#hollow particle board

[millermouth]

Chapter 3

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst, trauma & ptsd, captor!joel, raider!joel, a little bit of dark!joel, kidnapping, dark themes, morally gray comfort, Pre-Boston QZ, slow burn, no additional chapter warnings ||

For a moment, you forgot.

You forgot why your wrists weren’t sore. Why your shoulders didn’t ache. Why you woke up warm.

The room was quiet, sunlight slipping through the broken slats in the boarded-up window, particles of dust caught the light in soft, lazy spirals. Your eyes fluttered open, slow, half-dreaming. There was a body behind you, broad and steady, chest rising against your back. You breathed in the scent of pine and woodsmoke and–

You flinched like someone had poured boiling water straight into your chest. 

The faces flashed in your vision, burning and haunting.

Your mother’s broken body. Your sister’s empty eyes. Your father slumped in that corner, unmoving.

It all crashed into you like a pulse of lightning. Your whole body seized as the memories came back in lashes—loud, ugly, too fast to process. Your throat tightened and your breath caught in your lungs as you shoved the blanket off and sat up fast, your pulse hammering. The room blurred around the edges.

You stood too quickly. Moved to the corner of the room like the distance would help, pressing your back to the wall, trying to breathe.

Joel was still asleep. One arm stretched over the empty space where you’d been. His mouth slightly open and peaceful. Like this was normal.

Maybe that’s what made it worse. You hated how easily he’d made it seem normal.

The way he’d brought you to the bath, bathed you and pulled you up to your feet to dry you. Those rough hands never lingering, those eyes never looking where he shouldn’t. The way he slipped his shirt over your head like it was just another night. The way he tucked you into bed and made room for you like he wasn’t the reason you were here in the first place.

You hated how gentle he was suddenly. How careful.

You hated that you’d asked to stay. And especially that you’d meant it.

Your face burned suddenly, hot and tight with something like shame. He’d washed your body. Held you. Pulled you against him without taking anything more.

He hadn’t let you touch him in the way you asked. He rejected you, told you no. He was….respectful.

Why was he suddenly acting like he was a good man? That he hadn’t taken you, stolen you, kept you captive and tied up. As if it supposed to feel okay.

This wasn’t okay. This wasn’t normal.

But your body had sunk into his like it belonged there. Like it wanted to stay.

You stared at him from across the room, hands curled into fists, heart pounding, but slower now. Softer. Not panic. Not rage.

Just the crushing, hollow ache of not knowing what the fuck to do next.

It was only a little while later that you found yourself on the porch, curled into one corner of the rickety swing with a moth-eaten blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders. The early spring air was cold and crisp, biting through even the patches of sun. Your hands were still, one curled around a battered paperback pinched between your fingers, the other tucked warmly around you. The pages of your book were yellowed, some torn, most water-damaged. Of Mice and Men. It was the only book left on the shelf in the living room.

You wondered if he’d ever let you go back for your books. The ones that still had your name written inside the covers, pages dog-eared and well loved. Not that it really mattered—you weren’t sure you could stomach walking through that house again.

The porch door creaked behind you, followed by the steady sound of boots on old wood. You didn’t look up.

Joel didn’t speak at first. Just stood behind you for a long moment, like he wasn’t sure what version of you he was going to find out here. Then, eventually, he stepped forward, slow and measured, and looked out toward the yard.

“You sleep alright?”

You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look at him. You could still feel the ghost of his arm around your waist, the scent of his shirt in the pillow you’d pressed your face into. It made your throat feel tight, like it didn’t know how to let words pass through again.

“Fine,” you said finally, voice clipped and low.

Joel nodded like he expected as much. There was a pause. Then he spoke again, a little lighter this time, like he was testing something.

“Thinkin’ now that the weather’s turnin’ we might start a garden out here.”

You didn’t move to look up as he shifted slightly, gesturing out toward the yard in the corner of your eye. “That patch by the treeline gets good sun. Probably start small. Onions. Potatoes. Carrots, maybe, if the seed’s still good. Got it out near Austin. Been holdin’ onto it for a while, just waitin’ for the right place to stick.”

You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t return the glance. Your thumb slipped along the edge of a torn page.

“I’m not your gardener,” you muttered.

Joel was quiet for a moment, then exhaled slow, deep. You could hear the edge start to creep into his voice when he finally answered, low and rough.

“You’re not my prisoner either.”

That made you look at him. Just for a second before planting your eyes back on the page, words blurring together. But in that split second when your eyes met, his expression was hard to read—tired, maybe, but still steady. Like he’d said it before. Like he was going to keep saying it until you believed it.

“You came back,” he added, his voice firmer now. “You called it home.”

You looked out into the yard. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Joel stood rigid, the wooden floor boards of the porch creaking under his weight. He wiped his palms on his jeans and didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“You’re different today,” he said after a long stretch of silence, his voice low but not unkind. “Yesterday... I thought maybe—”

“I found my family dead,” you snapped, the words cutting out of you faster than you meant.

The book in your lap slammed shut with a flat, final sound, and you turned to look at him for the first time all morning. The blanket slipped from your shoulder as you twisted, but you didn’t bother fixing it.

“I was fucked up,” you said, each word brittle, sharp at the edges. “I didn’t know my left from my right. I didn’t know if I was even breathing half the time. And now you’re sitting here looking at me like—like we’re supposed to play house? Like I’m supposed to sit here and pretend we’re some fucking happily married couple?”

Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. He just held your stare.

“You took me,” you said, softer now, but no less bitter. “Don’t forget that. I don't want to be here.”

His jaw twitched once. You could see it in the line of his throat, the set of his shoulders—he was bracing for more. But he didn’t lash out. He didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at you with that same hard stillness, like he was hearing every word, even the ones you didn’t say.

Then he nodded. Once. Slow.

“Right,” he said. “Got it.”

Then he turned and walked back inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.

Nonetheless, you began on the garden.

Joel didn’t say anything when you stepped off the porch and joined him in the field only an hour later. He didn’t smile or thank you or act surprised. He just handed you his leather set of gloves that swallowed your hands as you slipped them on, and nodded toward a patch of earth he’d already started to clear.

It was good, though you’d never admit it to him, to keep your hands busy. The work numbed something else—quieted the noise in your chest, gave your thoughts somewhere to go that wasn’t backward. The ground was still cold, the early spring frost clinging just beneath the surface, and your fingers went numb quickly, even with the gloves. But you worked anyway. You dug at the roots of stubborn weeds, breaking your nails beneath the soil, watching Joel drive the spade into the earth where it had begun to soften.

The sun rose slowly over the trees, melting what little frost had lingered. Neither of you spoke.

By mid-afternoon, your knees were sore, your palms stung, and the earth was turned. Joel moved back and forth along the rows, measuring each space with rough efficiency, while you knelt in the dirt and placed the seeds carefully. 

You didn’t know what it meant, planting things here. If it was surrendering to the idea of staying. Or if it was hope. Or just something to do with your hands.

But you did it anyway.

By the evening, you joined him inside for the rabbit he’d caught that day. He’d roasted it in the pan over the hearth fire, seasoned it with something dry and earthy that you didn’t recognize. The smell of the low fire and roasted game filled your nose, your senses, the whole house. 

You sat across from him, trying to keep your knees from brushing his under the wooden table, your plate quiet except for the dull sound of your fork.

The meal passed in silence, the kind that didn’t feel heavy exactly—just there. You didn’t look at him. You weren’t sure if he looked at you either.

He waited until you finished, until your plate was cleared and your body had settled into that loose, post-meal stillness. Then he leaned back slightly in his chair, legs widening as he sighed.

“There’s a town a few miles west,” he said, voice low and even. He reached across the table for his pack, pulling out a large paper and opening it between you. The landscape, town names and forests were all labeled, a pen scribbled here and there with notes he added to each area.

“Marked it on the map last time I passed through, looks like it’s still standin’. Could be somethin’ there.”

You looked up, slow. He was looking at you expectantly, but didn’t wait for your input. 

“Hardware store, maybe. Could use tools. Bedding. Food, if I’m lucky and the place ain’t been picked clean.”

You didn’t answer right away. You watched the way the light of the hearth moved across his face—half in shadow, flickering with the flames.

“I’ll leave first thing,” he said. “Should be back by early afternoon.”

You swallowed, the taste of rabbit still clinging to your mouth. Your fingers curled slightly around the edge of the table. 

He must've realized you didn't have anything to add because he quietly rose from his rickety chair, collected your dishes, and placed them in the old rusted sink. 

You didn’t thank him or say anything else, but the idea of waking up here alone made your skin crawl beneath your shirt.

You started to get used to the morning routine. Sitting in front of the lit fire, the brush gliding through your hair easily now. After, he neatly rebraided it from a night spent on the opposite side of the bed, not curled into him or even under his covers. He hadn’t spoken much. And before he left, he ran his fingers through your braid one last time like it was routine now. But it lingered. When you were finally alone, you wandered through the house with no real plan, just movement.

You hadn’t ever really been alone before. Not like this. Not without someone in the next room, not without a voice or a footstep or a presence. It made your skin itch.

Outside, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the faint, damp smell of coming rain. You checked the garden even though you knew it was too soon. The little mounds of dirt sat there like bruises on the earth, and you crouched beside them, brushing your fingers over the surface like something might’ve changed while you weren’t looking. Nothing had.

Back inside, you opened the closet in the room he’d kept you in—small, dark, that damn radiator in the corner. You’d meant to avoid it, but your feet moved on their own. Inside were a few old picture frames stacked together, dusty and crooked. Landscapes. A family you didn’t recognize. One of a yellow field under a pale sky. You liked looking at them. You started hanging them up—one by the kitchen door, another above the fireplace. You didn’t know why. It just made the walls feel less empty.

You swept the floor next, the old broom bristled and uneven. It scraped loud across the planks. You did the dishes after that—carried them out to the well, filled the bucket, scrubbed them one by one until your knuckles ached and your fingertips wrinkled.

None of it made the time move any faster.

By late afternoon, your muscles were tired, your shoulders tight, and still—he hadn’t come back.

You caught yourself standing at the window. Then at the door. Then again on the porch, arms wrapped around your chest like that might keep something from leaking out.

You didn’t remember how long you’d been standing on the porch, watching the tree line, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You told yourself you weren’t looking for him. That you were only antsy because you were all alone. That it had nothing to do with his presence, his softening gaze and hands.

But when Joel’s figure finally appeared just as the sun dipped behind the far trees, turning everything gold and red and casting long shadows across the field, something in your chest lurched.

He wasn’t walking right.

From a distance, you could see how uneven his steps were, how he was hunched over, his arms wrapped tight around his chest like he was holding something, or maybe just holding himself together. His silhouette was dark against the sun, backlit and strange-looking, and the closer he got, the more wrong it felt.

Then he stumbled.

And dropped.

The sound that followed wasn’t quite a groan, and not quite a yell—it was sharper, thinner, like a whine or a cry. You couldn’t place it. But you suddenly couldn’t breathe either.

Your feet were off the porch before you knew it. You didn’t think, didn’t stop to be embarrassed by how fast your heart was racing, how afraid you suddenly were. You ran through the tall grass, legs slicing through weeds and brush, your breath loud in your ears as you followed the place where you’d seen him fall.

You found him maybe fifty yards out, sprawled flat on his back, half-covered by the grass. His pack was stuffed full to the side of him, ripped in places that looked like scratches. Blood soaked one side of his shirt under his jacket, smears of it up his neck and across his jaw. Scratches bloomed across his throat and temple, dark and crusted. His eyes were open, chest heaving like he’d just barely outrun something.

“Joel?” you breathed, skidding to a stop beside him, kneeling without thinking.

He didn’t answer. Nor did he move.

You reached for him, and that’s when he shifted, turning slightly on his side, one arm still tight around his coat.

And then—he smiled.

Not wide or flashy, just crooked and tired, the corner of his mouth twitching up beneath the grime. But it was a smile. It hit you harder than the blood.

You didn’t know he could smile.

Before you could ask what the hell was going on, he reached into his coat and pulled something out—a bundle of squirming fur and skinny limbs, letting out a high-pitched yelp as it twisted in his grip.

You blinked, stunned.

It had ears. Big ones. A wet black nose, shaggy fur, matted in places, but soft-looking. Small and warm and whimpering, it looked up at you.

“Here,” Joel grunted, wincing as he sat up. “Take it.”

You hesitated, your hands hovering between you like you weren’t sure if it would bite.

“What is it?” you asked, frowning.

Joel stared at you, deadpan. “What is—girl, you seriously ain’t never seen a daggum puppy before?”

You shook your head. The –dog? You’re almost certain that’s what it was called now that you remembered the books you’ve read– squirmed again in his hands, and without really meaning to, you reached out and took it. Its body fit awkwardly against your chest, all ribs and fluff and little twitchy paws. It was warm and so much softer than anything you’d ever felt before. You held it tighter than you meant to.

Joel was still breathing heavy, one hand clutched to his side.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice quieter now. You glanced at the blood on his shirt, at the torn fabric and the dark patch still growing under his hand.

“Town was worse than I thought,” he grunted. “Infected everywhere. Got what I could, cleared some out. On my way back, saw a dumpster behind an old deli… this little guy was hidin’ behind it. Mama didn’t make it.”

He didn’t say what happened to the mother, but he didn’t have to. The way his eyes dropped told you enough.

“I thought about leavin’ him,” Joel said. “But he kept cryin’. Couldn’t do it.”

You looked down at the puppy in your arms. Its fur was rough, but soft in places. It didn’t look like anything you’d ever seen in the wild. It was so fragile and helpless. You weren’t sure what it was in you that reacted to it, but your fingers curled around the puppy’s little body, your jaw clenched to keep from saying something too kind.

“I’m…” you swallowed hard. “I’m glad you brought him back.”

Joel only nodded, then groaned again as he tried to push himself up to his feet.

“Jesus,” you said, stepping toward him with the mutt still cradled in one arm. “You’re bleeding. Sit down—fuck, or lean on me—just don’t fall over again.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but his hand was shaking where it pressed to his ribs.

“Yeah, clearly,” you said, rolling your eyes even as you stepped closer. “Let’s get inside before it gets dark. I’ll take a look at that.”

He didn’t argue.

You walked beside him as he limped back toward the house, the puppy nestled tight to your chest. It made a soft noise and settled in, eyes closed, trusting you in a way that felt too easy.

Joel was still covered in blood.

You still hated him.

But something in your chest felt a little less hollow than it had yesterday.

And that was the part you couldn’t stand.

Joel sat with his layers off, chest bare in a wooden dining chair by the hearth now aglow with fire, leaning forward slightly, one hand braced on his knee while the other rested carefully at his side. The wound just beneath his ribs had stopped bleeding, but the gash was still raw, red and angry-looking, skin torn just deep enough to need closing. You had boiled water, torn one of the old pillowcases into strips, and found a small sewing kit stashed in the kitchen drawer—thread brittle but still usable.

