at you then his gaze falls to your leg. He stands up and marches off. No answer. Typical. That's the thing about men, they can't admit when they're wrong. Can't own up to their faults but everyday a woman has to pay penance for just existing.

He stomps back to you and slaps his hand down on your injured leg. The burning sensation of his palm tears a yowl from your and you look down as thick grains of salt tumble out between his fingers. He mashes the salt into your wound. You gnash your teeth and grunt.

"FUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKK!" You seethe through your clamped jaw.

He laughs, "this is kinda fun." He puts his forehead against yours. "And I can't help but agree with you, doll. Why the fuck am I fighting my programming?" He squeezes your leg and you wheeze. "Let's get nice and cozy with the soldier. He's got all the good ideas."

You snort and twitch, halfway between agony and amusement. You push against him and snap your teeth.

"Finally, something interesting." You rasp.

He smirks and pushes of you. You groan as he turns cracks his neck. He tosses the salt onto the plastic sheet. You watch his metal hand open and close.

He spins and struts into the kitchen. He comes back with your notebook. A strike of rage swells in you. Fuck.

He stands in front of you and licks his fingertips. He clears his throat and flutters through the pages.

"'I went to his place. It's nice. Different than being outside. His bed is big, it's a wonder he never fucks in it. Seems like Cap is afraid of commitment.'" He guffaws. "You really think you know him?"

"Stream of consciousness." You utter.

"Sure," he skims the lines on the pages. "'I think I had my biggest O in his bed. Just with my fingers. I could smell him around me. If I closed my eyes, he was there--'"

He shifts and the towel twitches. Your lips slant. Disgusting.

"Do you really think he'd want to touch something like you?"

"I can draw a line between fact and fiction. How about you?" You chirp. "You can't even remember how many innocent people you killed--"

"It's getting old," he growls.

"Maybe Stevie won't want a piece. I'm not delusional, just obsessive. But you-" you nod to his crotch. "Seems like you're getting a bit too into this."

He lowers the notebook and grins. "You ever actually fucked a guy?"

"What does it matter?"

"Is that it? You think Steve wants to pluck the flower in your dusty little garden?"

"It was never--" you huff and wiggle in the chair. "Look, you don't get it. It was never supposed to be real. It's like a TV show. A distraction. Something to do."

"Wow, that's sad."

"Yeah, but it's the truth. A lot of people can't face themselves in the mirror."

"Oh virtue," he scoffs and throws the notebook on the couch behind him. "Is it honesty or self-pity?"

"Bit of both." You look up defiantly as he steps closer. "Look at me. I know what I am. I'm a creep but I don't deny it. What you are, you can't even say it out loud."

He exhales and his chest compressed. He puts his hands on his hips as he glowers at you. His towel tents and you frown.

"Dude, get that away from me."

"What's the matter? Is this the closest you've been?" He taunts.

You lean back and keep your eyes up, "I've seen a dick. Touched a few even. Trust me, I'm not interested."

"I could put on the suit. There's a back-up in his closet."

"Nasty."

"Look who's talking," he retorts. "You think I'm fucking serious?"

"I know the things you're capable of, soldat." You challenge.

His eyes flare and his knuckles flash across your vision, bone snapping against your cheek. You close your mouth as it floods with iron. You swallow the blood and wiggle a back tooth with your tongue. You snicker.

You face him as the swelling thrums hotly under the surface. He glares back at you. You lean back and round your eyes. You've never been good at that cutesy shit.

He smirks, "keep going, baby. We'll see who breaks first."

You lower your lashes and sniffle. He hovers and you steel yourself. You lurch forward and open your mouth. The chair tilts with your weight and you bite through the cotton as your teeth meet the towel. You pinch something beneath it. Him.

He exclaims and punches your head. He grunts as the chair tips and falls on its side. Your head bounces against the chair. The towel heaps next to you as he growls and cradles his erection.

"The fuck? You are deranged!"

"I told you to move back," you slur as silver stars spatter across your vision.

"Fucking bitch," he hisses and leaves you on the plastic. You laugh until it fades into a dry crackle. You hit your head pretty good and he got a few good shots in too.

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #dark steve rogers #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #avengers #mcu #marvel #captain america #winter soldier #look don't touch #series

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stone-cold-groove · 30 days ago

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Cover illustration detail. Emergency! comic book - January 1977.

#vintage illustration #vintage comics #comics #comic books #comic book art #comic art #comic book style #comic aesthetic #vintage comic books #johnny gage #roy desoto #emergency!#kevin tighe #randolph mantooth #emergency! television series #station 51 #paramedics #los angeles county fire department #firefighters

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Writing Notes: Antihero

An antihero - a central character who lacks the characteristics an audience associates with a conventional hero.

They are ambiguous protagonists—complex characters who have a dark side.

Despite a flawed exterior, a history of bad decisions, and even a questionable moral code, an antihero is ultimately guided by good intentions.

Tips for Writing an Antihero

Despite their flaws, antiheroes are realistic characters that readers can relate to. Here are four tips for creating a great antihero for your story:

Create a main character who is complex. Think of how you would write a traditional hero. Create your antihero by giving them the opposite attributes. If a hero is an idealist, your antihero is a cynic. Make them mysterious so their character is revealed bit by bit. A great antihero has flaws just like a real person. But despite an antihero’s weaknesses, their good side is illuminated as the story progresses. These contrasting qualities make an antihero more complex and interesting.

Give your antihero internal conflict. Every great antihero has an internal struggle driving their actions. Before you begin writing, sit down and flesh out the character. What event is the source of their internal struggle that informs their behavior in the story? As you write, slowly reveal your antihero’s backstory to let readers know what makes them tick.

Don’t confuse your antihero with the antagonist. For the antiheroes with misguided morals, the ends justify the means. They can explain away the bad things they do if the result is ultimately good and they emerge a hero. When writing an antihero, you can bring them to the edge of evil, but they’re never as evil as the true villain of your story. Unlike an antagonist, an antihero ultimately believes they are acting for a noble cause. Some characters, like the DC Comics character Harley Quinn, alternate between being an antihero and an antagonist, depending on the context.

Use supporting characters. In the TV show The Sopranos, antihero Tony Soprano had his therapist, who showed Tony’s vulnerability and made the audience have a soft spot for a guy who ordered a hit as easily as he ate a bowl of pasta. Create a side character who can illuminate your antihero’s redeeming qualities. The best antiheroes are the ones readers can’t believe they’re rooting for.

Types of Antiheroes

Think about the rough-around-the-edges antihero Han Solo compared to the traditionally heroic Luke Skywalker. Antiheroes go against the grain and are often social outcasts who operate by their own rules. Here are different antihero archetypes found in fiction:

The pragmatic rebel: The pragmatic antihero is a realist. They might associate with both good guys and bad guys and take whatever action they deem necessary to accomplish their mission. Their morals are, for the most part, good, but they won’t hesitate to do what’s needed to be heroic—even if that means taking out a few bad guys. They won’t intentionally cross a line unless it’s for the greater good, and they may still follow the steps of the hero’s journey.

The unscrupulous antihero: This is the antihero whose morals fall into a grey zone. They have good intentions but are driven more out of self-interest rather than the greater good. They can be cynical and have a jaded view of the world. Their actions are often dictated by past traumas and inner conflict, revealed through their backstory. They don’t think twice about how they achieve their goal and who they need to push out of their way, and they sometimes even enjoy the dark side. Annaliese Keating, the antihero played by Viola Davis at the heart of the show How to Get Away With Murder, is cutthroat and morally compromised, but her motives begin to make sense as the audience gets a deeper look into her inner life.

A hero by any means necessary: The titular antihero protagonist of the television series Dexter (as well as the novel it’s based on, Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay), borders on being a villain. Antiheroes like Dexter Morgan justify their behavior because it results in something that benefits society, even though their actions are questionable—and sometimes even psychotic. For example, Dexter might have good intentions as a vigilante serial killer of other killers, but his deeds are those normally associated with an antagonist.

Example: Walter White

Walter White is the main character of the TV series Breaking Bad.

As a man dying of cancer, White begins to make and sell methamphetamine to save money to support his family after his death.

As the series progresses, Walter White’s character arc is dramatic as he moves through the ranks of antihero archetypes, crossing every moral line and almost assuming the role of villain.

Told from any other point of view, Walter White would be the antagonist of this series but instead he is an antihero.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#anti hero #writing notes #character development #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing tips #writing advice #writing inspiration #light academia #writing ideas #writing resources

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tv-moments · 1 year ago

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Criminal Record

Season 1, “Emergency Caller”

Director: Jim Loach

DoP: Laurent Barès

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

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Break Up with Your Toxic Boyfriend (1 of 4)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, brief discussion of verbal and emotional injury, protective Kyle, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

With no one to turn to, you contact Gaz, knowing that he'll listen. But old instincts are hard to ignore, and Gaz comes to you because your current boyfriend isn't worth your love. He needs you to understand that.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // break up with your toxic boyfriend masterlist

It’s late. The colors on the television are bright in the dark room. Sound is off but Kyle isn’t watching. It’s more for the background. A distraction. All the muscles in his body ache. That’s how it always is when he returns from another deployment.

Everything is fine until he arrives home and plops onto the sofa. Like a slumbering bear emerging from winter hibernation, his body reacts to the sudden silence of rest as if peace isn’t something Kyle deserves. It’s why he’s always gone, and because of his continuous absences, you left.

Lonely. You were always lonely with him, and it’s because Kyle made it so. It’s a constant regret that sits in the back of his throat like spice buildup. It burns. Rages. Simmers.

When Kyle’s phone starts buzzing, he doesn’t notice at first. The screen is bright like the television, but it isn’t until its rattling boxy body shifts that Kyle’s gaze glances downward. He considers leaving it, allowing the caller to fall to voicemail, but something stirs in his stomach. It hooks his attention.

Perhaps it’s the late hour or the sudden tightness in his chest. Something is bothering him like stubborn sticky spots on the kitchen floor.

Kyle sits up, reaching for the vibrating phone on the tabletop.

Your name scrolls across the screen.