The puppy had claimed Joel’s usual spot—the armchair he always used when brushing your hair. Now it was occupied by a lumpy ball of fur, one oversized paw hanging off the side, belly rising and falling in the rhythm of deep, exhausted sleep. His ears twitched occasionally, as if even his dreams weren’t peaceful.

You sat on a stool pulled close to Joel’s knees, your legs folded beneath you, the kit open on the floor between your feet. Your fingers trembled slightly as you threaded the needle. He watched you but didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“This is going to hurt,” you said, voice quiet but even.

Joel grunted. “Ain’t my first rodeo.”

Your brows furrowed, “What’s a–?” but you shook your head and leaned in.

The first puncture made his jaw twitch, but he didn’t flinch. You kept your eyes on the skin, focused on the motion—pierce, pull, tie. Your hands steadied as you went, the repetition calming even as the silence grew thick between you.

After a few minutes, Joel’s voice broke through it.

“He likes my chair.”

You glanced over. The puppy had rolled onto his back, paws twitching.

“Guess you officially lost your spot.” you murmured, knotting the next stitch, “S’a real comfy chair too.”

Joel exhaled what was almost a laugh, just a quick exhale of breathe a twitch of his lips, scratching at the back of his neck. “We oughta call him somethin’. Can’t imagine sayin ‘hey, dog.’”

You didn’t answer right away. The puppy gave a small sigh in his sleep, his whole body rising and falling in one smooth motion, ears twitching like he was dreaming. You paused with the thread still pinched between your fingers, watching the way his fur moved with each breath. It was the only sound in the room besides the low crackle of the fire.

“There was this flower I used to always pick when I was a kid…” you said after a while, voice low, careful, like speaking too quickly might spook the memory loose. You swallowed hard, pushing past the lump in your throat. “My mom said it was good for toothaches. Could make salves from it. Think it was called Samson? Black Samson?”

Joel turned slightly in the chair, looking at you more than the dog now. His brow softened.

“Samson…” he said, trying the name out, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly. His eyes dropped to the pup again. “Think I like that.”

You nodded once, threading the needle again.

“Samson it is, then,”

taglist: @orcasoul, @ilovetoomanymen, @niceforcum, @glaszdoll, @therewastherewas

[alphabetbill]

Macabre [ HEMLOCK GROVE ] - chapter 1

" 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧, 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤, 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠- 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 "

[ C I C A D A ] hosho mccreesh.

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~ description ~

A werewolf whose only skill is running from his fears, a half-upir with no idea of the true darkness lying inside of him, and a girl found alive in the woods months after her mysterious death.

Some secrets in Hemlock Grove should have just stayed buried. In a town that isn't so sleepy after all, monsters of all kinds are wide awake under the surface, crawling their way up.

~ warnings~

This story will contain mature and heavy themes that may involve potentially explicit content, gore and murder, talk of kidnapping and stalking victims, supernatural/paranormal/religious themes and trauma, any other themes not covered in the general description will probably be tagged here at the start of the chapters that other significant warnings apply to.

A list will be linked here upon completion and upload of each chapter:

Cicada and the Snake

Chapter 1 . Chapter 2 . Chapter 3 . Chapter 4 . Chapter 5 . Chapter 6 . Chapter 7 . Chapter 8 . Chapter 9 . Chapter 10 . Chapter 11 .

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c h a p t e r    o n e .

Peter Rumancek

<<>>

IT WAS WITH A HEAVY HEART SOMEWHERE INSIDE THAT Lance Evergreen would lay his daughter to finally rest, but not heavy enough.

On a muggy October evening, the man would stumble into his house, more of a trailer trash dwelling than anything, and hit the drinks as though he had never left them. Judith had been gone for months, and in his mind, seeing them lower her battered corpse into a hole in the ground where he would never see her again felt almost offensively anti-climactic. He had dreamt of the worst-case scenario over and over again, had imagined how it happened, when and why. How they would find her and what would be left of her.

By the time her body was found dumped in that ditch, in his head, Lance had already seen it all.

He had already mourned. He would never stop.

Peter went to visit him the day after the funeral.

He kicked his way through discarded beer cans and shattered bottles that spilled sticky ichor onto the bare particle board. He thought Uncle Vince was bad, given his lethal alcoholism that had eventually killed him, but this was just sad and Peter was just sad.

He knew Lance as well as he had known Vince, the two men having been close friends. Peter knew that Lance had an ex-wife, Judith's mother, who had shown up for the funeral and left promptly afterwards. Peter hadn't known her all that well from the couple of times he met the woman when he was little, but he had seen the way she clung to her cigarette and never said a word to anyone at the funeral. She used to be a local, but neither his uncle or Lance had brought it up so he had never had a reason to ask why she left. They also had a son who died.

Peter had also known Judith, which only made his heart squeeze more to think about it. He had fond memories of throwing worms at each other, collecting snails as kids, and gathering around Nicolae Rumancek to observe the fairy he had caught in a mason jar. He remembered so clearly how Jude was so adamant that it was in fact not a fairy, but a firefly, and that Peter's grandfather ought to let it go. Now his grandfather was gone, the girl was gone, and all he had left were faded recollections to remember it all by.

The man was already out cold by the time he reached the couch, which had been torn up by a dog- he could tell from the scent. It must have died not too long ago, because the food bowl still sat in the corner of the kitchen, flies buzzing around it. Peter took it upon himself to dispatch the old food with a hollow feeling in his chest and returned to the living room.

It was difficult to see how much this man had changed. Peter had fond memories of Lance giving him shoulder rides and driving around in his car. He remembered his stories, many of which he and Vince made up, and remembered how life-like and exciting he had been. Now all that was left was a husk of the soul of a man- a man with a failed marriage, two dead kids and one dead best friend. Alone in the world to drink and then die.

Peter didn't know what to do to fix his uncle's friend. He didn't know how to help his sad, hulking body off the couch when he had no interest in learning how to move. He didn't know how to console a father whose daughter was gone. But he did know that he wanted to be there for him, and that he wanted to help.

So, he helped. All while the man had drank himself into a stupor, the boy found his way to the kitchen and to the garbage bags beneath the rusted sink with the constant drip. He put the bottles, the cans, the wrappers, and all of the litter that his eye could see into the bag and hauled that bag out to the trash. He came back. He repeated the process.

It should not have been Peter's job to clean up this mess, but for once he didn't mind doing it. It felt almost therapeutic to cleanse the trailer of the mess and the alcohol and the despair he wished Uncle Vince had the chance to. The last thing he did was pry the bottle from his hand and set it away on the kitchen table. 

Then Lance muttered in his sleep. Something something not worth it anymore.

When Peter came home later, he hugged his mother. He loved Lynda and she loved him, but they had never been a family for too much sentimentalism. Tonight was different. He needed that hug. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to never hug her again.

The following day at school felt like walking through a land of zombies. Peter was new to town, having arrived a couple of weeks prior to Judith Evergreen's funeral. He didn't know whether or not it was because of that, that everyone here seemed so lifeless and flat. He didn't think so, because he only found one or two funeral flyers dangling from the noticeboards, all of which had been trampled on or discarded on the floor.

It was the end of the day and Peter was in the middle of picking up one of the memorial notices for her when Roman Godfrey spoke to him for the first time.

"So you knew her," he said. A statement, not a question. His eyes– those eyes– tore right through the flesh and into his soul.

Peter knew at once that the boy was upir. He could sense it from a mile away, from the very first time he had glanced in the rich boy's direction on his first day at school. He could sense it like a serpent shifting beneath Roman's skin in the dark.

Roman was impossibly tall for the age of seventeen and had a face that had been morbidly carved by the holiest of angels. His hair was brown and loose, unlike his crisp blazer or tucked-in shirt and trousers. Peter wondered if the boy could smell his blood.

"Yeah. When I was a kid" he replied, anything to erase the unbearable cloud of tension that was the upir standing behind him.

"Mm. It's weird. I knew her too," Roman said. His voice didn't sound sympathetic, or if it did, it fronted as disjointed and monotone. "You want a lift home?"

It was raining and Peter had no interest in walking until he became a soggy wet dog. So he accepted. 

The car was a vintage cherry red Jaguar, which Roman explained had belonged to his father. Peter wasn't sure what he was meant to do with this information but nonetheless continued to listen. The ride was relatively quiet and the radio hummed in the stretches of silence between admittedly one sided conversations. 

"You're new in town," Roman said, making small talk.

"Are you a Gypsy?" he asked, but surprisingly not in that sneering way most other folk did.

"People at school say you're a werewolf. Is it true?" he questioned, as if Peter hadn't heard the rumours already, much like a subtle interrogation.

All of those things were correct, but Peter scooted around the last question by declaring that he was just an obscenely hairy teenager. 

The car stopped on the side of the road near a slope that rolled down into a clearing, pulling up just in front of a rusted mailbox. 

"You're related to Vince," Roman evaluated, seeming to recognize the dwelling. "He used to work for my mom at one point."

Peter had not known about that, and briefly found himself wondering what exactly his uncle had been doing with Olivia Godfrey. A strange, unnerving woman indeed.

As he thanked the rich boy and got out of the car, retrieving the mailbox, a car drove by.

Peter jolted. 

In the seconds it had taken for the other vehicle to pass, a girl had appeared sitting in the passenger seat of Roman's car, where Peter had only been sitting seconds ago. In the small window of time he caught a glimpse of her, he saw black and blue and gray skin and teary, blood-filled eyes.

He saw Judith Evergreen, and then she disappeared.

"Something wrong?" Roman asked, viridian eyes narrowing. 

After taking a moment to settle himself, unconvincingly the werewolf shook his head. The Upir left, but not without staring at Peter for a little longer than what was considered a normal duration of time to stare at someone. 

He descended the old wooden staircase and into the clearing by the river where his home, previously Vince's, sat overlooking the water. He entered, greeting his mother, and opened the fridge to pop open a beer. 

"So what's up with the Godfreys?" he asked, swigging from the bottle as he went over to plunge into the couch, stretching lazily to reach the remote and flicking on the TV.

"Bad business," Lynda said as she sipped on her cup of tea, already seated on the couch. "You should steer clear of them."

"The boy, Roman. He's an upir. I don't think he knows it himself," he sighed. All he could think about was the sinking feeling he got when he was near him, the feeling of drowning slowly, or being buried alive beneath the burning weight of his stare alone. Despite this, Peter couldn't deny his nagging intrigue. Call it morbid curiosity.

"He dropped you home?"

"He offered. It was raining."

Lynda said nothing in response, but Peter knew what she would have said. 

Be careful with him.

That night Peter sat down on the edge of his bed and found himself staring through his window and out into the woods. In those woods, he thought he saw a girl.

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boring but we're getting there i swear also oh my god i'm actually posting for once????

anyways this is also on wattpad and chapter two will be out very soon :) i'll shut my mouth now.

[swifty-fox]

mr predictable in with "did you eat today?" however benny/ johnny to really keep u on ur toes

for those who do not know this is for OP's punk au that I'm literally waiting for like the rapture

cw: self harm, eating disorders, John Brady being a Mess, discussions of drug abuse, ocd in connection to food contamination

"Stop picking at it."

Johnny pauses, fingers curled under his shirt and a faint stinging spreading across his stomach. His fingertips feel damp and he shoots Benny a moody look. The pillows on their bed are soft and smell clean which means Benny's done laundry sometime in the last few days because Johnny sure as hell doesn't remember doing any.

"M not," He says, pulling his hand out and rubbing the blood from his nails

"You're gonna feel stupid if that scars," Benny says, pulling his head from blowing smoke out the window.

It wasn't that either of them really cared about smoking inside, but the landlord had threatened them if they took the batteries of the smoke detector one more time

"I'm not touching it," Johnny repeats stubbornly, rolls onto his stomach and tucks a pillow under his ribs, pressing against the scratched letters on the skin.

HOLLOW.

He felt a little stupid now, but it's not something he'll admit to anyone because if he was gonna snort whatever shit John put in front of him without asking what was in it he was going to take it like a man. Probably, it felt very existential and profound and stick-it-to-em at the time and he's pretty sure he even sterilized the pin. But now, his stomach just stings whenever he tries to wash in the shower and Benny keeps giving him concerned looks whenever they fuck and really it's more trouble than it might have been worth

"What'd you think of John's new groupie?"

It's a little bit cool. Richey Edwards had done it, so maybe it was kind of cool. A spiritual ode to the greats.

Or something.

"Think he's doing a great impression of a snow plow," Johnny says.

Benny snorts, and theres a dip in gravity and a creak of cheap boxsprings as he crawls onto the bed with Johnny. Something cold and beaded with condensation touches the back of his neck and he hisses, swiping back against the water bottle. Benny snickers and settles on Johnny's thighs, knees caging him easily. His fingers run up Johnny's sides, bumping along his ribs and cool lips press against his neck in replacement.

"If he's a snow plow what're you?" a finger hooks around Johnny's chain necklace, tugging lightly against the broad links.

"Tired," Johnny mutters.

Benny turns him, lifting onto his knees to allow for the movement of Johnny's body. Johnny huffs, going with the movement. He keeps his arms crossed above his head, frowns at Benny for all of a minute before he feels it shift so something a tad more gentle. Benny bends down to kiss him, tasting of menthols and cold water. Johnny opens up for him like he has for longer than it felt easy to think about.

Hands slip under Johnny's Ranger's hoodie, seeking and assessing and he nips Benny's lip in irritation but Benny's already abandoning him, pushing the blue fabric up to his armpits and tsking.

"I knew you were fucking with the scabs."

The neosporin is still on the nightstand where they'd left it, along with a half-finished packet of disinfectant wipes and an ashtray so caked with tar it had half molded to the cheap particle board. The wipes are as cold and stinging as Johnny remembers. He hisses, stomach jumping away from Benny's touch but the heavier man just holds him still.

Johnny watches him spread the neosporin, watches his frown deepen, eyes traveling over his skin. Johnny casts his eyes to the headboard, breathing through his nose with intention. His heart is racing and it makes him dizzy, it beats against the wall of his sternum with almost bruising force.

"Did you eat today?" Benny asks casually, placing a patchwork of bandaids over the worst of the irritation.

Johnny's hungry, in the sort of way where you feel it in your head rather than a physical pain. Crystal clear but surrounded by cotton. Where he felt sharp and horribly relaxed. It was better than checking every piece of food before it passes his lips, picking it apart into tiny pieces like a toddler might in the off chance there was something in it.

By the time he got through a meal sometimes it felt like he'd already digested the start of it.

He sits up, shoving Benny off him. The other man goes easy, never one for fighting back. He stood his ground sometimes, but somehow did it without ever putting up a fight. Johnny swings his feet over the side of the bed. He doesn't like lying to Benny, found it difficult to lie to most people really, but Benny especially was hard because he's pretty sure Benny wouldn't resent him for it. And that just made the whole attempt unsatisfying.

"I don't -" He clucks his tongue, feels a few bandaids loosen and peel away from his stomach, "It's-"

"Jack."