At first, Kyle’s mind cannot comprehend it. The letters that make up your name move over the screen of the phone in a blur, almost like they’re moving too quickly. But that isn’t possible. Kyle’s mind simply cannot comprehend why the hell you’re calling him this late at night.

You are no longer his. The two of you aren’t together. You moved on and rightfully so. Kyle has seen all the social media posts, and sometimes the blokes at work might bring you up, usually to provoke him. But the fucking joke is on them. The separation was mutual. It was kind and calm and fine.

But that doesn’t mean Kyle hasn’t thought about you. There is no box inside his head to put you in. There is no hole or lock or key or barren wasteland where he could simply toss your memory into and forget.

Kyle didn’t want to pull away. He didn’t want to let you go.

But you weren’t happy. He was always gone, and still is. Kyle never figured out how to be a partner to you when he was a partner to his work.

He regrets not fighting for you. He regrets not speaking up instead of gently bowing out.

And it’s late. It’s fucking late. Why are you calling him?

Hope—or a sliver of it—blooms in his chest, twisting around inside his body like ribbons around bone. When the feeling pulls taut, that excitement slides into worry.

The two of you are not together.

You rarely call him.

But his phone is buzzing.

And you are waiting on the other end.

Kyle’s slides his thumb across his phone’s screen, answering the call. He brings it up his ear, and that is when he hears it—a choked inhalation. It is one he recognizes. You’re crying, and trying to hide it.

“What’s wrong?” asks Kyle automatically, the instinct to take care of you rising to the surface.

There is a soft sniffle before you speak. “It’s—fuck. I’m sorry for calling you this late. I didn’t think you’d even pick up. Or be home. Are you home? Shit. I—”

“What’s wrong?” he repeats, because there has to be something wrong. You’re calling him, not your boyfriend. “Are you hurt?”

The idea of someone putting hands on you builds in his mind. It is followed by so many other possibilities. A wrecked car. Someone following you home. Everything.

“No—I mean.” You pause, sighing. The difficulty to communicate doesn’t sit right with him. You’re clearly in distress and the need to fix it is unbearable.

“Are you at home?” This time Kyle lowers his voice. Makes it soft. Gentle.

“Yes,” you answer.

He nods as if you can see him. “I’m coming over.” Kyle is already pushing off the couch, shrugging on his coat, and reaching for his keys.

“Kyle.” You say his name—just his name—and it says so much.

The ribbon between his bones loosens. Tightens. Ties his emotions and memory of you all together until your face is all he can picture.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

Kyle makes it in fifteen.

When you answer the door, Kyle shatters like glass hurled against the wall. Your eyes are red and puffy from crying. The look on your face dances between anger, sadness, and relief. He has no idea where on the spectrum he currently sits but this vision of you only puts him back to those days when he’d come home for a few days, taking off again, leaving you with nothing for stretches at a time.

There are no awkward greetings. No embarrassed flushes. Kyle does not hesitate, and you open for him. He reaches for you, and you answer in kind, embracing Kyle so hard you might squeeze the air from his lungs.

That would be fine. Kyle would happily suffocate.

Kyle stands and holds you, breathing in your familiar scent, pressing his face into your hair. His eyes close, and it’s just like before. Like you never left him. The sensation of you this close ignites every possessive part of him. It tells him to not let go and to keep you close.

But you are not his woman. Not anymore. And yet you should be.

He does not pull away until you do. But you don’t retreat into your flat, or slip out of reach. You stay right where you are, the two of you hovering just inside the doorway. On instinct, Kyle is touching you, one hand cupping the side of your face, your tears staining his skin where he touches your flesh. His other hand is on your upper arm, thumb rubbing across the bare skin there in gentle strokes.

You begin to melt, the muscles in your body relaxing. What Kyle wants to do is to take you to the couch or the bed, to drape you over his body, to place you in his lap. That is the intimacy he craves. It’s what he would do if you were still his.

Those gorgeous lips of your part, mouth opening as if you wish to speak, but whatever you want to say is lodged in your throat. In their place come fresh tears and sudden shifts of emotions that range from frustration to despair.

You’re hurting. You’re hurting so much, and Kyle only wants to fix things.

“Look at me,” murmurs Kyle, both hands now cradling your face. “Let’s get you settled. Yeah?” You nod, your small smile forced. “Come with me,” he coaxes.

He draws away and gently reaches out to take your hand, guiding you over to the sofa. He instructs you to recline, grabbing a few more pillows and a blanket. Once you’re all tucked in, Kyle digs around in your kitchen searching for snacks while the kettle boils for tea.

The need to take care of you is overwhelming. Kyle’s head throbs from the incessant voice that tells him to get you calm, to make you comfortable, to listen when you’re ready. The routine is easy, and Kyle provides, executing what you need without prompting or even second guessing it.

And you open up for him. Thank him. Reach out with your hand to hold his as he sits next to you on the couch. You’re calmer now with your tears wiped away and your face no longer puffy.

“Ready to talk about it?”

Your thumb runs along the edge of your mug. “Still want to hear it?”

“You can tell me anything,” he replies automatically.

You lick your lips and inhale. “He yelled at me.” By the defeat in your tone, Kyle can immediately tell that this isn’t the first time.

Kyle stays quiet, allowing you to take the lead, to tell it however you need to.

“This time it happened after we met up with some of his friends. I called him ‘boyfriend’ and got a few odd looks. In the car he told me not to call him that. I didn’t understand so I pushed.” You glance down at your tea. “He screamed the whole ride home. Dropped me off here and wouldn’t even look at me.”

Kyle goes cold all over. You’ve been with this guy for almost six months and he’s upset that you referred to him as your ‘boyfriend?’ No. Fuck him. That’s fuck boy behavior. That’s a man who wants all the benefits without any of the commitment. You don’t deserve that. And this fucker doesn’t deserve you.

Sighing, you reach for your phone and unlock it, turning it around to present it. Kyle takes it, staring at the screen. There are texts upon texts from the guy, all of which you’ve left unanswered. It starts as an apology and quickly becomes angrier as he scrolls.

But you did answer him. It’s the very last message. You sent it just before you called Kyle.

We’re done, it reads.

And there is no answering reply. There are no pulsing bubbles to even indicate that he’s formulating a response.

Good. Fucking good.

Kyle extends his arm, returning the phone. You don’t lock it. You shut it down, tossing it onto the table. Placing the mug of tea down, you sit up, staring intensely into Kyle’s eyes. There is so much he sees there, but he won’t move first even though he wants to, even though he wants you to return to his arms so he can remind you just how perfect the two of you are for each other.

But sometimes memory and the movement of it are just the length of a singular breath.

Maybe it is Kyle that moves first. Maybe it is you. In moments—seconds—you are straddling Kyle’s lap, arms laced around the back of his neck, your mouths pressed together in perfectly wanton need, a reunion that shakes every bone in his body.

You are fresh air. Cold ice cream on a hot summer day. Strawberries with sugar and cream. Sweet. Perfect. And only for his consumption. That is always how it should be.

Kyle’s hands slide up your body, over every curve.

“I miss you. I miss you all the time,” you confess, fingers digging into the front of his shirt.

Your admission is validation.

“I’d never tell you to not call me ‘boyfriend,’” murmurs Kyle against your mouth before going in for another kiss. “I’d want to hear you say it all the time.”

His words are a promise. An invitation.

Take me back. Please. Choose me.

Your lips part and Kyle slides his tongue inside, relearning your flavor. It is heaven dissolving on his tongue. He chases it, chases you, until you’re tugging at his clothes, wanting them gone.

It doesn’t matter that this is your sofa. If you want him, Kyle will lay himself bare, let you have whatever the fuck you want. There isn’t much to remove from you, but once the two of you are bare and you are straddling his lap, Kyle gives all his love and attention to these next moments.

Your body briefly resists, and then it melts, allowing him entrance. Kyle wraps one arm around your waist, hand splayed over your lower back to support your weight as you roll your hips up and down his cock. His other hand holds onto the side of your throat, keeping your gaze on him as you fuck yourself on him.

It’s glorious. Perfect. You are so slick and warm around him. He never forgot, but the real thing is better than memory. Better than his hand in the shower or the dark. You are moaning, light and wavering and only for him.

Your fingers dig in, nails clawing but not tearing. On the next rock of your hips, Kyle slides deep, and the sound you make nearly snaps his control. He holds fast, hand sliding to squeeze your ass as your movements become frantic and with no purposeful rhythm. You’re seeking your end, and Kyle wants you to have it. He needs you to have it.

“Come on my cock, love. For me. Yes. Like that.” You squeeze and Kyle groans loudly. “That’s it. Fucking hell, love.

You turn your face into his neck to stifle the cry that erupts from your throat as your orgasm hits you. Kyle nearly finishes himself, your pussy a vice around him, claiming him. A shudder runs through your limbs, and then you’re nipping at Kyle’s neck and jaw.

“Finish inside me,” you whimper, drawing back enough to gaze into his eyes.

Kyle doesn’t need you to say it twice.

Changing position, Kyle slides both hands to the curve of your ass. Lifting, he shifts you until he’s propped up on his knees. Your legs drape over his arms, completely open for him. You cling to him and Kyle brings your bodies together over and over again.

He will finish—he will, but Kyle needs to hear that word first.

“Are you mine?” he asks between clenched teeth. It’s the only thing keeping him steady. He’s ready to snap, ready to release.

You nod and it isn’t enough.

“Say it.”

“Yours.”

“Mine.”

Kyle grinds his pelvis against you, rubbing perfectly across your already sensitive clit. You cry out, clench around him again, but still, he needs to hear you say it.

“What am I to you?”

“Kyle,” you moan, and he laughs.

“Not that.” A little spasm runs through you and Kyle feels it reverberate all the way to his brain. “Won’t give you what you want until you say it.”

You gasp as the next thrust punches the air from your lungs. “Boyfriend,” you manage to whimper. “You’re my boyfriend.”

Fucking right.

Kyle immediately takes you to your back on the couch, thrusting a few more times before pressing taut, sealing your bodies together as his own release overcomes him.

His mouth meets yours and Kyle’s body is singing, pulsing, and bright.