"Can't you just leave it be?"

Benny's thumb smooths behind the shell of Johnny's ear, brushing the short hairs there. He shoves the other man off, takes a ragged breath.

"If you don't want to be with someone sick the door is right there."

He says the words before they're really considered and part of him doesn't know where they come from. It's not something he'd been ruminating on, really. He gave Benny enough self-agency to know the man wouldn't be here if he damn well didn't want to be. But even that doesn't erase the simple fact of the matter. John Brady was not a simple kind of person to share a life with.

"That," Benny says slowly, "isn't even remotely the conversation I was trying to have here."

Johnny stands, resting a palm against one of the brick support beams of the apartment at the sudden headrush, "I'm not changing, so if that's not-"

"I'm not asking you to change, I'm asking if you've eaten today."

"Does it turn you on to have this same fight every couple of weeks?"

"I'm here," Benny answers. "Having it."

Johnny exhales sharply, taps quick fingers against his thigh.

"If you want to sit here and argue about it all night I can do that. If you want to sit here and pick apart every speck of food until it's safe I'll put on Band of Brothers or some other war documentary you like and we'll make a night of it."

Johnny groans and tips his head to the ceiling, presses the hells of his palms to his eyes and claws desperately at the fading threads of his anger.

Benny shrugs, "Your choice. But I'm definitely not walking out that door, asshole."

[hollowed-hours]

Today's Special:

Bloodroot is a Southern Gothic short story about memory, identity, and the quiet horror of things left buried. When Etta inherits her estranged grandmother’s house in a nearly abandoned town, she expects dust and silence, not cassette tapes whispering confessions, and a garden that seems to grow on memory itself. As the bloodroot spreads and forgotten truths surface, Etta must confront the possibility that the story she’s always believed about herself may not be her own.

Content warning: This short story contains non-graphic references to child death.

Bloodroot

1

Etta turned off the engine and let the silence settle.

The house sat crouched at the end of the gravel drive, not ruined, just… waiting. The white paint had grayed with age, and vines wove up the porch rail like veins returning to the heart. Bloodroot bloomed along the stone path, red-stemmed and pale-petaled, their beauty too stark against the creeping decay. They hadn’t been there when she was a child.

The key stuck in the lock, reluctant. She jiggled it harder than she meant to, and the door creaked open.

Inside, it smelled of old cedar and something sour beneath it. Not rot, exactly. More like a secret kept too long. Light filtered through lace curtains. The furniture remained in its stiff arrangements, untouched since her grandmother’s funeral. A Bible on the end table. A cross above the mantel. Everything just so.

Etta stood in the doorway for longer than she meant to, her own reflection faint in the mirror across the room.

She wasn't grieving. That part of her had dried up long ago. But something in the air made her shrink like she’d walked into a chapel she didn’t believe in. She dropped her bag by the door, her footsteps echoing louder than they should.

She spent the better part of an hour cleaning. Not scrubbing, just enough to reclaim a corner of the house for herself. Wiping the counters, shaking out a stained runner, re-washing dishes her grandmother had shelved decades ago, neat, but coated in years of dust.

It wasn’t until she opened the cabinet beneath the sink looking for gloves that she saw it.

A false back, maybe once flush, had bowed outward slightly. A sagging piece of particle board, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. 

Etta pulled it free. Behind it, in the hollow between the wall and the plumbing, was a cardboard shoebox sealed with yellowing tape that crumbled in her hands as she peeled it open.

Inside were cassette tapes. Dozens. Labeled in a slanted, careful hand. 1984. 1987. 1991. One near the top read simply: “Confession.”

She stared at it.

Her grandmother had never liked machines. Claimed they "confused the Word." Even answering machines were suspect. Etta remembered her handwriting though, and this was undeniably hers.

A chill crept up her spine. Not fear exactly, but recognition. Something that clicked into place.

She set the box on the table, closed the cabinet door, and stood there for a long moment. The kitchen felt smaller now. Like the air had thickened.

Etta didn’t press play. Not that day.

But that night, long after the crickets had quieted and the wind had stilled, the old stereo in the living room clicked.

She told herself it was settling dust.

But the next morning, the tape labeled "Confession" was sitting on top of the box.

She didn’t remember placing it there.

2

The next evening, the house hummed with cicadas and the low groan of settling wood.

Etta sat at the kitchen table with a chipped mug of tea cooling beside her. The shoebox remained untouched on the counter, though the tape labeled “Confession” still sat on top like an invitation. Or a warning.

She didn’t remember pulling it out. But maybe she had. Maybe.

The stereo was in the front room, beside the settee where her grandmother used to sit during long, silent afternoons. Etta told herself she was only testing it, making sure it worked before tossing it out with the other junk.

She brought the tape in her hand, fingers curling around it as though it might burn her.

The stereo wheezed when she hit eject. A puff of dust scattered like ash. She slid the tape into place and hovered over the play button. Her thumb didn’t press, not right away.

What if it’s nothing? Just old sermons. Grocery lists.

She pressed the button anyway.

There was a soft whir, then a hiss.

“In the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and eighty-four… I bore witness to a sin.”

The voice hit her like a cold draft.

Her grandmother's voice, measured, composed, lower than she remembered. It didn’t sound like a woman giving a sermon. It sounded like a woman confessing. Not to God. Not to family.

To something else.

“Not my own. But I carried it. I buried it.”

The tape crackled, as if considering what to say next.

“It’s in the roots now. The bloodroot knows. I prayed to forget, but some things cling tighter than sin.”

Click.

The tape stopped, sharp and clean. No side B. No closure.

Etta didn’t move. Her hands were cold.

Outside, the bloodroot along the edge of the porch shifted against the still air, as if something beneath the soil had stirred.

3

The next morning, Etta walked into the kitchen and stopped short.

The shoebox was on the table.

She was certain she’d left it on the counter. Not just certain, positive. She remembered thinking it was in the way, sliding it aside to make room for her tea.

Now, not only was it on the table, it was open. Three new tapes rested on top, slightly askew, their labels facing up like waiting name tags.

“June 12, 1985” “A Dream” “Shame”

She stared at them for a long time, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Okay," she muttered to the empty room. “That’s new.”

Etta wasn’t one to scare easy. Years of living alone had hardened her to creaks and groans. But this…this was something else. It wasn’t loud. It was deliberate.

She picked up the tape marked “A Dream.” The handwriting was unmistakable. Her grandmother’s heavy loops and angular edges. The date scrawled in smaller print: May 14, 1992.

She didn’t play it. Not yet.

Instead, she set the tape aside and wandered the house, trying to place the feeling crawling under her skin.

The air felt… wet. Not humid, damp. Like the walls had begun to breathe. In the hallway, a faint smell of iron laced the air. Not blood exactly, but something adjacent. Rust. Earth. The coppery tang of something disturbed.

She swallowed hard, trying to cleanse her palate of the metallic bite, then followed the scent to the back door. It led out to the overgrown garden where wildflowers tangled in the fence and bloodroot clung to the edges of the walkway like red ink spilled across stone.

The door creaked when she opened it. The hinges had always been stiff, but this time the sound made her flinch.

Outside, the yard seemed smaller than she remembered. Or maybe the trees had grown taller. Towering pines loomed in the distance, swaying gently in air she couldn’t feel.

And then she noticed something.

The bloodroot had spread. Overnight. It reached farther along the fence line than it had yesterday. The patches near the steps were denser now. Flowering, even, in places where no sun touched.

A cold bead of sweat slid down her spine.

Back inside, she checked the thermostat. It read 72. Comfortable. But her fingers were chilled.

She stood in the hallway for a moment, listening.

In the front room, the stereo clicked. Not playing, just alive.

She turned toward it slowly, unsettled but not scared. Not yet. 

She hadn’t put anything in it, but a tape waited inside

“Do Not Listen”

4

Etta held the cassette in both hands, thumbs brushing over the words.

Do Not Listen.

The label was the same style. The same pen. Same thick strokes. Her grandmother’s handwriting, but with something new in it. Urgency.

She stared at it for a long time.

“Why hide it if you didn’t want someone to listen?” she said aloud, her voice oddly loud in the stillness of the house.

She slid the tape into the stereo. It clicked into place too easily, like the machine had been waiting.

No hesitation this time. She pressed Play.

At first, silence. Then the unmistakable sound of her grandmother breathing, shallow, ragged.

“If you’re listening… I already know you didn’t obey. You were warned.”

The voice was shaky. Not the composed, measured tone of the first tape. This was something closer to panic.

“There’s a shape in the roots. I saw it in my dreams, but the ground remembers better than I do. It feeds on remembering.”

A strange sound filled the tape like dragging something heavy across the floorboards. Or under them.

Etta leaned closer.

“I buried it in the garden. I buried her.”

The tape hissed.

Her mind juggled reasons, excuses. Had her grandmother gone senile?

Etta’s breath caught. The voice on the tape continued, but it had shifted. Quieter. Not whispering, muttering, like a sermon left too long in the sun.

“She wouldn’t stop screaming. Not with her mouth, but in my head. That’s where the real noise lives. The screaming in the marrow.”

Then, abruptly:

“I told the pastor it was an accident. He believed me. I think. But the bloodroot grew thicker that year. It grew and grew and I knew it drank her. I knew it would remember.”

Click.

The stereo went dead.

Etta stood frozen, a hand pressed to her chest, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. But it didn’t.

It thudded faster when she looked out the window.

The bloodroot had reached the steps.

It hadn’t been there earlier. She was sure of it. Absolutely certain.

And there, just beneath the edge of the wooden slats, she saw something pale.

Not flower. Not root.

Something that looked like bone.

5

The next morning, Etta pulled on gloves and laced her boots.

She hadn’t slept well. The tape had replayed in her mind over and over. The breathless confession, the scraping sound, the word her. But she pushed it down. That’s what she did. Always had.

The yard was a mess, and if she was going to live here for any stretch of time, it needed cleaning up.

The bloodroot was thickest near the side of the porch, a writhing patch of red stems and wide white petals. They were beautiful, sure, but out of place. Too healthy. Too stubborn.

She grabbed the rusted garden shears from the shed and started cutting.

The first snip released a sharp scent, not floral but metallic. It stung her nose, and something in her stomach tightened.

She kept going. The bloodroot pulled free in thick clumps, its rhizomes long and red-streaked like veins. Beneath the surface, the soil was dark and damp, almost wet to the touch.

Etta paused to catch her breath, wiping sweat from her brow before continuing the chore when the shears hit something hard.

Thunk.

She knelt. Pushed aside the last of the tangled stems.

There was a piece of wood just below the dirt. Not plank wood, something older. Worn, thin, soft from age.

She dug with her gloved hands, pulling it up in pieces until she uncovered a box. A simple wooden crate, maybe two feet long, with rusted hinges and a rotted leather strap.

She stared at it, heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears.

It was buried shallow. Intentionally shallow.

The box creaked as she opened it.

Inside, swaddled in layers of disintegrating cloth, was a small dress. Faded pink cotton, stained with age. And beneath it—

A lock of hair, curled and matted.

And something else: a small, cracked porcelain doll with one eye missing and its arms folded over its chest.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her hands began to tremble, not from fear exactly, but from the way the air seemed to collapse around her.

From somewhere deep in the trees, a crow called once. Then silence.

The bloodroot, trimmed only minutes ago, now curled its stems toward the porch again.

6

Etta sat on the porch steps, the crate beside her like a wound she didn’t know how to treat.

The doll. The dress. The hair.

She hadn’t cried. Not yet. But something in her chest felt bruised.

She went inside, peeled off her gloves, and poured herself a glass of water with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. The house, as always, felt like it was listening.

The stereo was still there, patient and waiting.

She didn’t even remember picking up the new tape until she was halfway across the room.

“Memory.”

That was all it said.

The handwriting was different this time. Less controlled. Uneven. Like her grandmother had written it while frightened. Or confused.

Etta slid it in.

“I remember her laugh most of all. She used to hide behind the hydrangeas and pop out to scare me. Like a ghost. She said that’s what she wanted to be when she grew up. A ghost. So she could float through walls and scare people she didn’t like.”

A pause. Breathing. Then:

“I sometimes forget her name. Isn’t that strange?”

Etta blinked.

She didn’t remember anyone like that either. But something about the voice, the image, it scratched at the edge of her brain. Like a childhood picture turned upside down.

“She called me ‘Gram.’ That’s all I get now. Her laugh. Her little hands. And that day in the garden. After the fall.”

The tape stuttered. For a moment Etta thought it would jam, but then:

“Sometimes I think she wasn’t real. Sometimes I think I made her up. But I still dream of her standing at the window. Pale and smiling. Like she forgives me.”

Click.

Silence.

Etta stood frozen. That feeling was back. That thick, wrong feeling in the air. Like she’d walked into a story someone else had written but somehow she’d lived it.

She turned toward the hallway mirror, the one above the radiator. She’d passed it a dozen times since arriving.

Now, for the first time, she noticed it.

In the corner of the glass, barely visible beneath the grime, was a shape.

A child’s handprint.

Small. Smudged. And definitely on the inside of the mirror.

7

Etta was in the middle of scrubbing the mirror when the knock came.

Three polite taps. Measured. Like everything else in this town.

She opened the door to find Pastor Lyle, a thin, white-haired man in a beige jacket and soft, sorrowful eyes.

“Miss Etta,” he said gently, removing his hat. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

She blinked. “No, of course not. I didn’t know you were still around.”

“Lord hasn’t taken me yet,” he smiled. “I just wanted to offer my condolences. Your grandmother was… well, she was a force.”

Etta stepped aside and let him in. The air shifted slightly when he crossed the threshold, like the house had been holding its breath.

They sat in the front room. She offered him coffee, which he politely declined.

“I always admired her devotion,” he said, eyes skimming the cross above the mantel. “She came to every Sunday service, even when her knees went bad. Said pain was the price of righteousness.”

Etta nodded. “She never missed a chance to tell me that, too.”

He chuckled awkwardly, then grew serious.

“I always hoped you two would make peace.”

“She didn’t want peace. She wanted obedience.”

A beat of silence.

Then he said, too quickly, “I don’t know what she told you, if anything… in her final days. But sometimes the old carry burdens they don’t know how to lay down. And sometimes they pass those burdens on. Not always fair, but…” he trailed off.

Etta narrowed her eyes. “So you knew something was wrong.”

“I…no. Nothing specific. Just… shadows. The kind no light seems to touch. Your grandmother…” he stopped himself. 

She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

After a few more pleasantries, he rose. She walked him to the door.

Before he left, he turned back. “If anything weighs on you while you’re here, don’t hold it in. That house, it remembers things.”

Etta froze, the pastor’s words slipping into her bloodstream. 

He paused. “I mean… it’s an old house. It holds memories. That’s all.”

He gave a small nod and walked down the path, his figure slowly swallowed by the trees.

Etta stood in the doorway, bloodroot curling along the steps behind her.

Inside, the stereo clicked again.

8

That night, Etta didn’t sleep.