You are his.

You are his again.

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senditcolton · 1 month ago

Text

January Gloom

...you're like the sunshine in the lazy days of June

summary: You and Anthony have been friends for years. That long friendship means that you know each other probably better than anyone else. So that means that Anthony notices when you start to pull away. It also means that he will drop everything to help you. song inspo: January Gloom (Seasons Pt. 1) by All Time Low word count: 5.7k warnings: implied feminine reader, non-specific mental health struggles, minor reference to suicide, playful innuendo filled banter, and fluff! a/n: Finally getting back into the Wake Up Sunshine series with a super self-indulgent fic. Dividers within indicate a perspective shift.

Anthony’s hand connects with the wooden door of your apartment, knocking in gentle but rapid succession.

Again.

And you still aren’t answering.

That was reason enough for Anthony to realize that his concerns might have some level of truth to them. That he wasn’t overreacting. There had been a nagging feeling that something was wrong forming in the back of his mind for a few days now.

Even though he was busy – with both the continued efforts to meld with his new team and the end of the regular season – he wasn’t blind his best friend pulling away. It had started small; the circles under your eyes growing darker, which turned into absences from his games, which then turned into shorter and shorter text messages shared. It wasn’t until you didn’t respond to Washington’s playoff-clinching win that the quiet nag gave way to genuine fear.

From an outsider perspective, the lack of congratulations being the catalyst for Anthony standing outside your apartment might have seemed selfish; like he was upset that you weren’t giving him enough attention. But if those outsiders really knew the relationship you two shared, they’d understand. The two of you always celebrated each other’s accomplishments. It was one of the foundations of your friendship.

He was the biggest supporter at your college graduation back in New York. You screamed with joy over the phone when he told you he was traded to Washington, happy to share a city with your best friend since his departure from Long Island. That was why the radio silence from you led him here.

He knocks again, hoping that maybe this is the time you’ll answer. Fifth times the charm, right?

From the gap under the door, he can hear muffled voices on the other side, but none of them have your clear cadence – a sound Anthony memorized ages ago. Which meant the noise was most likely the TV. You never left the television on when you weren’t home so, you had to be in there. But there is still no response.

The nerves that had been steadily growing over the weeks finally reach their peak as Anthony reaches into his pocket, pulling out his keyring. He flips through the collection of metal until he finds the spare key you had given him for emergencies – something he’s had since he first stepped foot in DC. He holds the key between his fingers, hesitating for a moment, wondering if this situation really constituted as enough of an emergency to warrant entering your apartment without permission. But he rationalizes that this utter lack of communication – something he never experienced in the nine years of friendship you shared – was enough.

The key is inserted into the lock, the doorknob now turning with ease and Tito enters your studio apartment.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the space, your shades are closed tightly, blocking out the afternoon sun. The only solid light in the room came from the glow of the laptop screen perched on your nightstand. The voices that he had heard previously were indeed coming from the device, currently playing a series that he knew you had seen a thousand times. Once his eyes get used to the darkness, Anthony’s gaze rakes over the room, attempting to locate you. Waiting to see if you are indeed at home or if he was about to be the biggest idiot in the world. But his eyes finally land on your bed, noticing the texture of your hair peeking over the covers, and when he wanders over for a closer look, he notices the way your body rises and falls with your gentle breathing.

Anthony can’t stop the small smile that plays at his lips when his eyes find your face, nestled against your pillow. Your hair is disheveled, most likely tangled, some of the strands obscuring your features but apart from that you seemed fine. Anthony let that knowledge flow through him, relaxing his body.

You were okay.

You were, however, still asleep in bed at almost 2pm on a Wednesday, which caused a little bit of concern to linger in his body. Finally, Anthony’s eyes tear away from your sleeping form and return to glance around your apartment, fully taking in the space.

It was a disaster. Anthony knew that you were not a neat-freak by any means but this… it was worse than he had ever seen it. Dirty clothes piled on your couch and scattered around the floor, trash on multiple surfaces: your coffee table, your mantle, your bookshelf. Curiosity and worry continue to pull at him as he walks towards the kitchen and when he peeks inside, he sees your small trash overflowing, a pile of take-out bags sitting next to it, before his eyes connect with the sink and the counter next to it, filled with dirty dishes.

Tito can feel his eyebrows furrow, body turning to once again take in your sleeping form. You look peaceful, deep in slumber. Anthony’s gaze rakes over you, the rumpled sheets, and your nightstand. That’s when he spots the pill bottle. His heartrate increases as his hand reaches for the container, fearing the worse. The relief that he feels when he sees that it is just melatonin boosters is incomparable.

But the presence of sleep aids causes more questions to form in Anthony’s head. You were the type of person that could fall asleep anywhere, so much so that it became a recurring inside joke between the two of you. You never needed help sleeping so why did you need it now?

Anthony’s eyes dart around the room again, taking in the disarray.

You were in a bad place. He didn’t know why or what caused it. But that was what all the clues lead him to believe. You were going through something, something that caused you to disappear into your apartment, into your bed, into the reprieve of slumber.

You needed help. You’d never admit it, a personality trait Anthony noticed when your friendship first began, a trait that he instinctively knew could turn destructive. But he never thought it could lead to this.

You needed someone. You needed a friend.

And here he was.

Anthony sets down the bottle, his eyes glancing over you, a pang appearing in his heart at your distress. He wanted to take care of you. He would take care of you. It’s all he could do.

He leans in, pressing his lips against the crown of your head in a gentle kiss before he steps back, figuratively rolling up his sleeves before getting to work.

You are awoken by the sound of running water.

The initial instinct that moves through your body is to just bury yourself deeper in the sheets. Part of you nags that the sound could mean a leak in the kitchen or bathroom. Just your luck if it was. Another thing piled on top of literally everything else.

You’ve had rough patches before – you wouldn’t deny it. But this one… this one felt worse than all the others combined. Finances, career, friends, relationships. Every aspect of your life seemed as if it was imploding. Granted, you knew that you held the blame for some of those things – you shouldn’t have bought so much take-out, you should’ve been more proactive in finding a job you actually enjoyed, you shouldn’t have pulled away from your friends no matter how shitty you felt. But it was difficult.

You wanted to relax but how could you when the problems would still be there the next day? You wanted to clean and cook but how could you when every day you came home, your energy was completely drained?

It felt like a never-ending deluge of awfulness. And now, water was running somewhere in your apartment.

With a groan, you lift your body upright, hands pressing against your face as you prepare for the worst. But when your eyes open and your gaze darts around the space, the first thought that passes through your mind is that you must still be dreaming. Because your apartment – something that once looked like the wreckage of a tornado – looked… better.

It wasn’t perfect but the trash was gone, the pillows on your couch and knick-knacks on your shelves a little neater. And once your mind fully comes to, you can still hear water running but underneath the sound was the clink and clang of metal and ceramic.

Your gingerly remove yourself from the bed, your hands keeping a hold of one of your blankets. You wrap the fabric around your body for a sense of security as you gingerly walk through the threshold of your kitchen. Your eyes first notice the absence of trash once again before connecting with the tall frame of someone standing in front of your sink. The panic of a random man in your apartment never has a chance to fully sink in, recognizing the chocolate curls of your best friend Anthony with a quickness that could only be contributed to your long friendship. A sigh escapes you, thankful that some weirdo didn’t break into your house to clean… but it was still odd that Anthony was here.

You aren’t sure if he heard your soft sigh or if Tito just managed to sense your presence because his head turns to look behind him, his eyes meeting yours. You watch the small smile tug at his lips before his voice sounds out over the running faucet.

“Go back to sleep. I’m almost done.”

Your only response is a nod as you turn around. You aren’t sure if it’s just what your body automatically wanted to do or if you were in such a fugue state that you couldn’t help but comply or if you were actually still dreaming. Whatever it was, you do end up returning to your bed.

You don’t follow Anthony’s orders completely, however. Instead of burying yourself into your sheets and falling back asleep, you sit on top of the mattress, blanket still around your shoulders and eyes still glued to the kitchen entrance. Waiting for Tito to come back or waiting for this entire thing to dissipate, confirming that you were indeed dreaming.

Turns out the first possibility prevails, Anthony appearing in the doorway, wiping his hands on one of your towels. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge you sitting there bewildered. Instead, he walks straight to your closet, fishing out your overflowing laundry bag and lugging it over. He stands at the foot of your bed, hands fishing out bunches of clothes and placing them on the mattress.

“I was doing to do this first but I know you’re particular about your clothes so I decided to wait until you were awake so you could help,” he explains as cooly and as casually as if he were discussing the weather.

“Tito,” you say, your voice not as sharp as you wanted but perhaps the mere sound of it was enough for him to pause and look up at you. “What are you doing?”

The jovial grin tugs at his lips before he returns his attention to the pile of dirty clothes.

“I told you: we’re doing laundry. These don’t get dried, right?” he asks, holding up a pair of your leggings.

“Anthony,” you say again, using his actual name instead of his nickname, indicating both your confusion and your seriousness. “What is going on?”

“I was worried about you,” he replies with a shrug, as if it wasn’t a big deal but you can hear the genuine concern lacing his words. “Came in using the key you gave me just to check on you – sorry about that by the way – but then I saw this and figured you needed help. So, here I am helping.”

The flood of emotions that hit you was far too much and far too conflicting for you to fully register with the haze of sleep and the cloud of confusion still hanging over you.

You felt happy to see him after a long period of no contact. You felt guilty that you made him worry that much about you that he felt he had to check on you. You were peeved that he felt so comfortable waltzing into your apartment and rummaging through your things. You were grateful that he was willing to do all this for you. You were mortified that he was seeing you at such a low point.

Anthony doesn’t seem to notice the storm of warring emotions within you. Instead, he just continues to lift clothes out of your laundry basket – some of which you recognize had been laying on your sofa previously – until a practical mountain forms at the end of your bed. The sight of it makes another pang of shame surge through you, your body scooting forward as you reach out to grab Anthony’s wrist, temporarily halting his movements.