She lay in bed listening to the creaks of the house, the soft shuffle of leaves outside, the faint clicking sound she’d come to recognize: the stereo powering on, again.

She found the new tape already in the deck.

No label. Just the plastic cassette, blank and waiting.

She hit play.

At first, nothing. Then: the soft hum of the room it had been recorded in. Footsteps. The squeak of a chair.

Then her grandmother’s voice.

“She used to sing to herself. Little songs. I couldn’t ever tell where she learned them. Hymns turned inside out.”

The sound of breath. Then:

“She said her name was Etta.”

Etta froze.

“But that wasn’t right. That was never right. That was the name I gave her.”

A hiss rose on the tape like static, then her grandmother whispered:

“I wasn’t supposed to name her.”

Etta stepped back from the stereo.

“She wasn’t mine, not really. I took her in. Raised her up. Told folks she was my kin. But she came to me from somewhere else. From the ground, I think. Or the sky. Somewhere in between.”

“I don’t remember her being a baby. Just… a little girl in the garden.”

The tape clicked off.

Etta stood in the doorway to the room, every part of her buzzing.

She didn’t remember being adopted. Didn’t remember any foster care. Her mother had died young, yes, but she had always been told her grandmother raised her out of necessity.

That story had never included a garden.

This couldn’t be her story. She would remember. Wouldn’t she?”

She walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and stared at herself in the mirror.

Same face. Same eyes. Same everything.

But the doubt took root.

She remembered falling once, when she was small. Scraping her knees. The garden. The flowers. Bloodroot. But no one had been there to catch her. She always thought that was a dream.

Only now… she wasn’t sure.

Behind her, reflected faintly in the mirror, was the hallway.

At the far end stood a child.

She turned.

No one there.

But the scent of iron and dirt filled the room like a tide coming in.

9

Etta didn’t remember putting on her boots.

One moment, she was staring at the mirror. The next, she was back in the garden, shovel in hand, moonlight catching on the rusted edge like the glint of old teeth.

She didn’t know what she was digging for.

She already knew what she’d find.

The soil gave way easily, as if it had loosened itself for her. Bloodroot curled at the edges of the pit, pulsing faintly in the pale light, guiding. The deeper she went, the more the air changed—damp and metallic, thick with memory.

Then the blade struck wood. A soft knock, almost polite.

Etta dropped to her knees and scraped the earth away with bare hands.

It wasn’t a coffin. Not really. Just an old fruit crate, the kind her grandmother used to stack apples in, withered and warped from time.

She opened it.

Inside: bones. Small. Curled like sleep.

A dress she half-remembered. A faded pink cotton with a flower-stitched hem. A porcelain doll, arms folded just so.

And then—

A necklace.

Worn leather cord. Tiny bird charm. Tarnished gold.

Etta staggered backward.

She knew that necklace.

She had a photo of herself wearing it. Age six. Smiling. Missing a front tooth.

But in that photo she was standing in front of this very garden.

Her knees buckled. She dropped to the dirt, breath stuttering, heart knocking against her ribs like it wanted out.

She remembered the fall.

She remembered the pain.

She remembered her grandmother’s voice saying, “Shhh. Shhh. Just rest now.”

She remembered the dark.

And then nothing.

Until now.

Etta looked at her hands. The soil had stained them red.

Behind her, she heard the faint click from the stereo.

10

The stereo was already playing when Etta stepped back inside.

No tape in her hand. No title. No explanation. But it was her grandmother’s voice again, tired now. Older. The voice of a woman near the end of something.

“If you’re hearing this, it means the house let you find the others. It means you’re strong enough now.”

Etta moved toward the sound, her footsteps slow, deliberate.

“I couldn’t carry it forever. I tried. I told myself I was protecting you. But you were never meant to forget. Not completely.”

The voice crackled, warped with emotion.

“You weren’t born like other children. You came to me in blood and root and rain. A child the world didn’t want, but the land did.”

A pause. Breathing. Then:

“I buried your pain to keep you whole. I fed it to the soil so you could grow clean.”

“But nothing buried stays quiet.”

The stereo buzzed with static, then cleared.

“These tapes, they’re not just stories. They’re stitches. Holding the past together. I made them to keep the house from remembering too fast. To slow the rot. But now…”

The voice broke.

“Now it’s your turn. If you want to leave, you can. But if you stay, listen close. There’s one more thing beneath the floorboards. One more truth.”

The tape hissed. The voice softened.

“I’m sorry, Etta. I made you forget what you were. What we both were. But this house…this blood…it remembers.”

Click.

The stereo went still.

The silence that followed was total.

Etta stood there, heart hollowed out, head full of static. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore. But she knew what she had to do.

She turned toward the hallway.

Toward the floorboards.

11

Etta pried the floorboards up one by one.

She had no plan. No big tools. Just a flathead screwdriver and a sick certainty in her gut.

Beneath the boards, she found dirt.

Beneath the dirt, stone.

And beneath that, nothing.

Not emptiness. Just… a void. Darker than it should have been. Too still. The kind of dark that didn’t end.

The air shifted. The walls exhaled.

And then she heard it.

A voice.

Her own.

“I remember the garden. I remember the fall. I remember the dark.”

She didn’t speak those words. Not aloud.

But they echoed anyway.

The earth opened beneath her like a mouth, and she didn’t fight it. She let herself fall.

12

The stereo clicks on.

A new cassette snaps into place, the front bare. No label…yet.

Inside the house, everything is quiet.

Then: a soft breath.

A woman’s voice. Shaky. Calm.

“If you're hearing this… I think you’re part of it now, too.”

A pause.

“It doesn’t let us leave. Not really. It keeps what it grows.”

Another breath.

“I thought I was whole. I thought I was healed. But healing doesn’t mean forgetting.”

“So I’m recording this for whoever comes next. For whoever digs too deep.”

A sound, faint and wet. Roots shifting beneath the floor.

“I am Etta. I think.”

Click.

The tape ends.

The stereo keeps spinning. The house remembers.

[mattsundaes]

oughgh your little blurb about iwa immediately occupying himself with the stringlights... so relatable. love to have something easy to fix on hand. kissing him on the forehead

re: my woodworking stuff!! ramble incoming bc i love talking about Projects.

i usually work with random wood ive repurposed/scavenged from furniture that sits by the road bc its free 💪 and also wood is so, so expensive. (love yourself. dont use particle board.) i wouldnt claim im /good/ at it, my accuracy with sawing things kinda sucks ngl, but nothing ive made has fallen apart yet, so...?

currently im working on making a big long bench for the communal backyard! its two benches ill push together, in the end itll be roughly 2m long and 50cm wide :) only need to gather a few more pieces before doing more sanding and just... so much laquering... and then i can put it all together. but itll be worth it i think ♡

aside from that ive made a few shelves to fit into my apartments weird corners, and some storage solutions bc my place is Small. my fav thing ive made to date is a stool-chair kind of thing, its triangular (takes up less space than square, still big enough to be comfy) and hollow (can put my blankets in there in the summer) :) i managed to upholster the lid so i can rest my legs on it while knitting, and it has little wheels screwed to the bottom so i can move it around easily. i paid maybe 20 bucks in total for that bc all of the wood was scavenged and the tools/glue/etc were from the local open workshop i go to >:)

which is to say. if you have a local open workshop thing i highly recommend checking it out. woodwork is much less scary than it seems at first and once you learn how to correctly use the tools its a Lot of fun. (shamelessly spreading my agenda here, lmao)

-✨️

see, my issue is definitely that i don't know how to properly use tools LOL (last time i used a drill i missed and drilled my finger<3). and measuring/cutting things is so daunting to me.

but i really really love the idea of being able to repurpose wood and furniture pieces. and especially the concept of being able to just make something that'll perfectly fit in a small/oddly shaped space in your house?????

the stool you made sounds lovely!! (10/10 for the blanket storage, my blanket ladder is out of space they're all over my living room HAHA.) and i hope everyone in your communal space appreciates your bench when it's finished :') 🫶

this isn't quite building, but i will say that you telling me this has inspired me to get a move on with a project i've been putting off for years LOL (i bought a sander ages ago with the intention of refinishing my kitchen table)

[prismaticpichu]

Dear Zack and Sephiroth,

To Zack: is snuggles allowed?

I'm confused.

Both: Do you know about Northern lights? Have you seen it before?

To Sephiroth: Do you like science? can you explain why?

I'm sorry if that was rude.

To Zack: Which board games you like?

Both: Which plushies are your favorite?

To Sephiroth: I'm sorry, I like your hugs so much! Can you hug me please?🥺💛🩷🩵✨🌟🫂❇️🎇🎆❤️🤗.

Both: You guys are the best!💟.

Zack: Heya Bob! Good to see ya again!! ✨

Zack: Snuggles?? Is that the name of a plushie? Are you asking if he’s allowed in ShinRa Tower…? Heh! I’m just pulling your sock V^ω^V l don’t see why snuggling wouldn’t be allowed in the appropriate locations with the appropriate people! I snuggle up against Seph on the couch all the time! You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve fallen asleep wrapped in my best bud’s arms, some cheesy movie playing in the back <3 Guy is such a soft serve ice cream come when you get to know him!!

~

Zack: The Northern Lights??? Ooohhhh yeah!! You mean when the sky goes all disco with color!! I personally haven’t seen them during my own lifetime, but they sure do make beautiful desktop screensavers!

Sephiroth: Ah, yes. You’re referring to Aurora Borealis. Despite never seeing it myself, I am indeed aware of the natural phenomenon.. It is actually caused by the planet’s electromagnetic field interacting with particles from the sun, which was only one of the many facts I researched while a small child in the labs. Astronomy and geoscience have always been favorites of mine, to answer your other question.There is also no need to apologize; your query is perfectly appropriate. But to reiterate—yes, I am indeed an avid readers science nonfiction, predominantly homing in on the study of space and natural phenomena that occur on the planet. I suppose this stems from being surrounded by such a rich scientific atmosphere as a child. However, while my “father” studies biochemistry, I have strictly chosen to focus my studies on other fields. I am not interested in cellular matters, and I don’t think I ever will be.

~

Zack: Ooh! Good question!! I think I gotta spring for Jenga!! (Whiiiich I think counts!) ✨ There is really nothing funnier on this planet than watching Seph decide which block to move like each piece is a wire attached to a bomb or something. It’s good stuff!! OOH! Also Twister!!! (P.S!! DO NOT PLAY THIS GAME WITH SOMEONE WITH KNEE-LENGTH HAIR YOU WILL GET TANGLED LIKE A MEATBALL IN SPAGHETTI.)

~

Zack: My favorite plushie?? Easy cheesy! That’s my ol’ pal, Muffin… AND his twin brother, Stuffin, who’s another little dragon dude who Seph stitched up for me on my birthday. Never can I miss a night without them!!

Sephiroth: Hmph. I do not own many “plushies”… barring the one Zack purchased for me, of course, to commemorate the one-year anniversary of our friendship. So I suppose my answer would have to be my stuffed Ifrit.

~

Sephiroth: Heh. I never knew someone besides Zack could be so fond of my embraces. It is actually… quite nice. Most people are afraid of me, you know. It’s most certainly a chance of pace. Ergo, I accept your request for another one.

*still stiff, but noticeably less awkward, Sephiroth puts both his hands on your shoulders in a vague embrace. the contact lasts for about four seconds.*

Sephiroth: I hope that was adequate ^_^

~

Zack: NO U, MY FRIEND!! YOU’RE THE BEST!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

Sephiroth: Heh… so I’ve been told. But the words are always less hollow when coming from a genuine soul.

[untremaine]

favourite and / or least favourite societal trend(s) vampire margerethe has witnessed in her time seeing the world change?

so this was really fun to think about!

vampire margarethe is like regular marg but very... burnt and hollowed out. where og marg is a highly social and socialized person, vampire marg is separated from human life and lacks community and interaction. she is always looking for some form of interaction in order to give her stimulation and energy, but she's so depressed it doesn't usually work. so she's different from og marg, who would be very up to date on trends so that she could follow them. she's not so plugged in to the cultural changes, especially once they start happening on social media, because she really does not understand the internet lmao.

i think the one trend overall, a longer-term one, that really disgusts her is globalization + mass production and the way that it dilutes artisanship and lessens quality. at her core, she's a snob and a classist. she doesn't like the dispersal of "high art" and various kinds of goods into the homes of the less-than, and all cheap reproductions of furniture, art, home goods, etc. disturb and disgust her. she hates, for example, anything made out of particle board. she hates any 'artwork' or 'craft good' that came off a factory line. she hates fast fashion. obviously as i touch on above, part of this is hating the diffusion of "culture" from the upper class into the lower.

another part of this is that she is a believer in craftsmanship, art, provenance, and skilled work. that's not noble on her part; again, she is a snob and a consumer, and the reason she feels this way isn't a noble ideal nor a marxist critique. it's because she can see and feel that high-quality valuable goods are swamped in a market of products made cheaply on assembly lines and thrown out to the masses as free-market balms for our capitalism-pulverized psyches.

she feels much the same way about the globalization and industrialization of food, but because she very rarely eats human food anymore, she has less cause to polish this particular hatred.

this isn't to say that these trends didn't have precedents in her own time, but the rapid progression of technology, economies, etc. since, oh, the mid-late 1800s has been pretty insane for her to witness, and these trends have never been so intense or present before in history.

thank you so, so much for sending this in!

[canuckdoorsystems]

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In addition, this kind of Door usually has a shorter production time than veneer-stained doors. Expedited project completion with production scheduled factory finishing. Also, lower finishing costs, as job-site preparation, painting, and cleanup are not necessary. Moreover, if there is a strict timeline, you should order painted doors.

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Besides, this door type has a uniform colour, texture, and coating consistency. Also, paint is applied and cured with a state-of-the-art modern spray system. It is designed for optimal flash-drying and cooling cycles. Plus, it provides a quality finish with more excellent durability than field-painted doors.

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Finally, these doors are typically the best option for an interior door that doesn’t see much traffic.

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[snmbls]

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[magpie-to-the-morning]

Insatiable - Prequel

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x Frankie Morales

Word count: 1k

Chapter Tags: Wolf shifter AU, Angst, blood, allusions to self-harm, hurt/comfort

Author’s Note: Sorry to leave you hanging with the main story, but I couldn’t get this prequel scene out of my mind! This takes place during the events of Triple Frontier, the night before the meeting to discuss the money. Inspired by this gifset and me wondering when Frankie shaved.

Thank you to @acrossthesestars for being my amazing beta reader, cheerleader, and friend 🖤

Moodboard by @acrossthesestars

The heavy door swings shut with a metallic hiss, its lock engaging with a finite click. Two double beds, bland watercolors, an aged air conditioner on full blast. The door to the en suite bathroom is propped open, the formica counter across from it boasting a tiny coffee-maker, plastic wrapped cups, and a stack of fluffy, slightly off-white towels beside an additional sink.

After days spent fighting just to survive, scaling mountains, wading rivers, fighting and bleeding and taking hit after hit after hit, the comfort and safety of the modest hotel room feels excessive. Unearned.

At least, that’s what Pope thinks as he drops his travel-stained duffel, letting it fall to the thin beige carpet with a dull thud. Grasping for normalcy, he turns to his partner, the ghost of a smile on his exhausted face. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Flip you for the first shower.”

The familiar words, usually met with affectionate bickering about who smells worse or, more often when they have this kind of privacy, the two of them showering together, ring hollow this time. Fish, his eyes haunted and dull, only shakes his head as he trudges to the bathroom, alone.

Santiago can hear him undressing through the closed door. It’s slow at first. Hushed. The wet smack of waterlogged clothing hitting linoleum. The clink of a belt buckle. One boot tossed to the floor, the other flung there. A flurry of muffled thumps, each louder than the last - the unmistakable sound of knuckles striking tile. A cracked sob.

“Fuck,” Santi winces. He leans his head against the door and knocks. Frankie doesn’t answer.

“Come on, man.” He tries the door, but it’s locked from the other side. It’s the last straw for nerves already stretched past breaking, and Santi slams a hand against the cheap particle-board door, making it rattle on its flimsy hinges. He raises his voice to carry over the shower’s spray and Frankie’s attempts to shut him out.

“Fish, talk to me! I know that job was - what did you call it? A serious fuck-up? You were right, okay? I know everything’s fucked, I just - “ His voice cracks, just a little. “I just need to know you’re okay.”

There’s a long silence, long enough for Santi to seriously consider busting down the door because like hell is he losing anyone else on this godforsaken trip, least of all his mate. Frankie can hate him as much as he needs to, Christ knows he deserves it for dragging them all into this, but if he’s hurt himself -

I’m fine.

Frankie’s answer, when it comes through their mental bond, is terse, and obviously bullshit, but it still nearly takes Santi’s knees out from under him, relief slamming into him like the waves on that damn beach.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Worry still tears at Santi but he leaves it at that. He strips off his own clothing, still drenched in seawater and blood and failure, piling it in a sodden heap. Finding hand towels and a neatly-wrapped cake of soap smelling faintly of lavender, he scrubs days worth of grime from his body. Even washing off in front of a sink feels indulgent after the hell he’s dragged his pack through. He stares at the gray suds swirling down the drain every time he wrings out the towel, watching it grow darker and grimier with every pass over his bruised and battered skin.

Every memory is like a blow: Ironhead’s grunt of pain after being shot. The wailing of the helicopter’s alarms as it crashed. Fish's worry and fear and flat-out panic. Blood on granite, sand, the sea. It’s too much, and all his fault…

Just as adrenaline begins to claw at him, the bathroom door opens. Frankie emerges, cleaner now, water still dripping from his dark hair, seal-slick against his skull. The haunted look has receded from his eyes, leaving him looking as exhausted and hollowed out as Santi feels. Santi doesn’t miss the blood welling along his still-clenched knuckles.

“Hey,” he ventures. “Feeling any better?”

Frankie only shrugs. Santi takes him by the shoulder and steers him to the foot of the bed.

“My contact is going to stop by in a few hours to pick up the money. She said she’d bring some clothes, first aid shit, some real food.” As he talks, he uses the last clean towel to dab at Frankie’s split knuckles, careful not to scrub too roughly against raw, tender skin. “You want anything else?”

Frankie shakes his head. They both know the only things they want are out of reach, even with the remaining money they had fought and sacrificed for. Because of that money.

“You heard from the Millers?” They’re the first words Frankie has spoken in hours, his voice as hoarse as if it had been days.

“Not yet, but they’re across the hall if you want to check in.”

“Maybe later.” Frankie’s shoulders are hunched, his eyes downcast. He scratches absently at his jawline, his salt and pepper whiskers longer than he usually prefers. Catching his hand, Santi gives it a quick, steadying squeeze.

“I think I still have a razor around here somewhere.”

“Would you - “ Frankie finally meets his mate’s eyes and the hurt there nearly splits Santi’s chest open. He swallows, unable to finish, but Santi nods, his own throat aching.

“Of course.”

-

Santi has to get a little creative - a warm washcloth rather than a hot towel, hotel conditioner instead of shaving cream, but none of that matters. What matters is the sight of Frankie’s tight shoulders easing as Santi sweeps the razor over his cheek, fingers steady beneath the other man’s jaw.

“I’ve been thinking - after we get all the paperwork sorted, what do you think about getting away for a few days? Just the two of us?”

Frankie looks up at him, interest and skepticism that cuts Santi to the quick warring in his brown eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

“Just a vacation, I promise,” Santi says, raising his hands in a jokingly defensive way that falls entirely flat. He blows out a breath and tries again.

“We’re due some leave, especially after this shitshow. I was thinking maybe Ponta Preta?” He swishes the razor in a nearby cup before turning Frankie’s jaw to reach another angle.

“I don’t know, man.”

“No surfing, got it. Rio?”

Frankie shifts nervously and mutters “Too many tourists.”

Santi sighs, defeated. “Yeah, maybe we should just head…back to base.” He’d been about to say “home” but the shifter barracks on the base, spartan and secret as they are, are the closest the two of them get.

He makes a final pass of his razor, checking his work before setting it aside. “All set.” He squeezes Frankie’s shoulders and is about to pull away when the other man catches his hand.

“What about… Costa Rica?”

Part One

[therobotmonster]

Sure! and remember, you asked for it @readasaur

I have a lot under the #tyrannomax tag, but the sum up is that it's a unreality fauxstalgia concept that exists both as a story and a meta-story around its creation:

TyrannoMax and the Warriors of the Core was a comic by Cocytus Comics, originally released in the 1970s, appearing alongside such characters as Farrah Fyendlyne: Familiar of Faust, the Tomorrownauts, and Johannes Factotum: Professor of (Practically) Everything. (My Secret Origin of Wally ManMoth Comic is here)

TyrannoMax is a dinoid from "The Fossilized World of M'nar" which was created when the cosmic radiation burst that killed the dinosaurs (the KT impact wouldn't be commonly accepted until well after the series started) created a layer of "fossilized time" producing a pocket universe that resembles a hollow earth, accessible through portals hidden underground.

When Dr. Myron Underfoot discovers one of these portals, he brings art student Wally Manheim with him to take field illustrations, as traditional film is fogged by the portal transition, and to be a guinea pig.

The portal doesn't kill Wally, and he's found by TyrannoMax and his friends. Max is the champion of the Core City of Ib, their bravest and most heroic warrior, and just a generally helpful guy.

Underfoot winds up stealing one of the sun-crystals that keep the fossilized world stable, and when he tries to take it back through one of the portals to the surface it explodes, transforming him into the dinoid-like Dr. Underfang, and trapping Max and his friends on Earth, where they battle Dr. Underfang, his genicarnated creations, and a host of other foes.

(My favorite of which is Dr. Underfang's gal Friday, Mrs. Nice/Mrs. Nautlius, whose origin is summed up in this PSA that ran in Cocytus books through the late 70s.)

In the 80s, Cocytus hit hard times and was bought out by Buzby-Spurlock animation, producing the cartoon series that this figure was merch for. The series introduced Max's cousin l'l Wrexy and a host of new toy-based characters, and upped the tech level so you could get cool vehicle toys.

TyrannoMax Himself:

A Bio-Card of Comics Max is Here.

Max is the leader of his team, the 10,723rd reincarnation of his line, and a skilled fighter, strategist, and dancer. He's the physically strongest member of his team (narrowly edging out BrontoSarah) and never met a boulder he didn't want to throw.

His psychic dinoid ability is the ability to psionically augment his roar by focusing his courage to produce a force-shockwave, his righteous anger to stun or induce fear in enemies, and his hope to augment the strength of his friends. Like all dinoids he can use his psychic potential to rapidly learn other languages, but his overall psychic affinity is lower than most and highly specialized into his roar.

Like all dinoids, Max is vulnerable to cold (lore was established in the 70s)

His dinonite sword cuts through steel as if it were particle board, and can parry physical and energy attacks. His armor is made from dinonite and Hydrasaurus leather, augmenting his already formidable dinoid toughness.

Max is a relatively young champion and augments his lack of experience by relying on the expertise and knowledge of his comrades. He, BrontoSarah and TriceraBruce are best friends forming an Id (Sarah), Ego (Bruce), SuperEgo (Max) triumvirate. Bruce is intellectual and methodical, Sarah is passionate and wise, and Max is the balance between them.

The quick sum up of his personality is Adam West's Batman if he had Hercules' skill set and love of physicality and a more wry sense of humor.

He has a friendly rivalry with DeinoSteve, who respects Max's abilities but feels he's not decisive or 'solution oriented' enough for his role. Steve uses Max having saved his life during their first encounter as an excuse to hang around, but really he likes the companionship.

He is friends with PteroDarla, but not as close as with Sarah and Bruce, with a sort of chummy-work-colleagues kind of relationship.

Max considers Wally, Wally's little brother Bobby, and l'l Wrexy to be his younger brothers or adoptive children depending on how much managing they need.

Max considers stopping Dr. Underfang and his Genincarnates his responsibility, since Underfang got his powers from the Fossilized World and reverse engineered his own transformation to create the genicarnation process.

He has other rivals as well, in the form of TyrannoXam (an evil clone created, mostly, (its complicated) by the Unnatural Selector), CeratoGaius (Wrexy's dad, Max's brother-by-marriage, and a rich jerk who thinks he should be champion), and the DireLord of Lemurmalia (Max's counterpart from a realm of ice-age mammal people), all of whom seek to prove their superiority to a guy who would love to be their friend if they weren't being jerks.

And no discussion of Max's foes would be complete without Maureen the Lizard Queen.

Maureen has the ability to control reptiles and has general purpose hypnotic powers, making her the Lizard Queen. To her logic, the queen of lizards deserves only the best consort, the "Tyrant Lizard King," in the form of TyrannoMax.

She calls him "Darling" and "Sugarfangs" and other cutesy names. Max finds her attentions flummoxing.

Max and Steve are more resistant to her powers than most ("Ugh, you've got too much bird in you!") but she also doesn't use her power on Max outside of a combat/escape context cuz she's not quite that much of a creep. Her non-stalking related escapades usually involve attempts to establish her Queendom in some populated area or doing jobs for Dr. Underfang in exchange for the creation of reptilian genincarnate henchmen for her.

In the 90s there was a movie.

TyrannoMax 2" Action Figure In-Progress Sculpt

The hands cooperated for a chunk of sculpting today.

Toy Max is based largely on the cartoon design, but in keeping with the mid-to-late 80s, he's going to be a little more detailed. He's in my personal favorite, Battle-Beasts-inspired aesthetic.

[phantomrose96]

Hero Syndrome

There’s a young woman who has admired the Symbol of Peace for her entire life.

She doesn’t remember the first time she saw him on television. He’s just always been there as an eternal, unshakable constant – a comfort through every part of her life – promising to save anyone who needs him. And he does save her, even if he doesn’t know it. Because it’s his laughter, his smile, his ease and assurance speaking about rescues that keeps the flame burning in her heart when she had nothing else to cling to. He is the guiding light for her life that had no other purpose in it.

She is ignited with an all-consuming drive to follow in his footsteps. And it is a drive that defines her more than her own name.

She wants to save people with a smile. She wants to pull people from the depths of despair. She wants to stand at the top of the world and say “It’s alright now, because I am here.” if only so she can pay him back for all the comfort he’s given her in her life.  

Posters of the Symbol of Peace find their way onto her walls, into her binders and desktop backgrounds. She joins no clubs so she can spend all her free time honing her quirk. She runs more, and lifts more, and trains more than anyone else. The future she imagines every day has her standing at his side, and it is a bright, bright future.

She doesn’t get into U.A.

As much as she prepared herself for it, the reality is crushing. She sobs into her bedspread when the rejection letter comes, and stops briefly to peel the posters off the walls first, so the Symbol of Peace cannot see her cry like this. Heroes shouldn’t cry. Heroes shouldn’t give up. She can’t either. Her 4th-choice school has sent her an acceptance letter, and she’ll make sure that’s still good enough. She vows to keep working harder than everyone at U.A. to make up for it.

She graduates from her hero course as valedictorian. She’s given a ten minute slot during graduation to present her speech, and the speech suddenly means nothing and everything to her when she learns her school managed to book the Symbol of Peace as the keynote speaker. The Symbol of Peace far upstages her, and she doesn’t even care. She’s spellbound all over, and savors the ghost of the tingle in her fingertips from the brief second they pass each other. He doesn’t know this, but the moments spent sharing the stage mean the entire world to her.

She takes another vow now, to share a stage with him again in the future, as a colleague. She vows to make this moment the starting line for the beginning of the rest of her life.

When she shows up to Slice’N’Dice’s hero agency on her first day as a debut sidekick, she’s met with a bare white-walled room of peeling paint. There’s a single sputtering fan in the corner pointed directly, and only, at Slice’N’Dice’s desk. She feels the sweat trickling down her neck already, the swampy humid air, the cicadas chirping behind her, as she stands there holding her hero uniform in a box.

“I’m very excited to be working with you,” she says with a full bow. Slice’N’Dice looks up from his desk, and grunts, and goes back to puffing on the loose cigarette hanging from his lips. He’s slumped in his chair, uniform loose-fitting around rather skeletal arms and ballooned around his distended waist. He’s unbuckled his belt, and pulls deeply from his cigarette, and tunes the dial on the crackling police scanner on his desk.

“You know how to make a pot of coffee?” he asks her.

On the third day of her sidekick career, they go on patrol. Her mom has washed and pressed her uniform for exactly this occasion. She feels hope bubbling in her stomach where a rock-like weight had sat before. She wonders what it’ll feel like to have eyes shift to her as she walks, what excited kids will tug on their parents’ sleeves and point, what it will really feel like to be on this side of the uniform.

Slice’N’Dice doesn’t take her to the streets of Tokyo. They meander through empty alleys and hot, putrid industrial backways. He stops at an outdoor storage unit, and unloops the keys from his unbuckled belt, and opens the unit. Inside are bikes. Dozens of them. Dented and rusted into disrepair. He pulls out two and walks them on either side of him, motioning her to do the same. She does.

“What are the bikes for?”

Slice’N’Dice grunts.

Ten minutes more of walking, and they are standing at the mouth of a neighborhood. The air carries the pungent scent of gasoline. Windows appear as broken glass and particle boards, nailed into place. The peeling paint along the apartment facades reminds her of the peeling paint in the office.

Slice’N’Dice props a bike against a lamppost. And he pulls a small metal lens from his pocket and affixes it to the post just above the bike. On his phone, he fiddles an app open, and she sees two green lights blink on the metal lens.

Slice’N’Dice moves on. He motions her to follow.

“Why are we leaving the bike?” she asks.

“Gonna catch some thieves.”

“With the bike?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re leaving it here.”

Slice’N’Dice shrugs. “Yeah? Ain’t telling anyone to steal it. That’s their problem.”