“You don’t have to,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual even though you can feel the heat flooding your cheeks. Anthony just playfully flicks your hand off him, his hands reburying themselves in the pile of laundry.

“Of course I do. What else are friends for?”

“Ugh, this is so embarrassing,” you mumble, your head finding a place in your upturned palms.

“Why?” Tito teases. “Do you have a little lacy number in here that you don’t want me seeing?”

His quip – a quintessential bedrock in the foundation of your friendship – makes you lift your head to connect your eyes back to his, a wry smile on your face.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The bright smile that twists onto Anthony’s lips makes your heart soar, happy to see him so happy. Happy in yourself that you had managed to dig out a little playfulness from the abysmal black hole that had currently taken up residence in your life.

However, the joy is short-lived when your eyes dart back to the pile of dirty clothes – a reminder of just how bad it had gotten. And at the fact that Anthony was almost elbow deep in the mess.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just… this – it’s so… I don’t know. Embarrassing!” you attempt again, still not quite able to succinctly put your emotions into comprehensible words.

“Really?” Anthony asks, one of his eyebrows raising. “More embarrassing than the time you got food poisoning in Vancouver and I held back your hair as you puked your guts out at 2am? Or that one time your bikini bottoms got launched from your body when you failed at wakeboarding? Or the time, in Nashville when we went to that karaoke bar and - ”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you cut him off, a hand lifting to cover your face. In annoyance or embarrassment, you weren’t quite sure.

Anthony stops his rummaging for a moment, reaching out to grasp your hand, pulling it away so your eyes reconnect with his. You can see the care expressed so clearly on his face, his eyes soft and a gentle smile on his lips.

“Hey, it’s alright. We’ve both seen each other in much more embarrassing situations than this one, yeah?”

You nod your head in agreement, the memories of nine years of friendship flipping through your mind like an old film reel.

“I just want to help. That’s why I’m here,” Anthony continues, hand still holding yours. “But if you’d like me to leave, I’ll respect that.”

You let yourself sit with his offer. You allow all the emotions to run through you, trying to organize and catalogue them. There was still a hefty amount of guilt and chagrin that existed within you; at both yourself for letting it get this bad and for dragging Anthony into your disaster. But above all of that, there was a stronger sense of relief and appreciation. Relief at having someone who cared for you so deeply that they took the time to check on you. Appreciation that Anthony was here wanting to help you – that he wasn’t doing this out of some sense of obligation or anything like that.

This was just Anthony – your Anthony – proving to you yet again why you were best friends.

The soft squeeze of his calloused hand around yours, him patiently waiting for your answer, is the final nail in the coffin, your eyes darting up to meet his. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you playfully shrug your shoulders.

“I guess you can stay,” you mumble, the hint of a chirp in the words letting Anthony know you were being serious and not just resigning yourself to whatever fate he had planned. A grin appears on his face, giving your hand another squeeze before releasing his hold on you, turning his attention back to the laundry piled between the two of you.

“Awesome. Now help me organize this stuff.”

You roll your eyes at his playful demand before helping him sort your clothes into two piles of ‘can go in the dryer’ and ‘has to air dry.’ It goes quickly with two pairs of hands helping sort through the mess. Anthony shoos you off as soon as the laundry is sorted, saying he found your detergent when he was looking for your dish soap. You let him lug the clothes back into the kitchen where your machine was located and you finally find the strength to unfurl yourself from the bed.

You arms lift over your head, stretching your body as you fully observe your apartment. Anthony did a damn good job. Some of your knick-knacks were a little askew and the blankets thrown over your couch were haphazardly folded but it looked miles better than it did before. It truly felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

The sound of your washer rumbling to life draws your attention back to the kitchen doorway, seeing Anthony step back into your main room.

“Alright, now that that’s started, you can… I don’t know. Sleep some more if you want? Take a shower? Help me clean some more?”

“What else do you have left to do?” you question, looking around. He already did the heavy lifting with the dishes and laundry. Plus, the trash was taken out and surfaces were picked up.

“Thought about wiping down your counters and tables. Changing your sheets if you aren’t using them anymore. Stuff like that.”

“Tito,” you sigh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done so much.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Anthony replies, shrugging off your dismissal.

“Do you even know how to use a bottle of Clorox?”

The tease comes easily from your lips and makes Anthony laugh, his eyes playfully rolling at your insinuation.

“I haven’t lived like a bachelor for seven years without learning how to do basic cleaning tasks, you know?”

“Whatever you say, Tito,” you hum, another chuckle coming from your best friend. You take a deep breath, your hand lifting to comb through your hair. The movement is halted by your fingers catching tangles, a small grimace crossing your face at both that and the oily feeling of buildup that had now transferred from your strands to your fingers.

“Now that I think about it, I really do need a shower.” You turn to face Anthony, your head cocked to the side in an expression of resignation. “You know where the cleaner and rags are?”

“Same place as your detergent.”

“And replacement sheets?”

“Top shelf of your closet.”

You nod your head, turning to walk to the bathroom before you are halted by Tito’s voice ringing out.

“I’ll take everything off your body.”

Your body spins back to face him, your eyebrows furrowed even as the playful grin twists your lips.

“I’m flattered Tito but I don’t think we have that kind of friendship.”

The confusion passes over Anthony’s expression and you can practically see the gears turning as he processes your response and recalls his previous words. The potential innuendo hits him suddenly, his cheeks flushing making you let out a cackle – the first genuine unfiltered laugh that had escaped you in what felt like ages.

“I meant for the laundry. Like, you can throw them out here before you get in the shower so I can add them to the next load,” he mumbles, the embarrassment still clearly flowing through his body. You just let out another soft chuckle before resuming your path towards the bathroom.

“If you wanted to see me naked that bad, Tito, you should just ask,” you call out to him, closing the bathroom door before he has a chance to respond.

It takes for the sound of the shower starting to snap Anthony out of whatever trance he found himself stuck in. He was still 100% embarrassed about the way he phrased his previous words, the innuendo being entirely unintentional. But there was another glimmer of something underneath all that.

A flash of hope brought on by your departing words.

Part of him was ready to chide the voice of his boyish crush surging forward, saying that you were just joking – a similar joke he made about the possibility of lingerie in your hamper. But that logical reasoning would fall on deaf ears. He told himself that so many times, every time your playful banter tiptoed over the line into something potentially more.

It was stupid really; falling for his best friend. He knew that. The biggest cliché found in every Hallmark movie and BookTok romance. But it was easy. You made it easy.

It wasn’t just your looks – although he would have to be blind to not notice how attractive you were. But it was all the little parts of you, parts that he got to see and discover and grew to love in the multiple years you’ve known each other. If anything, your long-term friendship contributed to his feelings for you developing from platonic to romantic. A friendship that lasted nine year, two countries, and multiple cities didn’t just happen without both work and natural chemistry. Hell, he knows married couples that had been through less than you and him have.

He never acted on these feelings though. It was harder when you were both living in Long Island and he saw you almost every day but when he was traded to Vancouver, the distance helped him keep a hold of his emotions.

He did think about confessing to you the night he left, though. If it blew up in his face and he ruined the friendship you shared by doing something stupid, it would be easy to leave it all behind and get over it. Couldn’t get further away than an entirely different coast.

He didn’t do it, however, and now with hindsight, he’s glad he didn’t. Your friendship spanned both time and space. And his crush on you never diminished. Every time you visited him or vice-versa, those feelings resurged with the strength of a thousand suns. Turns out distance really did make the heart grow fonder.

And when he got the news that he was traded again but this time to the city you called home, it felt like fate. Much like it felt like the universe’s hand that kept both of you single this long; like some higher power was conspiring for the two of you to get together.

Anthony shakes his head, fully snapping himself out of his reverie. It was just a silly crush. Would he ever get over it? Who knew? But he told himself long ago to just let things progress naturally. If it was meant to happen, then it would happen.

He had to believe in that. It was the only logic that kept him sane.

So, instead of continuing to wallow in his feelings, he turns back to the kitchen, fishing out the multi-colored rags and Clorox bottle from underneath your sink before turning his attention to the still dirty marble countertop.

This shouldn’t take him that long: he only had the kitchen, coffee table, mantle, nightstand, and bookshelf to do. And when the laundry currently tumbling in the washer had finished, he would hang those out to dry and start another load before he stripped and made your bed with fresh sheets.

That’s what friends did for each other.

That’s what he would do for you.

Because he cares about you.

Because he loves you.

The shower was much needed. You had felt your body relax as soon as the steam filled the room and stepping into the warm water just multiplied that feeling. You took your time, slowly pampering yourself after a multitude of quick in-and-out showers you had forced yourself to take to maintain a base sense of hygiene. The conditioner in your hair felt heavenly and the subtle vanilla of your body wash helped the entire experience feel luxurious even though you weren’t adding any major steps to your routine.

You had even managed to find the energy to go through your entire skincare routine and deep clean your teeth. Standing in front of your sink, your body clad in your fluffy bathrobe and your hair still damp, you allow yourself the opportunity to take a deep breath.

The mere fact that you were able to slow down, to take a moment to enjoy this reprieve in the shitshow that currently your life was a blessing. Part of you knew all your problems weren’t instantly solved by a shower and a clean apartment. But it helped. It definitely helped.

And you had Anthony to thank for that.

You owed him. Big time. Hell, in nine years of friendship, you were probably indebted to him already but this… this was different. He didn’t have to do what he did.

He didn’t have to come over to check on you. He didn’t have to stay. He didn’t have to spend his time and energy helping dig you out of your sadness when he could’ve been doing much more exciting and productive things. But he did. He chose to.

That part. The fact that this was his choice… that meant so much to you.

You stretch again before grabbing the fresh pair of pajamas that Anthony had brought to you while you had been applying lotion to your face. The soft, still somewhat warm cotton against your now clean skin increased your happiness and you hang your robe back up before pushing out into your living room.

The smell of lemon and linen greet your nose as your step from the tile to the hardwood, your eyes perusing the space. It didn’t look much different but your nose tells you that Anthony did indeed keep his word about cleaning the surfaces and you can see the color of new sheets stretched across your bed. The man in question was currently perched on your couch, hunched over and scrolling through his phone, your laundry hamper sitting next to him.