“You want it to get stolen?”

“We gotta resolve some incidents if we wanna get paid.”

“Then, let’s resolve some incidents for real!” She thrusts a hand out, motioning, nearly tipping and just barely catching the bike at her left side. “Let’s patrol Tokyo and stop actual crime that’s happening.”

Slice’N’Dice barks a laugh. “We don’t have a zoning permit to patrol Tokyo, are you nuts? Maybe if the 2,000 Tokyo hero agencies all go belly-up, and the other 20,000 on the waiting list drop dead too, then maybe we could stake out Tokyo.”

She falters. “We shouldn’t be creating crime. We’re heroes, that’s just--”

“431.” Slice’N’Dice holds a hand up to her, and he draws his words out, like all the smoke from his cigarettes. “I got 431 applications for sidekicks. If you’re gonna leave, leave. I don’t really care. I’ll take any of the other ones. I don’t care.”

She freezes, sick with ice in her stomach.

“…And why’d you choose me?”

“Top of the pile.”

Slice’N’Dice shuffles along. She stands rooted in place. She’d been one of only three people from her graduating class to have a sidekick offer lined up right out of school.

It had been because she’d worked hard – harder than everyone else – to be a hero. Because she – more than anyone – had dreamed of this future.

Slice’N’Dice coughs wetly. He pauses to spit into the street, and keeps on shuffling.

…

There is a young man who’s admired the Symbol of Peace for his entire life.

He’s grown up half-raising himself, enraptured by the glow of the television with the Symbol of Peace’s shining smile. It is a smile that could move mountains, and his is a laugh that could shake oceans.  The young man watched these interviews on repeat while his mother worked double-shifts through the night. Those interviews formed him, brought a flicker of hope into his small and hollow world, brought moments to his life where he did not mind the opportunistic roaches scuttling up the couch, nor the rattle of the leaking pipes overhead, nor the dense headiness of mold in the carpets. They showed him hope. They showed him a path forward.

The young man dreams every day of the life he’ll lead when he’s a hero as well. His mom won’t suffer anymore when he’s a hero. No kid will go to bed hungry when he’s a hero. He’ll smile like the Symbol of Peace smiles, and he’ll move the oceans and the mountains too.

The U.A. rejection doesn’t deter him. He knew it would be a rejection before he even received the envelope. Only 1 in 1,000 applicants get into U.A. anymore, and that number skews further out of his favor when considering the legacy admissions to U.A., and the recommended kids who’d been through expensive personal hero-training regimens, and the parents who could curry a bit more favor by offering to fund a new U.A. training ground.

The young man never stood a chance, and he knew it. He’s more motivated, if anything, by the rejection letter. He wants the chance to stand out as someone who can break the U.A.-to-Pro pipeline. He’ll start from lower, and he’ll rise above the rest, because it’s who he is at his core.

The rejection letters continue to roll in. His second, his third, his fourth choices – down to his fifteenth – all come in thin, thin envelopes, too thin to contain good news. This happens to a lot of people, he reads. The hero market is oversaturated, he knows. Caps on hero course enrollment are getting tighter, he understands. But to have every door shut on him almost shakes his hard-earned resolve.

His tenth-choice school informs him there is a General Studies slot open. They offer it to him, and he almost, almost takes it.

But the Symbol of Peace never gave up his dreams. So he won’t either.

The young man has a pamphlet on his desk for a for-profit hero school just 20 miles outside town. It boasts no enrollment cap, no admissions test, We believe everyone is capable of proving themselves through hard work! We do not let dreams die halfway! The only admission criteria is the price tag. It is steep, the kind of steep that his part-time jobs and meager savings could never cover.

There’s an old man running the backroom of the corner store who gives out loans. This man doesn’t ask for credit or credentials there. His loans are in cash, day-of, with few questions asked. The young man knows this because he works part-time at this corner store, and sees the steady stream of strung-out clients filtering in and out, wracking up debt, caught in a personal hell the young man vowed to never fall into himself. But these are the people he intends to help one day as a pro-hero. And sacrifice must become something he’s comfortable with if he ever hopes to live up to the Symbol of Peace.

During his next shift, the young man takes to the backroom, and lays out his terms while the old man breathes cigar smoke into his face, and he has the money in-hand before the end of the night.

He’ll likely have to pay it back two-fold – maybe three-fold -- in interest. The young man knows this, he is not dumb. But he also knows how lucrative the pro-hero business is for those at the top. The government payout for heroes is pittance, at best, but hero merch sales pay out in gold. The Symbol of Peace has been named among Japan’s top 100 wealthiest men for the last ten years.

He won’t tell his mother about the loan. He intends to pay the debt back before she ever finds out.

He enrolls. He pays the tuition fee. He’s given a class schedule, a uniform, a syllabus, a dormitory. He moves out, away from the roaches and the rats, and it is a dream. He sees the start of the rest of his life on the day that he and all his new classmates are welcomed to campus as up-and-coming heroes.

Two years pass when the for-profit hero school loses its accreditation.

He, and all other students, are informed in a single curt email from the administration. All staff are fired. All courses are canceled. All students have three days to vacate the dormitories. The school entity is dissolved, and there money is gone.

The world drops out from beneath his feet. He can’t take the provisional license exam without a hero institution behind him. He can’t apply to sidekick positions without a provisional license. He moves back home, and resumes his part-time job, and sends in ten applications a day to every hero course in the country that accepts transfer students. When all of them yield rejections, he focuses on applying to every internship listing he can find.

None of them want him. Not when the market is already oversaturated with applicants who have an actual hero school backing them.

Years pass around him in a blur. His every cent earned from the corner store job is immediately garnished to pay his debts that come due, and they hardly make a dent. The compounding interest builds as a rate that surpasses his pay. A lifetime of this work would never repay his debt.

The old man in the tattered wifebeater shirt calls him into the back room one day. The old man shows no malice in his sleepy eyes, but exudes a pressure the young man can only describe as blood-lust. He’s heard the man’s quirk is suffocation, and he prays that this is not the day he learns this first-hand.

“These numbers… are not trending in your favor,” the man says between long drags of the cigar in his hand.

“I know.”

“I’d like to know. How do you plan to pay me back for my generosity?”

“Hero work,” the young man answers, just as he did all those years back when he first negotiated for his loan. “I just need—”

“What hero agency is hiring these days?” the man asks. “So, so few, anymore. Hardly any, anymore.”

“I know.”

“I’m not optimistic for you, you know.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I just—” the young man jolts forward, pleading eyes boring into the old man. “I just need to catch one break! I just need one ‘yes’ to kick things off! I can handle everything after that. I just need your patience, until then, and then I’ll make good. I’ll make you whole.”

“I’m old,” the man says with another long drag of his cigar. “Old old old, and getting older. Money won’t be much good to me when I’m all too old and dead. We agreed on now… being when you paid me back what I gave you so kindly.”

“Please… I don’t have the money. But I’ll get it.”

“You will. You’ll earn it.” The man’s joints crack as he pushes to his feet, and hobbles into the cellar-dark back of the shop, and returns gripping a single weathered gun which he slides across to the young man. “Here. For your protection. You’re no good dead. Don’t try anything funny with it though, I’m faster than I look.”

The young man swallows. “…Why are you giving me a gun?”

“Because you’ll need it for the jobs I have for you.”

“Please… I have a job already. I work in this shop already.”

“I have many more jobs for you right now. You should be grateful. You’ve had so little luck with jobs. Take the gun.”

Hesitantly, reluctantly, the young man picks up the gun. It’s heavier than he expects. But just as cold as he imagined.

“I don’t want the gun…”

“You’ll need the gun.”

“I don’t…” he hesitates. “I don’t want to do your jobs. I don’t want to be a villain. I don’t—”

The old man wheezes out a laugh. Mirth cracks on his old face. “What even is a villain? Childish word.”

“The Symbol says—”

The young man’s breath freezes in his throat, and it is not of his own doing.

“Silence, now. You talk to much. Your mother talks too much too, about you. Shopping here, all the time, for you two. Chatter chatter chatter. I like to make people quiet. It’s good for my peace of mind.”

The young man exhales forcefully. His breath comes back in gasps. His world crushes in around him.

“Now, would you like to hear about the new jobs I have for you?” the old man asks.

The young man shuts his eyes tight, and he wills, prays, hopes for this to end. And nothing answers his prayers.

“…Yes, I’d like to hear about my new jobs,” the young villain answers.

…

There is a boy who has admired the Symbol of Peace his entire life.

He plays hero in the park with his two friends every day of elementary school, even through wind and rain and snow and scorching heat. Their games are squall rescues in the rain, and avalanche missions in the snow, and desert expeditions in the heat.

Those two friends are his only two friends. They go elsewhere for middle school, and he is left alone. And his every attempt to make new friends is squashed by the bullies that have found him to be such a deliciously easy target. He endures it, he accepts it, he channels all his hope and all his faith into the Symbol of Peace. The bullies’ words hurt less when he trawls through video playlists of interviews, and motivational speeches, and candid rescues. There is no hurt, and there is no danger, and there is no unfairness where the Symbol of Peace is involved. When the boy’s parents divorce, when his dog passes on, when his grandmother gets cancer, he watches the Symbol of Peace’s interviews on loop.

The boy stops bothering trying to make friends in middle school. The enormity of the task ahead of him is too much and too important for friends. He trains alone every day during recess instead, and after school, and into the night, and early in the morning. Every pull-up is another imaginary meter scaled in a mountain rescue. Every mile run with his weighted vest is a collapsed hiker carried out of the woods. Every deadlift is raising the roof from the victim of a hurricane. Every heat-exhausted quirk honing session is another life saved.

He’s sure to smile, every time, no matter what, because one day there will be real people he rescues who need to see that smile.

He is 12 when he buys a police scanner.

It’s not a real one. More like a repurposed ham radio, rigged up to the emergency response frequencies. He purchased the radio online from a man with the username radrigs89, and the purchase eats up most of the boy’s savings. He’s heartbroken when he finds the radio does not actually pick up signals.

But he doesn’t give up. Instead the boy pours all his free time into rigging it up properly himself. He needs this to work. Because he knows from the Symbol of Peace that a true hallmark of a top hero is having stories of bravery from their middle school days.

Three months after his purchase, he strikes gold.

The raspy speakers crackle out with police chatter. He sits enraptured in his room, idling away his Friday night listening for anything nearby. Anything he could get to on his bike. Any scene that would need his quirk. Most things that comes through are traffic infractions, or noise complaints, or incidents with heroes already at the scene. The boy decides to be patient. He’ll know in his gut when the right report comes through.

Just over a week later, at 10pm on a Saturday, there is a fire twelve blocks from his home.

He is on his bike from the moment the address is relayed over the radio.

The ride over is a blur. His fingers tingle. The building is an apartment complex. The police are at least fifteen minutes away by car. There are no heroes yet on the scene.

He takes the final left too hard and wipes out, bike skidding away horizontally beneath him. He bounces up to his feet and pays it little mind, because the air has spiked hot, because the red-orange light dances and reflects in his eyes, consuming the building, consuming his thoughts. It is like a heartbeat licking inside the windows, and it compels his body to move without his mind.

Residents are crowded in the street below, pajama-clad and chilled in the night air. And he spots her – a little girl, no older than five, gripping her mother’s nightgown and wailing. The little girl has practically gone limp, held up by her balled fists in her mother’s clothing, screaming “MY BUNNY! BUNNY! WE GOTTA GO GET BUNNY!! WE GOTTA SAVE BUNNY!!!”

“We’ll buy a brand new bunny after this, okay? I promise. Brand new bunny! We can get two bunnies who are friends, I promise. I promise.”

“NOIWANTBUNNY!!!!”

The boy races over, and he crouches to the girl’s level, and he smiles. “It’s okay now! I’m here! There’s no need to cry now. I can rescue your bunny. I have a quirk just right for this! Where’s your bunny?”

The little girl blinks through her tears. “My room.”

“What apartment?” the boy asks.

“No. Dear. No please, I promise we’ll get a new bunny!”

“2…. 2-J!” the girl answers.

“HEY WAIT!” the mother yells after him, but it is too late. The boy has turned heel and run. There’s fear in his heart, sure, but heroes fight through fear. There’s a voice in his head saying “turn back!” but he has to act without thinking if he wants to rise to the likes of the Symbol of Peace. The bunny. The bunny is a life worth protecting. The little girl’s smile is a smile worth protecting.

He bursts through the front door, and he curls his fingers to activate his quirk. A chill sweeps through the hallway, dragging the air from scalding to breathable. His internal temperature ticks up just a fraction.

The stairs, only one flight. He scales it, the white floral wallpaper glowing with am amber ambiance from the flames eating the scaffolding behind it. He rounds into the hallway where the heat claws into his throat once more. Another tensing of his fingers, another activation of his quirk, another gust of chilled air. He feels his brow grow hotter in recoil.

All doors have been flung open all along the hall, including the one marked with the 2-J plaque beside it. He wastes no time entering, and hesitates only a moment as the first bare sight of fire meets his eyes. The living room is consumed, the lemon couch scorched to half a skeletal frame, the television melted unrecognizable. Aerosolized plastics, wood, and fibers assault his throat, so hot he feels he is breathing in a solid mass. It reduces him to a fit of coughing, soot taking out his sight for the moment. His fist curls, a gust of cold air blasts through, and he is breathing again. Just a bit dizzier. His forehead burns independent of the flame.

Girl’s room. Little girl’s room.

It’s easy enough to find. Pink walls, a single twin bed with frills along the skirt, circular white rug plush and soft at the dead center of the room. It’s less hot in here, by a fraction. The fire hasn’t claimed it yet.

Cage. Bunny. Rabbit. Where?

He scans the length of the room in a second, and scans it again. He expects a cage at shelf-level, and when he sees none, he scans the floor for any sign of a pen. He steps over the threshold, growing more frantic.

“Bunny!” he calls out and feels foolish for wasting the breath.

Closet, maybe. He grabs the metal handle, and recoils when the heat bites him. He wads his hand in his shirt the second time around and yanks the door open. Clothes, hangers. He sweeps everything aside and stares at a floor of shoes. Sweat trickles down his neck in rivulets. Every article of clothing sticks to him. His mouth is drying.

He sweeps his hand out, tensed into a claw. Another swirl of cold air streams through the room. He feels it in his heart this time, a slight stutter, a hotness and redness along his cheeks. His internal temperature ticks up another fraction.

“Run,” the little voice in his head says. “You’ll over-exert your quirk. You know that’s dangerous. Run.”

But he can’t. Because heroes act without thinking.

There’s a creaking overhead. It starts low and slow, almost inaudible over the hum and crackle of the fire one room over. It crescendos to a groaning, and it steals the boy’s full attention right when it hits its breaking point.

The ceiling caves, just above the doorway. Lumber and drywall and embers pour down like sand. He dodges, just in time, throwing himself sprawling on the super-heated ground such that the collapsing rubble only claims his right ankle.