His attention lifts as soon as you clear your throat, shooting you a grin.

“Feel better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

“Of course. Clothes are on your drying rack and I just put your old sheets in the dryer,” Anthony explains, vaguely gesturing to the wall behind him that separated your kitchen from the main room.

“Awesome. What’s with the hamper?”

“Oh, I didn’t really know what to do with your other clothes. I found your pajamas but I didn’t know what was hung or folded or anything else like that,” he tells you, a hand raising to scratch the back of his neck – a telltale sign of his nerves.

“No problem,” you reply with a hum, silencing any of his anxiety before grabbing your hamper and dumping the clean clothes onto the newly made bed. “I can put these away.”

“Are you sure? I can help.”

“Tito, you’ve already helped so much. I’ve got the energy now, thanks to you, so let me do this while you finally relax,” you laugh. “Besides, I have a whole system that I know you would just mess up.”

“Figures you have a system for clean clothes as well as dirty ones,” Anthony quips, to which you reply by throwing a coupled pair of socks in his direction. He catches the fabric with ease – damn his hockey reflexes – and places the bundle on the coffee table. “Fine, then I’ll order pizza. You want your usual?”

“Yes, please.”

A comfortable silence falls over the two of you as you work, Anthony only interrupting your flow with little quips and comments that you return with ease. The relaxed atmosphere coupled with the bliss that natural came when you hung out with Anthony lifted your spirits indescribably higher. He was like a breath of fresh air, the sunlight in the lazy days of June. He was just what you needed after feeling like you were trapped in the gloomiest Mondays of a never-ending January.

You managed to completely put your clothes away right as Anthony came back from picking up the pizza from the cute little shop down the block. He even had the foresight to grab paper plates and napkins so the two of you didn’t immediately dirty a pair of dishes.

You and Anthony come to settle on opposite ends of the couch, a blanket thrown over both your legs and pizza in your hands, the two of you eating in silence. Eventually, Anthony finally clears his throat, wiping his hands off on a napkin before fixing his blue eyes on you.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He didn’t have to elaborate what ‘it’ was. You’d be an idiot to pretend like you hadn’t seen the concern and question hanging over him ever since you woke up, even though he hid it well. You respond with a sigh before putting your own plate down on the coffee table.

“I’m not sure what to say,” you confess, the statement being as close to the truth as you could get. “It was just one thing after the other, all of them effecting each other until it became too much, y’know?”

The silence falls again as you sigh. Some of your problems still weren’t solved; your job still sucked; you didn’t suddenly inherit a million dollars. But this was a start. You look back to Anthony, his own eyes distant as if he was going through the past weeks, wondering if he could’ve done something different. You reach your leg out, nudging his thigh with your foot, bringing his attention back to you.

“I’m sorry for not telling you. Making you worry.”

Anthony’s first reply is a gentle shake of his head, those eyes softening with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“No need to apologize. I’m kind of glad you didn’t.”

Your brows furrow, not fully understanding his logic, leaving Anthony to explain it to you.

“Would I have liked for you to tell me? Yeah, of course. But you could’ve just as easily lied to me and then I might have never known something was wrong. I wouldn’t have known you needed help.”

“You don’t have to rescue me, Tito. I’m not some damsel in distress.”

“I know. But I’ll always be here if you need me. That’s what friends are for.”

You smile, his genuine words continuing to melt your heart. How you managed to survive before Anthony Beauvillier came into your life, you’ll never know. You were insanely thankful that the two of you were once again in the same city. A wicked smile appears on your face and you can see Anthony’s eyebrows quirk in a question as he takes in your change of expression, even though a similar smile appears on his lips.

“Yeah,” you say in response to his statement. “That is until you get traded again.”

The teasing lilt of your voice makes it obvious that you were poking fun at him, something that Anthony reads with an ease and responds to immediately, his hands lifting to his chest to press against his heart like you actually wounded him.

“Ouch,” he says, the sarcastic whine falling from his lips making you laugh.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re probably right. But hey,” you continue, nudging him with your foot again. “Congrats on making it to the playoffs with your brand-new team!”

“Thanks. We all know they never could’ve made it without me.”

“Oh, of course.”

“You have a guaranteed ticket to the first game,” he tells you, those beautiful blue eyes sparkling at you, the sight of which makes you smile soften, your next words holding a stronger sense of sincerity.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Anthony just grins again before the two of you focus back on the pizza in front of you. When you were done, the leftovers wrapped in foil and placed in the fridge, Anthony lays down on the couch with you snuggled into his side as he turns on a generic romantic comedy to fill the now evenings quiet. About halfway through the movie, you look up to him, your eyes taking in his strong side profile, letting your heart swell with affection and appreciation for the man next to you. He must feel the weight of your stare, his eyes turning to connect with your gaze, a silent question painted on his face.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the low-lamplight of the room. “Again. For doing all this for me.”

You just watch a gentle smile wash across Anthony’s face, the genuine expression of utmost care and… love he was directing to you making a small part of your heart – one you had kept under lock and key – flutter. Anthony doesn’t speak immediately, instead choosing to lean his head down and press a soft kiss onto your forehead. The action causes you to melt further into him, your body moving impossibly closer to his warmth. Your sunlight, your joy, your Anthony.

It isn’t until the two of you a proficiently tangled in each other does Anthony’s voice finally fill the space.

“Always.”

taglist: @laurenairay @fallinallincurls @solros-world @svexhenthusiast @jjgsunflower

#nicole writes #wake up sunshine series #anthony beauvillier fic #anthony beauvillier imagine #anthony beauvillier fluff #washington capitals fic #washington capitals imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine #dividers by saradika-graphics

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maybe-boys-do-love · 2 months ago

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Thai BL isn't lesser. It just has different aesthetic goals. It often prioritizes what some would call a theatrical style to filmmaking over a cinematic one.

Theatrical approaches, in the US at least, are currently associated with older films and television. They're also linked to contemporary shows in what are currently thought of as more conservative genres like youth-oriented cable programming (think Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel), soap operas, and sitcoms.

However, the theatrical style in the west has been at other times very much associated with cutting-edge subversion and queer camp. In the 80s and 90s, for example, counter-cultural cinema projects leaned heavily towards more theatrical approaches in the face of blockbuster corporate sheen. The films grouped into the Queer New Cinema loved to play with this. Consider the bold colors, static shots, and unsubtle dialogue in But I'm a Cheerleader.

In the 50s and 60s, the theatricality of sitcoms was a site of transgressive feminism and gender representations like in Bewitched (see more in The Queer Fantasies of the American Family Sitcom or Camp TV: Trans Gender Queer Sitcom History, among others).

Both those eras used theatricality for a number of reasons: budgetary necessity, subsequent technological limits, but also as a counter to the different kinds of elitism associated with the cinematic style in those periods (intellectual in the 50s and 60s and corporate in the 80s and 90s).

Cinematic style didn't begin to fully emerge anyway until the 1940s and 1950s with lenses and cameras that could depict greater depth and move through the spaces the characters were inhabiting. Before that, theatrical presentation was simply the only option. So Old Hollywood is rife with theatricality, and plenty of of those films still have the power to move audiences and feel surprisingly relevant with their visual and scripted commentary. Camille, with what some consider to be a nearly all-queer cast and main production crew and one of Greta Garbo's best performances, holds up incredibly if you're willing to accept its theatrical diva-licious approach.

But plenty of the Old Hollywood films are also duds along with the other eras mentioned. Theatricality, like cinematic approaches, is not inherently more queer or superior to other forms. They're just styles. As Zadie Smith wrote, "In Britain, we are always doing this: mistaking an aesthetic choice for an ethical one." I'm guessing that tendency is pretty universal, either mistaking aesthetic choices for ethics or, even more often, quality.

Appreciating theatricality will hopefully help you understand other choices in Thai BL with less judgment, though. The comic sound effects, jarring as they might be for western audiences who've had laugh tracks and sound effects sequestered away from much of their 'prestige' media, are an artistic choice in their own right that Thai BL has refined over the years to work as leitmotifs (small repeated sound sequences) in the series that reiterate the themes.

Two great examples of sound cues came out last year even as their cinematography leaned more towards a cinematic style. The Trainee, a GMMTV show about a film production company, used computer error sounds as a comedic beat when characters' fucked up, while Kidnap had a pathetic dog whimper, which created more sympathetic characters, like injured puppies who needed love and patience to recover from their injuries.

There's an art to using these theatrical tools in productions. I was rewatching an episode of Little Bear recently and Mother Bear blew out a candle, which was indicated not by a blowing sound effect but a clarinet trill. So much more tender! These sorts of sonic tricks were used beautifully throughout silent films, opera, and symphonies in the West for years. It merely fell out of fashion outside of cartoons and some comedies.

But just because certain tastes or practices were deserted or designated for "low-brow" entertainment in one culture, doesn't mean that other cultures are somehow 'behind' or 'lesser' for their use of it. Both cultures are equally contemporary to one another. One is not more advanced just because it has a stronger economy or easier access to certain goods and technologies. Nor does the designation of 'low-brow' to some art mean that the 'low-brow' entertainment is actually less skillful or impactful. The viewer just might lack an appropriate angle to appreciate it from or there might easily be cultural biases at play, not just across different cultures but regarding social status and rules within a single culture (and bother are something we ought to be very sensitive about when dealing with queer media).

I want to look at one of my favorite aspects that comes out of Thai BLs preference towards theatricality. The performances, and even certain production elements, often burst with spontaneity, clumsiness, exuberance. It can infect an audience with joy as the shows demonstrate what we often call (from lack of clearer aesthetic terminology) "heart." Dismissively, plenty of fans refer to the 'heart' of Thai series as if its unintentional and unrelated to the elements of the series they see as inferior. Its the sweet taste that got them addicted to a guilty pleasure! The 'heart,' though, comes from the Thai creators prioritizing a view of human messiness over the technical precision preferred by a cinematic aesthetic.

Thai BL often has a similarity to live theater in this manner, as well as improvisation-based media. Again, these are not lesser forms of art. I bring up improv specifically because it's easy to believe that the lack of pre-planning and compositional directive ought to diminish it in the made-up hierarchy people have going in their heads. Yet, we have Mike Leigh, a British director of dramedies, and Christopher Guest, an American comedy director, both famed and critically celebrated for their humanist works founded in improvisation.

You won't find me arguing that all Thai BLs are successful or that one country's BLs are somehow better than another's. I just do my best to understand, explain, and make meaningful comparisons to appreciate the aesthetic goals I see shows' evoking. It's also fun to look into influences beyond my own cultural scope and love (and repost) when others' share them. What are specific East and South Asian media reference points that influence the style of the shows (lakorn, literary BL media, Thai traditional theater)? I'd be remiss not to mention, for example, that the theatrical traditions for Thai shows derive mainly from Asian traditions in cinema and theater, despite all my comparisons to Western history!

Then there's the question of local political, economic, and cultural issues and limits that the creators live alongside and must create within and/or against to some extent. I'll never know all the answers, but exploring the questions is so much more fun than disparaging shows for what they aren't and what they can't or don't aim to be.

But look, I personally have a preference for the style a lot of Thai BLs go for. It reminds me of the cartoons, musicals, DCOMs, and vintage tv I've loved watching for most of my life. I like the variant gender and sexuality representations they offer. I like the intricate economic-political commentary I see the writers working into the subtext. It's not going to resonate for everyone, not everyone will see what I see, and all that's okay. I've personally never been happier with the amount of series' that match my tastes.

#thai bl #thai bl discourse

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mariacallous · 6 months ago

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As president of the United States, Donald Trump threatened the federally issued licenses of television broadcast outlets that displeased him. In 2017, after NBC News reported a dispute between the president and his military advisors about the size of the nuclear arsenal, the president launched a series of tweets:

These 2017 tweets did not specifically suggest that he would have the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), which issues the airwave licenses, revoke them on his order. Instead, they appear to echo the 1972 tactics of Richard Nixon, who, displeased by coverage from the Washington Post, encouraged a third party to file a challenge at the FCC (which ultimately went nowhere).

In response to the 2017 tweets, the Trump-appointed chairman of the FCC, Ajit Pai, took a firm stand. “I believe in the First Amendment,” he said. “Under the law, the FCC does not have the authority to revoke a license of a broadcast station based on a particular newscast.”

Now, in 2024, as a presidential candidate, Donald Trump has reasserted that broadcasters who displease him should lose their federal airwave licenses. A September 2023 post on Truth Social accused NBC of “Country Threatening Treason.” He added, “Why should NBC, or any of the other corrupt & dishonest media companies, be entitled to use the very valuable Airwaves of the USA, FREE?”

The current Chair of the FCC, Jessica Rosenworcel, responded, “the First Amendment is a cornerstone of our democracy. The FCC does not and will not revoke licenses for broadcast stations simply because a political candidate disagrees with or dislikes content or coverage.”

However, the ability of future FCCs to stand up to such instructions could be at risk. Candidate Trump has promised, “I will bring the independent regulatory agencies, such as the FCC and the FTC, back under Presidential authority, as the Constitution demands.” While the Constitution never mentions regulatory agencies, bringing the FCC under direct presidential control would surely undercut its independent decision-making.

But a president of the United States already has powers beyond coercing the FCC. These powers could be exercised not only against broadcasters, but also against those who operate the internet.

The “Doomsday Book”

During his presidency, Donald Trump asserted, “When somebody’s president of the United States, the authority is total.” Whether or not presidential authority is “total,” there does already exist a compendium of presidential powers that have been enacted by Congress for use in extreme circumstances.

Reportedly locked in a White House safe are the secret “Presidential Emergency Action Documents” (PEADs). Colloquially known as the “Doomsday Book,” they are a collection of powers authorized by Congress for the president to use in emergencies. Included in this compendium is Section 706 (codified as 47 USC 606), titled, “War Emergency – Powers of the President,” that is tucked away at the end of the Communications Act of 1934, the statute that created the FCC.

TIME Magazine reports, “When Donald Trump was in the Oval Office, members of the national security staff actively worked to keep him from learning the full extent of these interpretations of presidential authority, concerned he would abuse them.”

Here is what Section 706 authorizes:

(c) Upon proclamation by the President that there exists war or a threat of war, or a state of public peril or disaster or other national emergency… the President, if he deems it necessary in the interest of national security or defense, may suspend or amend, for such time as he may see fit, the rules and regulations applicable to any or all stations or devices capable of emitting electromagnetic radiations within the jurisdiction of the United States as prescribed by the Commission, and may cause the closing of any station for radio communication…

The next subsection, using similar “national security” criteria, gives the president authority over the wired networks, such as those that carry telephone and internet service. Section 706(d), in pertinent part, authorizes the president to “suspend or amend the rules and regulations applicable to any or all facilities or stations for wire communication… cause the closing of any facility or station for wire communication… [or] authorize the use or control of any such facility or station… by any department of the Government under such regulations as he may prescribe…”

The terms “war or a threat of war, or a state of public peril or disaster or other national emergency” are not defined by the Communications Act. Such declarations of national emergency were, however, a go-to solution when Donald Trump was in office. The effort to restrict travel from majority-Muslim countries was justified on national security grounds. Tariffs were levied on foreign steel and aluminum as a national security threat based on their impact on domestic production. When Congress would not give him the funding he wanted for the Mexican border wall, the president simply used a national emergency declaration to reallocate Defense Department funds to build the wall. Reportedly, he even considered declaring that the use of natural gas for electricity production was a national security risk because the gas pipelines could become terrorist targets.

The power of the Chief

Candidate Trump, in September 2023, posted that NBC and other “corrupt & dishonest media companies” are “a true threat to democracy and are, in fact, THE ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE!” He declared, “The Fake News Media should pay a big price for what they have done to our once great Country.”

A 2021 report by the nonpartisan Congressional Research Service (CRS) concluded, “in the American governmental experience, the exercise of emergency powers has been somewhat dependent on the Chief Executive’s view of the presidential office.” When he was Chief Executive, Donald Trump explained how he viewed the office: “I have Article II [of the Constitution], where I have the right to do whatever I want as president.”

The tools to do whatever the president wants—whether at the FCC or in the Doomsday Book—are at hand. As the CRS report concluded, such decisions are dependent “on the Chief Executive’s view of the presidential office.”

The institution that created these broad powers, the Congress, has an important role as overseer of the authority they have delegated to the executive. Congress constantly holds oversight hearings on the agencies of the executive branch; hearings on the unilateral powers granted to the president are warranted. The threshold question for such hearings should be whether there are sufficient guardrails in place to protect against their abuse, and what such protections should look like. Regardless of who wins the election—Congress should review whether the unilateral powers granted to the president in the 20th century need updating for the 21st century.

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justinspoliticalcorner · 9 months ago

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Kamala Harris herself has now borrowed Walz’s lingo and is also calling her opponents “weird”, while Walz is all over our television screens, bolstering the vice-president’s candidacy and playing “attack dog” against the Trump/Vance Republican ticket. I’ll be honest: last month, I would have struggled to pick Walz out of a lineup. This month? I’m Walz-pilled. I have watched dozens of his interviews and clips. And I’m far from alone. He has an army of new fans across the liberal-left: from former Bernie Sanders 2020 campaign co-chair Nina Turner, to one-time Democratic congressman Beto O’Rourke, to gun-control activist David Hogg. “In less than 6 days, I went from not knowing who Tim Walz is,” joked writer Travis Helwig on X, “to deep down believing that if he doesn’t get the VP nod I will storm the capitol.” According to Bloomberg, the Harris campaign has narrowed down its “top tier” of potential running mates to three “white guy” candidates: Walz (hurrah!), plus the Arizona senator Mark Kelly and Pennsylvania governor Josh Shapiro. Both Kelly and Shapiro have their strengths – and both represent must-win states for the Dems. Allow me, however, to make the clear case for Walz. First, there’s his personality. The 60-year-old governor would bring energy, humor and some much-needed bite to the Democratic presidential ticket. There’s a reason why his videos have been going viral in recent days. Tim Kaine he ain’t. Pick the charismatic and eloquent Walz and you have America’s Fun Uncle ready to go. Then, there’s his résumé. A popular midwest governor from a rural town. A 24-year veteran of the army national guard. A high school teacher who coached the football team to its first state championship. It’s almost too perfect! Finally, there’s his governing record. You will struggle to find a Democratic governor who has achieved more than Walz in the space of a single legislative session. Not Shapiro. Not JB Pritzker of Illinois. Not even Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan. [...] Think about it. Democrats can have Tim Walz on the ticket, who called the anti-war, pro-Palestinian ‘uncommitted’ movement “civically engaged” and praised them for “asking for a change in course” and “for more pressure to be put on” the White House, or they can have Josh Shapiro, who called for a crackdown on anti-war, pro-Palestinian college protesters and even compared them to the KKK. They can have Walz on the ticket, who has reportedly “emerged among labor unions as a popular pick” after signing “into law a series of measures viewed as pro-worker” including banning non-compete agreements and expanding protections for Amazon warehouse workers, or they can have Mark Kelly, who opposed the pro-labor Pro Act in the Senate (but has since touted support for it). They can have Walz, who guaranteed students in Minnesota not just free breakfasts but free lunches, or Shapiro, who has courted controversy in Pennsylvania with his support for school vouchers. They can have Walz, who calls his Republican opponents “weird” and extreme, or Kelly, who calls his Republican opponents “good people” who are “working really hard”. This isn’t rocket science. Walz is the obvious choice. Not only is he the ideal “white guy” running mate for Harris, against both Trump and Vance, but he is already doing the job on television and online, lambasting Vance in particular over IVF treatment and insisting he mind his “own damn business”.

Zeteo News founder Mehdi Hasan for The Guardian on why picking Tim Walz as Kamala Harris's running mate is the best option (07.29.2024).

Zeteo News founder Mehdi Hasan wrote in The Guardian why Tim Walz should be Kamala Harris’s running mate. Hasan’s opinion piece is worth reading.