The floor is burning into him. He twists, staring at his foot, staring at the entrance to the room now blockaded with debris. The fire licks about the doorway, crawling with slow, opportunistic bursts.

His lungs hurt.

“…Freeze,” he wheezes out, fingers curling, another sweep of bitter cold air bursting through the room. The momentary relief is welcome, but the lingering swell of heat in his cheeks negates it. He sees the flames stutter, and hesitate, and crawl forward again.

“Freeze!” again. A blow of icy air. A buffeting of the flames. A scorch to his cheeks heating with the quirk recoil.

He yanks on his ankle, and the lumber pinning it shifts a fraction.

“Freeze!”

He looks forward, chin pressed to the carpet. He sees it now, one floppy ear peeking out beneath the bed skirt. The fraction of space between the skirt and the floor reveals a plush face in shadow, and he sees two beady glass eyes dancing with the reflection of flames.

He’s licked with a moment of nostalgia, for the days spent playing hero with his friends. Stuffed animals had played their rescue victims so many times before. The stuffed bunny is a welcome sight, almost, it fits right into the fantasy he’d spent so many years constructing.

The other pieces don’t fit. The air licks so, so much hotter than the pretend arson rescues. The smoke is so much more choking than the fantasies in his head. Even the heat training, with the heaviest vest weights, in the peak of summer, couldn’t compare.

The Symbol of Peace never seemed bothered, even in the worst of his rescues. The Symbol of Peace never failed. Somehow, the boy had never considered failure as a possibility. Heroes just needed the courage to act, and the rest followed.

“...Freeze.”

His fingers curl. The flames reel back like a scolded animal, but linger, curious, experimental, as if testing his resolve. His face is burning up. He can’t tell how high his fever has spiked, but it’s high enough to make him drowsy. His eyelids flicker, and flutter, and it would be so much easier to let them shut.

The flames catch him dozing off, as they crawl forward with courage.

Before his eyes shut, he remembers one important thing. He smiles at the bunny.

Its wide glass eyes reflect his smile back. And even when the boy’s eyes flutter shut, the bunny’s remain open, unblinking, unseeing, dancing in the flames.

…

The Symbol of Peace mounts the stage with slow, commanding steps. The crowd that’s gathered tips into the tens of thousands, and that is not even counting those redirected to the overflow area. The people right near the front of the stage have been camping in their spots for over a day.

The applause that meets him is uproarious. He raises a gloved hand to ask for quiet, and is met only with a crescendo of hollers. They settle, eventually, as he takes his position by the podium, as he sets one white-gloved hand to the stand, and raises the microphone to his mouth with the other. The audience hushes steadily, enraptured, eager for him to speak.

“I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out here today,” he says, and he says it with a voice that can shake oceans, and delivers it with a smile that can move mountains. “This day means a lot to me, more than I can put into words, to be so honored by all of you.” He taps the medal affixed to his chest. “To be receiving the highest honor I could have ever imagined receiving. The Lifetime Achievement in Heroics…”

Applause, stronger and more raucous than the first round, meet his ears. He lets it ring this time, while tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

“I would not be here without you! I would not be anywhere near this podium without the love and patience and inspiration from all the people who believed it me when I needed it the most. I would not be 15,000 rescues into my career, and I would not be the second person to ever receive this award, if I had been traveling this path alone.”

Hoots. Hollers. Screams of “WELOVEYOU!”

“And it’s actually that first recipient of the Lifetime Achievement award who I want to talk about today, with you all. Because this day is special to me for an entirely other reason. Today marks the anniversary of the day that man – that first recipient – All Might – told me the words that set me on the path to where I stand today.” The Symbol of Peace steps away from the podium, microphone still in hand, and moves to the very front of the stage. “ ‘You can be a hero, too.’ Those words. That single sentence. Changed my life forever. I would not be here. I would not be ‘Deku’. I would not be the Symbol of Peace without them.”

He pauses for another chorus of cheers, screams and applause and celebration. His smile spreads wide, his soft freckled cheeks dimpled and scrunched high, his messy hair falling over his forehead, and it is a look that has captured an entire nation’s heart.

“So I want to take this time I have in front of you all to return the favor All Might gave me all those years ago. This is for everyone who needs to hear these words! For everyone who needs someone who believes in them! For everyone looking to do right in the world. This goes out to you!” And he lifts his microphone up high. “YOU can be a hero too!”

The audience erupts unlike anything before. Their sounds consume the very air. Together, they drown out all other noise as Deku, the Symbol of Peace, clenches his fist high in the air.

Across the nation, children are watching the television broadcast. They are enraptured. They are bright-eyed. They are making plans for what they will say on stage once they stand beside him.

Once they are all heroes too.

[watermelonlipstick]

Blood

I was thinking it might be cute to do a little moment with Sam and Dean being sweet about getting your period. It doesn’t really matter when this would take place, but I mention Dean being 34, so I guess it’s around season 8! But I think they’d be like this pretty much anytime. 

Thanks so much for reading!! I’d love any advice or critiques if you have them.

Title: Blood

Pairing: Winchesters x Reader, mostly platonic

Word Count: 974

Summary: The reader gets her period on a hunt, so Sam and Dean try to help.

Warning: mention of periods, blood, etc

gif from bilosan!

“Dude, it’s just blood. Don’t act like such a fucking virgin.”

           “I’m not acting li—I’m not getting into this with you, Dean. Can you just ask her?”

           “It’s not rocket science, college boy. Leak, plug. What’s she going to illuminate?”

           “Give me the phone,” you said, yanking it out of Dean’s hand. “Yeah, Sam?”

           His voice was tinny over the burner’s line. “So I know you usually get the ones without applicators because they’re better for the environment but I’m not seeing any here. Do you have a second choice?”

           “Whichever box is the smallest; I don’t have a ton of room in my bag.”

           “Ah, okay, got it.” You heard the faint sound of cardboard sliding along a metal shelf. “Want anything else, while I’m out?”

           “Yeah, if they have scalpels grab a couple of those, you’re giving me a hysterectomy when you get back,” you groaned drily into the cell.

           “How about gummy worms and Tylenol?”

           It wasn’t hard to imagine Sam’s smile when you only grumbled in response.

           “I’ll be back in a minute. Hang in there babe,” he said, ending the call.

           Dean was standing at the sink in the motel bathroom, trying to flatten out a defiant cowlick he’d gotten from napping in the car earlier. A wave of pain-induced nausea hit you so fast you almost didn’t have time to yank the back of his shirt to switch places with him, slamming the door behind you as you threw up into the echoes of the dated avocado green toilet.

           “Christ, it’s really that bad?” Dean called, muffled through the cheap hollow particle board.

           When you caught a breath, you answered him sarcastically. “No, I just thought yakking might be fun.” You cleaned yourself up and brushed your teeth thoroughly before going out to meet him. “It’s not always this bad, obviously. I must have some extra good karma this month.”

           Dean winced in sympathy from his new post, sitting against the headboard with his legs crossed over the length of one of the motel’s double beds. “Well, I’m sorry kid. Come here.” He patted the mattress next to himself, and you crawled in next to him to curl into the fetal position with your head on his chest. Dean wrapped an arm around you to rub firm circles into the taut-rope muscles of your lower back. The pressure helped and whatever syndicated show he was watching on the slightly fuzzy TV was just distracting enough to let you unclench your jaw.

           Sam returned a few minutes later bearing gifts. He threw the gummy worms on the other bed and deftly cracked open the small bottle of painkillers before handing it to you with a bottle of Dr. Pepper. When you’d thrown back a few, he pulled a petite box of tampons out of the plastic bag. He gave them to you, balling the bag in his palm before tossing it across the room into the wastebasket. Folding his long legs to sit opposite you on the other mattress, he braced his elbows on his knees. “Are you hungry?”

           “Always—” Dean answered, cut off by Sam’s exasperated look over your shoulder to his brother before he turned his gaze back to you.

           You unfurled yourself and sat up straight through the thick ache gripping your abdomen. “You’re sweet, but I’m not sick or anything, I’ll be fine. I don’t want you guys to think I’m a baby. Give me like five minutes and we can head out.” You grabbed the box and went to the bathroom.

           When you came out the boys weren’t suiting up like you’d expected, still where you’d left them on the plasticky paisley quilts. “It’s late, the sheriff can wait until tomorrow,” Dean said, motioning for you to refill your spot next to him. You quirked up an eyebrow in question.

           “Chinese food is on the way—got veggie lo mein and fried rice for you because I didn’t know which one you were in the mood for,” Sam offered, finally getting up to shuck off his jacket and boots.

           “Guys, come on, I’m okay.” You rifled through your duffel bag to pull out the all-purpose pumps you kept for pretending to be someone who didn’t wear work boots 90% of the time.

           “We know you are, killer. You’re forgetting who stitches your stoic ass up; you’ve got nothing to prove. Let a couple old men have a day off.”

           “You’re 34.”

           “Even more reason I need a night off, I feel like I’m 70.”

           Sam smiled at that one just as you did, tossing a beer to Dean from the minifridge in the corner. He held another up in a silent question and lobbed it when you opened your palms to catch. You looked between the brothers from next to your duffel, straining to see frustration or pity in their eyes and finding nothing as Sam crossed the room to sit opposite Dean in a few lazy strides.

           A beat of waiting didn’t help you come up with a reason to get back to work, so you kicked off the unlaced boots on your feet and cracked open the can feeling both thankful and reluctant. When you followed Sam over to the beds, you leaned over where he sat to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you,” you half-whispered, your voice low near his ear. His shy, empathetic half smile was all the ‘you’re welcome’ you wanted, and you flopped down onto a bed.

           When the takeout came, Sam doled out chopsticks (and a fork for Dean) and food. You stopped to think about how nice it was; how much beer, TV, salty food, back rubs, and your boys really were what you wanted, not just now but every day. Maybe not everything about being on your period was so bad.

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request! Tags are always open. 

Tags: @sams-sass , @jarpadjenackles , @anxiousbarnes​ , @akshi8278​ , @whatareyousearchingfordean , @deanwinchesterswitch , @flannellover67

[miki-13]

@dipplinduo

Then this is gonna hurt

Juliana:

I was a black sheep wandering You were an open wound Falling from so much darkness Into an empty room

Pictures that cut like daggers From halfway across the globe This time you're the one across the ocean While I'm here alone

I wish that you could see Fragments of you and me Cut and pasted from dreaming unfurled I swear, I'm still your girl

Hollow, the lingering cinematic Silence, that colors these walls Time and space have conspired To make us worthy to hold it all

I wish that you could see Fragments of you and me Cut and pasted from dreaming unfurled I swear, I'm still your girl

Destiny falls No second glance You broke the pieces of my soul like particle board It's a cheap romance You sold me short Before I had a chance To be a bright light, fading fast Now the question stands Will you save the last dance?

I think that we could be Makers of history Kids with a destiny in this world I swear, I'm still your girl I swear, I'm still yours

Kieran:

Somewhere high up in the air there I had long forgotten I belong to you Some unconscious stream of twisted logic Caught me in its whirlwind, left me black and blue

I was senseless, battered and defenseless Rain became relentless, leaving barren skies I was broken, all I left unspoken Left me torn wide open, barely still alive

Found your letter sealed away in storage Under my pretenses, buried out of view I recalled it hidden in a notebook Tattered, ruffled pages old but good as new

I was listless, how could I have missed this? If you are the groundswell, I'm tossed in your tide I was certain if I'd seen it comin' I'd have started running back at the starting line

Well I faltered, left you at the altar Offering my apologies and my gratitude Now there's a sinking feeling in my chest You're gonna love me less when I return to you

But you were never one to keep a record One to hold against me all I failed to prove I've been tethered, floating like a feather Anxious in my roaming, stranded on the move

Me associating "Still Your Girl" by Fleurie with Juliana ("Will you save the last dance?")

And "Hymn" by Fleurie with Kieran ("Some unconscious stream of twisted logic caught me on its whirlwind, left me black and blue.")

Okay wow. I never heard of this artist and the way these two songs call to each other is so hauntingly beautiful. This is a deep cut for this ship OOF.

[kyberphilosopher]

Yᴏᴜʀ Qᴜᴇʀᴇɴᴄɪᴀ

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I just want you to be happy.”

Word Count: 2407

Requested: yes, by a drunk anon. they wanted rex to be happy for more than 5 minutes, so this is what i came up with. might go back and edit some more, but to be honest i’m sick of looking at the english language at this point. i hope you like it. 

a/n. heavy allusions to sex. 

Querencia. (N.)... a place where one feels safe, a place from which one’s strength of character is drawn.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

He had slept with you. He knew that for certain.

Bodies close together, he could remember the heat from it all so clearly. Heat from you, heat from him, heat from the both of you. He could close is his eyes and remember the thin layer of sweat earned from working at you. Rex hadn’t minded the work, though. In fact, he enjoyed it. He reveled in knowing you had enjoyed it as well.

During the act, Rex swore to himself he’d commit every millisecond to memory. He promised he’d think back on your warmth in hard times of battle, that he’d even attempt to see it in dreams. It was just so nice. Better than he’d been able to fathom. But he couldn’t remember if he’d been able to last one long round (which was the more unlikely option), or if he’d gone multiple, short rounds. The sensations were too intense, the arousal too heavy for him to have managed to last the time that it did- but he couldn’t remember.

You’d served together many times, and at no point has Rex heard the noises he’d been able to coax from you. He’d idolized you for your remarkable, Jedi mind. You’d led him and his men to victory on several occasions- sometimes with General Skywalker, sometimes all on your own. It hadn’t been til the Captain happened to look over at you during your first battle together, and immediately desired you.

The way you handled your lightsabers... the fluidity of your movements... Rex found it to be beautiful. He’d seen it before in other Jedi, but this was different. You were... you. And you had made the man restless with lust, overtaken with infatuation and adoration alike. Therefor Rex had fallen into either love or something like it with you, and after a rather annebriated night, he’d gotten what he wanted.

Neither of you were drunk enough to be out of your mind. Rex would never have allowed himself to take advantage of your state, but he was just as tipsy as you were. You’d spent the majority of the time together giggling and telling stories in some neon lighted Coruscant cantina to celebrate a recent victory. General Skywalker had made a rather hollow excuse to slip away to Padmé. Obi-Wan declined the offer and chosen to rest instead. The majority of the 501st had spread itself thin across the planet in search of fun. This left Rex alone with you, General Koon, and a few other soldiers.

Had Rex laughed at your joke first, or had you laughed at his? The liquor had made you feel warm and giddy, and it hadn’t taken awhile before he had held your stare for a little too long. With a few more lines of dialogue exchanged, you’d invited Rex back to your quarters.

“I’ve a few strategies I’d love to talk over with you,” you’d told him. “Just back in the Temple. Come on.”

Rex didn’t need to be told twice. Even if he had wanted to stop himself from following you and your sweet aroma, he couldn’t have. It was too enticing to turn down being alone with you. Jesse had smiled knowingly at him as he left, which somewhat spurred Rex on.