#Mehdi Hasan #Zeteo News #The Guardian #Opinion #Kamala Harris #Tim Walz #2024 Presidential Election #2024 Veepstakes

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cartermagazine · 1 year ago

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Today In History

Nat King Cole, legendary singer, pianist, and entertainer, was born in Montgomery, AL, on this date March 17, 1919.

By the 1950s, Cole emerged as a popular solo performer. He scored numerous hits, with such songs as “Nature Boy,” “Mona Lisa,” “Too Young” and “Unforgettable.” In the studio, Cole got to work with some of the country’s top talent, including Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, and famous arrangers such as Nelson Riddle.

Cole made television history in 1956 when he became the first African American performer to host a variety TV series. The Nat King Cole Show featured many of the leading performers of the day, including Count Basie, Peggy Lee, Sammy Davis Jr. and Tony Bennett.

His daughter Natalie Cole included a cover of the song Unforgettable on her album Unforgettable… with Love. It was certified 7× platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), and won the Grammy Award for Album of the Year, for which Cole became the first African-American woman to win the award.

CARTER™️ Magazine

#nat king cole #natalie cole #carter magazine #historyandhiphop365 #carter #wherehistoryandhiphopmeet #history #cartermagazine #today in history #staywoke #blackhistory #blackhistorymonth

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doctorbitchcrxft · 3 months ago

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Another Brick In The Wall | Supernatural Series Rewrite | A doctorbitchcrxft Original | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem! Reader

Warnings: oh lawd. all the warnings. just. all of them. please be cautious if you are a victim of sexual abuse, verbal abuse, religious trauma, or loss of a loved one. canon gore always applies. i never write anything exceedingly graphic for the sake of shock factor as i feel it is unnecessary, and if any of my content does not accurately warn its readers, please let me know

Word Count: 4005

A/N: Ugh. My heart is so full. Thank you, everyone, for reading and loving my stories. I love you.

Fair warning: I want this season to feel like laying in bed staring at the wall in the dark wrapped in a big sweater while Preacher's Daughter plays in the background. And perhaps you’re laying on the mattress curled in a ball facing away from an estranged lover who sleeps soundly beside you. Let me know if I accurately evoke that feeling as we go along….

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

“Uriel! Get your ass down here!”

“What have I said about your attitude, (Y/N),” Uriel warned, appearing behind you with the sound of flapping feathers.

“Sorry, but this is an emergency,” you said, pacing around the dark cabin. You pointed to the television with the remote and rewound to the portion of the news covering you.

Uriel just stared at you blankly with an eyebrow raised.

You gave him a questioning and expectant look. “Are… you gonna help me?”

“I thought you said you were careful,” the angel droned.

You scoffed. “I was! I mean—” you pointed to the television that you’d paused on the frame of your face— “I’ve got different hair, and you can’t see hardly any of my face, but this isn’t great that they’ve somehow connected every-fucking-thing to me!”

Uriel sighed, clearly frustrated with you. “What do you expect me to do, then? In case you haven’t noticed, Heaven’s preparing for war. I don’t have time to handle every inconvenience for you.”

“Whoa, what?’ you asked, startled. “Heaven’s preparing for war?”

“Hell won’t exactly be thrilled about giving up their new plaything,” he replied evenly.

You swallowed harshly at the degrading mention of your partner. “When’s he coming back?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Uriel answered.

“What, why?!”

“(Y/N)—”

“No, why can’t you tell me?!” You marched up to Uriel with your finger in his face. “I’ve done so much for you fucking freaks, and you can’t tell me when he’s coming back?!”

Uriel’s eyes hardened, and a clap of lightning caused you to jump away from him as the shadow of his impressive wings appeared on the wall behind him.

“Okay,” you said timidly, still trying to appear tough, “I clearly pushed you a little far. I’m sorry.”

“That is your final warning, (Y/N). If you speak back to me again, I won’t be so forgiving,” Uriel stated firmly through gritted teeth.

****

You drove to the outskirts of Pontiac, Illinois; the town where Dean was buried. You wanted to be there and lay eyes on him when he returned, and you figured it best to keep state-hopping to avoid police and prosecution.

Much to your surprise, the small little town you’d laid Dean to rest in was completely abandoned. The gas station nearby looked like it had been ransacked, and all of its windows had been completely busted up.

‘What happened here?’ you thought. With your heart in your throat, you approached the little wooden cross Sam had fashioned to mark Dean’s grave and saw a human-sized hole that seemed to have been dug from the inside out. Your body shuddered in relief: Dean was alive! It was then you noticed the perfect circle of trees that had been blown over and away from Dean’s grave. There was no doubt in your mind that that angel Uriel had told you about had something to do with this. You wondered if it was an angel you’d heard of before or found a vessel for.

You took your phone out of your pocket and found it without reception.

‘Definitely an angel, then,’ you thought.

How familiar you were becoming with angels was beginning to frighten you a bit. If only your mom could see you now. A smile crossed your face at the thought.

Even with as complicated a woman as your mother was, you loved her with all of your heart. She never occupied much of your thoughts; the memory of her was far too painful. With all the angel business recently, though, you were thinking of her more and more.

You thought of the times she’d bandage your bruised knuckles when you’d used the tree outside your motel room as a punching bag to get out all of your frustrations. You thought of her teaching you to read and write, and the way she’d hum while she brushed your hair. You’d grimace and tell her she was tugging too hard, but now, you wished you had just one more lazy morning with her listening to her quiet song.

She would tell you that god had a plan for your life and to unload all of your sorrows on him. So, you did. You would pray every night for him to take your suffering away; ‘please, god, I want this to be over.’ And it never was. Each new day brought another round of watching Steven, another round of training, or another fight with your father where your mother stood idly by. You felt trapped in an endless cycle. You felt god had abandoned you.

Now, knowing for sure that all of that was in his “divine plan,” you pitied your mother. Maybe she really believed that god was going to save her and her children. Maybe she really believed that her first commitment was to her partner, and the Catholic doctrine taught that she shouldn’t divorce him. She never spoke much to you about her thoughts on your father’s treatment of you and Steven, but her actions demonstrated that whether she believed he was right or not, she would stand by him. The day you realized your mother loved her religion more than she loved you was the day you lost all faith in god.

****

You knew it wasn’t safe for you and Dean to be around each other. You knew you’d only be endangering the brothers and undoubtedly, Bobby, if you started running with them again. Everything in you screamed at you to go to Dean, but you fought yourself every step of the way.

Instead, you tried to focus on nailing down their location so you could be sure to stay as far away as possible. Bobby’s number was the only one to remain reachable, so you tracked his. They were still in Pontiac, which meant you needed to get away fast. One last time, you went to the grave site where you’d buried Dean, his amulet feeling heavy around your neck.

Suddenly, you heard wings flapping behind you. “What do you want, Uriel?” You didn’t even bother to turn around.

“I see you’re in better spirits than I left you,” the angel answered.

“That’s not what I would call it,” you said. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, okay? I feel like we’ve progressed far beyond that in our relationship.” You turned to face the angel, who looked stoic as ever.

“I have another job for you,” Uriel explained.

You scoffed. “What? Dean’s out. I’m done now. I’ve got enough goin’ on with the feds on my tail.”

“You are done when I say you are,” Uriel asserted. “You are not done.”

You suppressed an eye roll, knowing it wouldn’t get you far with him. None of the angels enjoyed your petulance; it was in your best interest to simply follow along. “What can I do for you?”

“What you’ve always done,” the angel responded simply.

You hung your head low, glaring at the ground. “Uriel, I gotta be honest, man,” you sighed. “I’m exhausted. These guys you have me tearin’ to shreds are innocent.” “It is a test of their faith, (Y/N),” Uriel explained.

That caught you off-guard. “What?” you breathed out.

“What, you thought you were our first step? There is a process,” he replied.

“And you decided to tell me that now?!” you questioned angrily.

“It wasn’t important for you to know at the time,” Uriel answered simply. “You didn’t need all the details.”

“And why do I need them now?”

“Because you’re beginning to doubt,” the angel stated. “I have no room for that. We are on a strict timeline.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “So, what, you guys ask politely, and then, you use me?” you asked.

“No, child. We each approach our vessels independently. We allow them an escape from their problems. And we demonstrate to them that their faith will be tested. That’s where you come in,” he explained.

“I still don’t understand,” you shook your head. “Why not just ask ‘em to kill their only sons up on a mountain, or something?”

“Primitive,” Uriel dismissed. “And not a strong enough test of their faith. The body endures much when possessed by an angel. At any moment, the angel can be forced out. The pain you inflict acts as a vetting process of sorts. If they can endure whatever you’ve put them through and remain faithful, we won’t have to worry about our vessels betraying us.”

You allowed yourself a moment to process that information. “That’s fucking crazy, you know that, right?”

“You are lucky I have grown a tolerance to your sharp tongue. Zachariah would have cut it out.”

When you looked back up from the ground, the angel was gone.

****

That evening as you drove out of Pontiac, you heard the ringing in your ears again. Your head whipped to the right, and you thought, ‘Castiel.’

A man with dark hair and sculpted features was watering his garden while a blonde-headed child rode her scooter around the driveway.

“Oh, god,” you muttered to yourself. ‘This poor bastard.’

Suddenly, you realized what name you’d heard: Castiel. Your mother’s favorite of the angels. The one she prayed to when she wanted him to give your father the gift of temperance.

Anger and hurt boiled in your shattered heart. Tears swam in your eyes as you realized that even the angel your mother felt such a close personal connection to never cared. This was a worse reality than you could have ever imagined: he was real, god was real, and angels were real; and yet, none of them cared.

To make matters worse, a girl was going to grow up without a father because of you. A girl with a seemingly kind and doting father was going to mourn the rest of her life because of you. Your mind and body no longer felt like your own. If Heaven wanted you for their brutal crusade, you were to comply. All you had become was an inconsequential weapon; a means to achieve an end. What would happen to you when Heaven no longer had a use for you?

The anxiety that clawed at your chest when Dean was gone hadn’t subsided even though he was back. Uriel insisted that he was no longer giving you the nightmares, but they would persist now and again anyway. And on days where you didn’t dream of Dean, you dreamt of the pain you inflicted. You could no longer recognize yourself. Quite literally, you had become a shell of the person you were. Your skin lacked color and plumpness. The life had been completely drained from your eyes.

More than just not wanting to drag Dean into your troubles with the law, you would be embarrassed to see him. In truth, you weren’t proud of the person you’d become.

You thought that saving Dean would make you feel whole again. Admittedly, a stupid and naive thing to think, but you were convinced it would help you feel like yourself again. In actuality, you just felt more anxious. You knew that Dean and Bobby had been searching for— and probably found— Sam and would now be turning that attention to you.

It wasn’t that you never wanted to see Dean again; that was so far from the truth. You just wanted to see him when you were ready. If you had it your way, when you gained a little weight back, had some color in your cheeks, and were completely out of the law’s sights.

For now, though, Jimmy Novak was your project. Castiel had already been testing him, and he was teetering on the edge of ready to give you a “yes.”

You’d found a location to carry out your task at. It was an abandoned house nestled in the trees about two miles past Dean’s grave. Perfectly remote, especially now since the surrounding town had been wiped off the map by the angel; you just needed to get Jimmy in the trunk of your car.

His wife brought their daughter to dancing on Tuesday nights, and you knew that was your window of opportunity. As anxiety-inducing as kidnapping should be, it was one of the only times you felt calm. That frightened you a bit, but you assumed it was due to the repetitive nature of your new version of hunting. As much as you hated to admit it, you were good at what you did.

****

To soothe your complicated feelings toward your current situation, you hummed “Laughing on the Outside” by Bernadette Carroll to yourself on a loop while you waited for Jimmy to wake up. When he finally began to stir, you steeled your nerves and stopped your song.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” you said.

Immediately, he began to struggle. “Wh— What is this? Who the fuck are you?!”

“Look,” you sighed. “Relax, okay? Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen to you as long as you do what I say.”

“What the fuck—?!”

“Hey, Jimmy—” his head snapped to face yours when he heard you say his name— “I know Castiel has been reaching out to you; testing you.”

The man stopped struggling. “How— How do you know that?”

“All you have to do is say ‘yes.’ Just let him possess you, okay?” you urged.

“Are you out of your mind?” he panicked.

“Listen, buddy, you’re the one who believes there’s a giant man floating around in the sky. Which one of us is really out of their mind?”

That seemed to silence him. You gave him a moment to think. “What do I have to do?” he asked.

“Wait, really?” you scoffed. “You’re makin’ it that easy for me?”

“I mean, I guess,” he replied. “Castiel said something about being tested. I, uh— I guess this is it.”

You nodded. “Damn. You’ve got way stronger faith than any of the other poor guys I’ve dealt with. Nice to meet you, Jimmy.”

He looked at you, confusion written all over his face, before he looked toward the sky in awe. Then, Castiel took over his body. His eyes flashed a brilliant blue, and he easily broke out of the ropes you had his hands bound with.

As soon as you could tell the man in front of you had changed to Castiel, tears filled your eyes.

Castiel seemed confused. “Why are you upset, (Y/N)? You’ve done great work.”

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” you said firmly, turning away from him.

The angel sighed. “This is about your mother, isn’t it?”

You tried to stifle your cries so you could answer him. “You— You knew she was praying to you? You knew she needed help?” You spun back around to him, angry. “You knew I needed help?!”

Castiel nodded. “I did.”

“And you did nothing?” you scoffed.

“I don’t meddle in human affairs, (Y/N),” he replied evenly.

“Then what fucking purpose do you serve?” you pressed, your voice rising.

“I serve Heaven, not humanity. I’m a soldier. You have clearly misunderstood the faith entirely,” Castiel told you firmly.

You threw your arms out to the side in frustration. “So why now? Why are all of you here?”

“Something is coming. I am not at liberty to reveal what—”

You cut him off. “All of you fucking angels and your secrecy—”

“—And you should mind the way you talk to me.” He continued to talk over you. “Just as easily as I took Dean out of Hell—”

You couldn’t help yourself. “—God, I am so tired of having to listen to what you freaks say just because you have the biggest metaphysical dicks—”

“—I will throw you back in his place!” Castiel finished.

Your mouth snapped shut. You knew he would make due on that statement if necessary; you were completely disposable to beings that have existed for millions of years. By the time you raised your gaze from the ground, Castiel was gone.

****

Your world view was crumbling. Anxiety constantly filled you, leaving you feeling burdened with knowledge you never wanted of the afterlife and the truth behind “god’s plan.” It was becoming more and more clear to you that the only purpose humans served was to stand between Heaven and Hell like Job in the Bible; a man tortured by the devil to prove his faithfulness to the lord.

With your heart in your throat, you ditched the car you’d kidnapped Jimmy Novak in and began the long walk through the night to the next one you could hotwire. When you made it out of the woods, you walked through a neighborhood you were hesitant to steal from given the many security cameras surrounding almost every house. And so, you continued to the main road. You stopped in your tracks when you saw that familiar Impala across the street from where you were standing. Heart thumping, you made your way to the side of the diner and peeked through the blinds. To your surprise, Sam was there— with a woman, at that. Everyone else in the diner was lying on the floor with blood drying around their eyes.

‘What are you doing, Samuel?’ you thought. ‘Wait, where’s Dean?!’ If the Impala was there, Sam must’ve snuck out. Either that, or he was with Bobby. Pinning down his exact location wasn’t a true concern of yours, you simply wanted to ensure that you were as far away from them as possible.

Sam, though, was concerning you. Who was he with? Who were the people in the diner? Had the dark-haired woman across the table from him caused this? All of these questions, you knew you couldn’t get the answers to. It was dangerous for you to be there as it was. And so, you hotwired a car parked around the back of the building and sped off into the night.

****

You drove well into the next morning with no particular destination in mind. Naturally, your thoughts turned to Dean. What did he think you were up to? Did he feel like you abandoned him? God, you hoped not. If only he knew that everything you had done these past four or five months had been for him.

Still, an uncomfortable feeling clawed at your chest. You remembered what he’d told you when you tried to torture that demon before he went to Hell. He was angry. He told you never to do something like that for him again. And yet, here you were.

At this point, motels would be considered a luxury to you. You frequently opted to sleep in whatever car you’d stolen to help you evade any security cameras in the motel lobbies. Each and every move you made had to be carefully calculated, especially now that a ninth man had gone missing by your hand.

From this moment forward, you knew you would be on the run. Life— and hunting, by extension— was going to become infinitely more difficult. Maybe this would be when you left it all behind. Maybe you’d live out the rest of your days with only a cat and some horrendous rom-coms to keep you company. As much as it hurt you, the chances of you seeing Dean again were growing slimmer and slimmer.

After catching a few hours rest in the parking lot of a laundromat, you went inside to wash the few clothes you had with you. You always kept your head down, hood on, and sunglasses across your face. Sure, it was a bit suspicious, but you had to keep your identity concealed as well as you possibly could. Who knew what the authorities had discovered about you thus far? You couldn’t risk them gathering any further details on you.

With that in mind, you cast a glance up at the television in the corner that was playing the local news. As you predicted, Jimmy Novak’s picture was displayed. Thankfully, they hadn’t identified you as a suspect— yet. Perhaps you were being a bit paranoid; Pontiac was far from the other kidnappings. Then again, the angels had selected people that were states away from each other, and they’d connected them in some kind of way.

With your clothes back in hand, you headed to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face.

‘What have I become,’ you thought, jokingly mocking yourself. Then, Uriel appeared behind you. You were long past startling at his sudden visits and simply sighed. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Uh—”

“I have not permitted you to leave Illinois.”

“Oh, sorry, Your Featheriness, I didn’t realize I had to file paperwork with you when I go on a road trip,” you scoffed, putting your hygiene products back in your duffel bag.

Uriel was clearly not appreciating your tone. “Go back to Pontiac. Trail the Winchesters. Or join them; matters not to us.”

Your heart dropped. “What, why?!”

“No matter what, they stay alive. They are the priority; even if it costs your life,” he explained flatly.

Eyes wild, you rambled, “Wait, dude, what the fuck are you talking about? I’m gonna drag them into my FBI disaster if I do that—!”

“There is no room for argument,” Uriel stated. “I’ll send Zachariah the next time you talk back. I have tired of your insolence.”

Your lip trembled, anxiety flooding your body at the thought of potentially putting the boys in harm’s way. “Uriel, please, tell me what’s going on—”

“That is not for you to know, child,” he answered dryly.

“I thought you were done with me,” you pleaded, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Please, I did what you asked!”

“And now, we need you to do something more.” His tone was disdainful. “I didn’t take you for the emotional kind. Then again, you humans are all the same.”

Your heart was shattering in your chest. If Dean caught you tailing them, he’d be so angry. He’d immediately question why you hadn’t shown up as soon as he came back from Hell, and he’d be so hurt. Would he feel betrayed? If you were honest with yourself, you would in that situation. Even just the thought of hurting him so bad was causing a pit to form in your stomach. “Uriel, please, don’t make me do this,” you begged.

The angel’s expression hardened further; if that was even possible. “How many times do I have to tell you that argument is futile? You will do as I say, or Dean will suffer the consequences; seeing as our punishments don’t scare you.”

Whether he was bluffing or not, you didn’t care. You couldn’t stand the thought of Dean being hurt again because of you, and Uriel knew exactly how to get you to comply. It pissed you off that an angel of the lord would blackmail you and that you were so willing to potentially hurt yourself to protect Dean. Everything about your situation made you hurt, and you couldn’t even reach out to the one person you needed most for help.

“So, I just—” you tried to collect your courage, swallowing a lump in your throat, “stay away until they need help? Then, what? Do I disappear again?”

Uriel nodded. “If that’s how you wish to do things. This is your purpose, (Y/N). This is god’s plan for you.”

You laughed coldly, tears falling once more. As much as you wanted to scream mockeries at the sky, you knew better than to do that in front of Uriel. “Fine.”

That was all he needed to hear. After your acceptance, Uriel was gone.

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