One thing led to another. Rex could only remember how hot you had felt, but not how it had started. He’d worry about recounting that part of his memory later. For the time, he’d focused on melting into you and you alone.

Eventually, the both of you tired out. The Captain would’ve kept going if not for your exhaustion, but he was quick and deciding to let you rest. He followed after you not long after.

In the night, the man woke up out of a sudden fear that it had all been a dream. He bolted upright, skin still glistening from the earlier acts. They’d only been committed approximately three hours ago at this point, but he had to be sure. He knew in the morning you would be gone, but if he could keep you from slipping away now, he would.

The Captain looked over at you. Your hair was spread out across the pillow as your cheek pressed to it. Your lips were parted slightly as you breathed in and out, complimenting the pink dust on your cheeks from the past alcohol and sweat. Your bare back was facing the ceiling, palms lazily spread out as your legs only further tangled themselves in the sheets.

Rex thought you were beautiful, even with a half alarmed, half asleep brain. The acts you had shared had been as true as they come, and so the man knew that for certain. The back of his mind was shouting that it was worse for it to be real- you were a Jedi! You were forbidden from any forms of intimacy! Oh Maker, had he been your first? On top of it all, you were his superior! The level of inappropriateness was insurmountable!

But the Clone decided he’d deal with it at morning. Slowly, as not to wake your divine form, he scooted closer to you. His right hand reached out to pull you towards him with a bit of a roll. Then you collapsed against his broad chest easily, still soundly snoozing away.

Rex kept his arm around you firm. While you were out cold, the city system was wide awake and bustling, and Rex let the distant sounds of wind and speeders alike lull him back into a similar state of sleep.

The man was right, though. You weren’t there when he woke up.

The arm that was so tight around you in sleep was now limp on the bed. He had gone to squeeze it to make sure you hadn’t been taken, only to find air and sheets in your place. 

The man’s golden eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the particles of dust he could see in the rising sunlight. Your suite was quiet, and the glass of the window behind him blocked out the noise of the world. Rex rather appreciated things that were soundproof, because sometimes if he closed his eyes for too long, he would remember the noisiness of war. 

Your bed was the most comfortable he had ever slept on. Back on Kamino, he and his brothers grew accustomed to sleeping in pods. During times of active duty, he spends most of his nights in a cot, on the floor, or on a slab. But your mattress was firm but soft, able to work out the knots of his back with no trouble at all. The deep red sheets were smooth as silk, with plenty of soft pillows to nestle your head into. Though now, all but two pillows were strewn across the floor. 

Rex sat himself up. He took the right side, you took the left. His head rolled over the window that was previously given a view of his back. Floor to ceiling, stretching from wall corner to wall corner. Being an important figure in the Republic certainly had it’s perks, it seemed. Yours was the view. Skyscrapers climbed higher and higher the farther he looked, and all sorts of transports zipped and zapped as they tried to beat the growing sun. The light cast orange shadows into the room, and made Rex’s eyes appear golden. 

But despite all this, Rex couldn’t relax. Your leaving before he woke up meant something. It meant you thought the night was a mistake. It meant you didn’t want to see him again. Rex was right for holding you as tightly as he did. At least because of that, he knew it was real. 

If you came back to your room, would you throw him out? Would you yell at him? Accuse him of taking advantage of your tipsy state? It was foolish of him to assume he would come close to any semblance, of happiness, wasn’t it? Last night was the closest thing he would ever get, but of course nothing gold can stay. 

You would be furious. This makes the Captain sigh and sink further against the board. Of all the foolish people he’d come across- clankers, seppies, fellow brothers- he was the biggest fool of them all.

Silently and slowly, you appear before him. Just at the other end of the room, by a doorway that led to your bathroom. A cream color towel was draped around your form, but it didn’t matter. Rex had already committed you to memory. He could see the dark bruises he’d been nervous about marking you with across your breasts, up your collarbones, and trailing around your neck. The sunlight hadn’t reached you yet, but if it did, you would’ve been just as golden as the Captain’s irises. 

“Good morning,” he said with disbelief. His eyes were wide- shocked you were here still. He was glad for it, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be kicked out. His lips were beginning to feel more dry and chapped as his anxiety grew. 

You didn’t look furious. “Good morning, Captain,” you said calmly. A shadow of a smile danced on your lips calmly. “I just went to shower. You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh,” Rex said, eyes still wide. “Oh. Right.”

You hold his gaze a second longer before starting towards the window. Your feet patter against your floor. Skin becomes lightened in the sun so you appear to be glowing. Rex can partially see your back, and get a glimpse of a mark he had made on your shoulder blade. He could faintly remember giving that one, but the memory was hot and blurred together by sweat. 

You were looking out the window. Observing the metropolitan city before you. Your intelligent eyes were flitting everywhere, working a click a minute. “Do you want breakfast?” you asked, eyes not shifting over to the man until your sentence was done. “We can go out to a diner near here, or I can make something. Not a very good cook, though.”

What? What was this? No yelling. No noticeable anger. You hadn’t immediately told him to leave. You hadn’t woken him up to shout. You were instead asking if the man wanted to stay a while longer with you. This must’ve been a dream. Perhaps Rex had been mistaken, and it actually wasn’t real. 

“I don’t understand,” he said aloud. 

You flash a quick smirk at him calmly, exhaling as though it were obvious. “Well you must be hungry,” you said. “And I have the credits.”

“You’re not going... to make me leave?”

You turn to him fully. Your eyebrows furrow together softly in a sort of confusion. “Now why would I make you do that?”

Rex’s heart gives a sudden pound. He feels something catch in his throat and his skin grow hot. In contrast, his veins feel cold as ice. 

“Rex,” you say softly, almost like a whisper. Your eyes glow, skin covered in all the hickeys he had given on you. “I don’t want you to go.” Then the hand clutching the towel to you tightens and clenches around the knuckles. “Unless you want to go.”

“No,” he says immediately. He sits up straighter, rustling the sheet draped over his legs. Rex’s body is perked up in alarm now, anything to prove your words wrong. “I just thought that you would think last night was a mistake.”

“I don’t think it was a mistake. Do you think last night was a mistake?”

Maker, the way you look at him. “No,” Rex says, completely entranced. “No, General. I don’t think last night was a mistake.”

Your lips curve into a smile. Your eyes are shining. Rex has been a lot of places in his life, with a lot of people. Nothing and no one compares to how beautiful you look right at this moment. Not even the radiating sun or the distant, blinking neon lights. 

The hand around your towel loosens enough to make the cloth slip from you. It falls to the floor in a puddle by your feet. 

You’re naked again. You’re naked in front of a giant window so anyone flying by could see, but Rex is the only one of them who really matters. He’s important to you. Rex isn’t just a Clone, or a soldier, or the best Captain in the world. He’s not a master of blasters, a drinking buddy, or even a one night stand. He’s a friend, a companion, a lover, even. 

He’s taken aback by the revelation. How many people in his life had told him that he hadn’t mattered in the slightest? How many people had made him feel that way? You weren’t one of them. This made Rex feel something more than happiness, which was a bit of a big step for the man. He may have never felt happiness for this long in his entire life. 

He deserves it. 

Rex climbs out of bed peacefully, not daring to lose eye contact with you. He’s naked too, but all he can think about is you. It’s real. There’s no competition, no way of changing his mind. The normal, raging and torn up storm in his chest is completely obliterated. Replaced instead by something much more calm and welcoming and loving. It’s odd and new to him, but Rex wants to get used to it. 

He holds you tight. Not as tight as all those hours ago- there’s no need to now. He knows you won’t disappear because he has your word. Your hands snake around his back, raking over the shadows of scratch marks you’d left the previous night. His thumb smooths over the bruise on your shoulder blade. 

He’s taller than you, so it’s easy to rest your head against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, and he can feel yours. If you stayed like this long enough, they would sync up rather quickly, giving the truthful illusion that they were the same. 

So you stood there together, in front of all of Coruscant to see, holding each other tightly as your naked forms melted together, for the second time. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I finished this one quickly, but the english in it was difficult for me. Why is sink and sync spelled differently...? Whatever. Reader has a fire pussy. 

Taglist: @omg-we-really-doo​ @haztory​ @chokemeanakin​ @fanficsforheartandsoul​ @anakinswhore​ @.drunkanon :) is that everyone?

[weeb-stomper]

Motels

Mirio Togata x F!SexWorker Reader

Prompt: “I’m tired of being your secret.”

Word Count: 1,404

A/N: I thought, the prompt usually makes people think that there’s a half in the relationship begging for love and so I did a little subverting of that. Sorry, it’s pretty angsty. Also, I felt like this piece was a lot more about reader than it was about Mirio, so he’s not actually really in it outside of reader’s thoughts.

@reinawritesbnha Haha, I feel like this is maybe not your normal type of fic but I’m really kinda proud of how this turned out and wanted to share with you.

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     You’ve always hated motels. The horrendous patterns of the carpets that never seem to change no matter where you go, the stale air that never freshens despite the open windows, the dirty sheets that smell like the hundreds of people who have abused them no matter how many times they’ve been washed. You hate the artificial swirls and patterns that cover the ceiling in every room and the judgemental eyes of the desk workers who have come to be familiar with your presence. You share a moment of awkward eye contact with the woman behind the counter tonight as you collect the small room key, not missing the pitying look in her eyes and the sad smile that takes her lips. Your finger traces the large number eighteen emblazoned on the plastic tag, and you huff out a mirthless laugh.

     “Key to misery…” you mumble to her, turning on your heel to head towards your prison cell for the evening.

     Your fingers trace along the sparsely decorated walls, occasionally catching against a raised edge of the peeling paint. The smell of the dingy hall was gag-inducing, memories of your history in any given one of these disgusting rooms flooding your mind despite your efforts to knock them back, and your forward progress halts. You can see it up ahead. The dirty white door set into the wall accompanied by the dimly shining bronze eighteen drilled to the wall beside it. Breathing isn’t so easy at the moment, knowing that as soon as you step into that room the waiting game begins. Your now-long hair tickles the small of your back, kickstarting your nerves once more, and your heart hurts.

     Taking a shuddering breath, you teeter forward, falling into an uneven gait. The soreness in the soles of your feet radiates up your calves, the strappy black heels having long since blistered your feet through the thin black nylon tights that clung to your skin. Slipping the key into the lock, you take one last look at the nightmarish halls that surround you before slipping through the door and locking yourself into your nightly cage. 

     You forgo the lights, opting instead for one moment longer of semi-peace. One extra minute of not being able to see your reality, and you could indulge in the fantasy of being literally anywhere else. Crossing the small room to the far left corner, you drop your bag into the padded chair that resided there. It was a terrible muddy yellow color, musty from overuse and under-cleaning, and (for tonight) home to a large bag of gifts from your client. A grimace mars your face as you pull out an intricate black-lace teddy, laying it out on the bed before slipping off your thick black coat. The cool air of the room stings against your previously shielded skin as you continue undressing, removing your shirt and folding it carefully before placing it, along with your skirt and jacket, inside the cheap particle board dresser drilled into the wall below the cheap and old tv. There’s something calming about separating your personal belongings from the job you do. Like locking your personality inside an industrial safe and exchanging it for the illustrious mask you don for the sake of the people who seek you out in the darkest hours of the night,

     You cast a side-long glance at the old digital alarm clock sat on the simple bedside table. 8:52 flashes back at you in angry red lettering. Eight minutes to prepare before the ever-so punctual hero arrives to inadvertently destroy what little sense of ease you’ve managed to scrape together in the days since your last meeting. You’ve seen others since you last met him, but he was always the worst. Maybe because he’s a hero. Maybe because you know how truly sadistic he is behind that golden smile. But most likely because he demanded things be so extraordinarily personal. He treated every meeting with you like a beautiful secret meeting between a count and his mistress, cloaked in darkness and complete with loving embraces and chaste kisses before a teary departure. Forcibly disconnecting from your internal monologue, you turn back to the lacy article resting gingerly on the bed below you. 

     The scratchy material of the lingerie gouges canyons in your skin as it slides up your legs to settle across your torso, and a chill of a different kind tears through your muscles. Wearing the gifts was never pleasant, the sheer material writhing you in a permanent sense of discomfort, but there was something especially terrifying about tonight. You knew him well enough now to know that he’d been gearing up to something bigger than normal, and your instincts were screaming that tonight was the night it would culminate into whatever he’d been planning. Those thoughts, however, were for later. Now is the time for preparation, for rebuilding the mental barriers that he insists on tearing down every. Single. Time. Time to guard the parts of you that you’d rather not share and the words that you’d rather keep to yourself.

     The smell of oranges turns your stomach. He loves the smell of oranges and had bought you his favorite version of the scent to coat the room before he appears for his evening visits. A generous spray for each pillow and blanket, pull back the sheets to spray the mattress, mist the doorway as per request. You can hardly control the rising bile in your throat, but you manage to choke it down. In a way it makes sense for him to seek the scent of oranges. It’s like a child reaching for a security blanket, a man seeking solace in the scent of summer. Fitting for the someone who “shines like the sun”, as his friends tell the news reporters in interview after interview. Lazily strolling to the large bag, you almost laugh. Your hand snakes inside, gripping the leather bound handle of your least favorite gift. A long, eight tailed braided flogger. Your fingers trail along the name etched into the handle, the weight of it amplified by the memory of the heavy strikes it’s performed on your skin time and time again.

     Laying the weighty toy across the foot of the bed you take one last look at yourself in the cloudy mirror on the wall. Hair frames your face in a way that you’ve come to hate, in a hairstyle that he’s picked out for you. A long braid down your back that swings just so when you walk. You don’t understand why he always insists on it, he’s only going to rip it to shreds 20 minutes from his arrival. Sitting gently on the bed, your shoulders slump forward, and you remember better times. Being small, running through parks and playgrounds with friends and family, your feeling the wind rush through your short hair. The feeling of that smile stretching and splitting the chapped skin of your lips. You’d grown out your hair when he’d asked you to. The pay was too good to refuse. You miss your short hair.

     A hollow feeling slams against your weary bones as a knock sounds at the door. Your eyes shoot to the clock. 9 o’clock on the dot it screams at you, dread settling deeply in your bones. You rise from your spot on the bed and walk languidly to the door. You can almost watch the mask fall over your face as a sensual smile slides onto your lips, a foreign and bizarre sensation. The door clicks open and there he stands. Looming impossibly tall above you, golden blond hair swept back and away from his face. The piercing blue of his eyes rakes up and down your body in an appraising gaze, a certain softness to his face that you knew better than anyone to be as false as the love he claims for you. He offers you a hushed greeting as he steps inside the room, pressing a small bouquet into your hands that is identical to every other he’d ever brought, right down to the bright yellow ribbon tied around the stems. You watch him as he approaches the bed, pulling his shirt off before lifting the play thing from amongst the bunched sheets. You can already feel the merciless strikes against your skin as the door closes to seal you in for the evening.

     You’ve always hated motels.