#its hard to hear the sirens when the TVs on!

[cannibal-nightmares]

this song gives me such an ego trip

[misswynters]

Rooftop Cravings

Gwayne Hightower x reader (modern au)

[WARNING: making out/kissing, smoking, needy/desperate gwayne, implied sexual relations, worship?, extreme touching, not proofread

[synopsis: Gwayne calls you to the rooftop, needing you. Like a desperate man.

[note: uh i absolutely love freddie fox…he’s mine, the first pic is actually him (0-o)

Part of the Dragonblood: Southside Series

song inspiration: desert rose

The Hightower apartment complex stands tall and imposing in the heart of Chicago’s South Side. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and secrets are hard to keep. Tonight, the air is filled with the sounds of the city – sirens wailing in the distance, the murmur of late-night conversations, and the occasional blare of a car horn.

You move through the dimly lit hallways with purpose, your heart pounding in anticipation. Gwayne Hightower, the ever-charming and mischievous bad boy of the neighborhood, had slipped you a note earlier in the day – a secret rendezvous on the rooftop. The thrill of it all reminds you of scenes straight out of a TV show. Each apartment was a testament to wealth, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering sweeping views of the city that never slept. But Gwayne Hightower wasn’t interested in the views tonight. He was standing on the rooftop, the wind tugging at his clothes as he stared at his phone, desperation clawing at his chest.

He dialed the number, his fingers trembling slightly. The ring echoed in his ears, each second stretching into an eternity. When your voice finally came through, soft and curious, it was like a lifeline.

“Hello?” You answered with a question.

“Where are you?” His voice was rough, strained with an urgency he couldn’t hide. “I need to see you.”

There was a pause on the other end, and then you spoke again, concern lacing your words. “Gwayne, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not,” he admitted, his breath hitching. “I’m on the rooftop of The Hightower. Please, come. I… I need you.”

The line went silent for a moment, and he could almost hear the wheels turning in your head. Then, with a resigned sigh, you agreed. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Gwayne ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket, pacing the rooftop as he tried to calm his racing heart. The city lights flickered below, but all he could think about was you. The way your smile lit up a room, the warmth of your touch, the sound of your laughter. He was consumed by thoughts of you, his need for you almost painful in its intensity.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an hour. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and longing blending into a potent mix that made it hard to breathe. When you reach the rooftop door, you push it open and step into the cool night air. Gwayne was waiting for you, leaning against the edge of the building with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks up as he heard you approach, his trademark smirk playing on his lips.

“You actually came,” he says, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling slowly, his back facing you.

You looked around the rooftop, adoring the city skyline. Seeing him at the edge, you walked over. “Gwayne, what’s wrong?”

He turned to face you, his eyes dark with unspoken emotions. “I’m sorry,” he slightly whined, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be without you.”

Gwayne's confession hung in the air between you, heavy and charged. The city below seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you on this isolated rooftop. The cool night air mingled with the warmth of his breath on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

Gwayne stubs out his cigarette and steps closer, closing the distance between you. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, his hands finding your waist and pulling you close.

"You don't have to be sorry," you whispered, your fingers brushing against his jaw. "I'm here now."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as if it were the only thing anchoring him. "I've missed you so much," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Every second without you feels like an eternity."

You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, soft and reassuring. "I feel the same way."

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. “Shall we make the most of our time together then?”

You couldn’t even respond before Gwayne captures your lips in a searing kiss. It’s as if all the pent-up longing and passion you’ve been feeling spills out in that single moment. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer as your fingers tangling in his hair deepening the kiss.

Gwayne's hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer. His need for you was palpable, an almost physical force that drew you together. He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. Each brush of his lips against yours was a silent plea, a desperate need to be connected to you.

The world around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you and the raw emotion that pulsed between you. Gwayne's hands roamed your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

"I can't get enough of you," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire.

You smiled against his mouth, your heart swelling with affection. "Then don't stop," you whispered, your words a gentle challenge.

Gwayne's response was immediate. He kissed you with renewed fervor, his hands exploring every inch of you. His touch was electrifying, each caress sending waves of pleasure through your body. You melted into him, giving yourself over to the intensity of the moment.

He guided you until your back pressed against the railing of the rooftop. The metal was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body. Gwayne's lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of fiery kisses in their wake. You tilted your head back, giving him better access as your fingers dug into his shoulders.

"Gwayne," you moaned, the sound of his name on your lips spurring him on.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. They were dark with desire, but there was something else there too- a vulnerability that tugged at your heart. "I love you," he said, his voice trembling with the weight of the words.

"I love you so much it scares me."

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "I love you too," you said, your voice steady and sure. "More than anything."

A shudder ran through Gwayne at your words, and he captured your lips in another searing kiss. There was a new urgency to his movements, a desperate need to show you just how much you meant to him. His hands slid under your shirt, the heat of his touch sending shivers through your body. Gwayne’s fingers deftly unbuttoning your shirt.

You gasped as his fingers brushed against your skin, your own hands finding their way under his shirt. The feel of his muscles beneath your fingertips was intoxicating, and you couldn't get enough. You needed to feel every inch of him, to remind yourself that this was real.

Gwayne pulled back just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside before doing the same with his own. The sight of his bare chest, illuminated by the city lights, took your breath away. He was beautiful, every inch of him a testament to strength and vulnerability.

He pressed you back against the railing, his hands exploring your now exposed skin. Each touch was a promise, each kiss a declaration of his love. You could feel his need for you, the way his body trembled with barely restrained desire.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I need you."

You nodded, your own desire mirrored in his eyes. "Mmmm," you hummed, your wordless expression, a vow.

Gwayne's eyes darkened at your words, and he kissed you with a passion that took your breath away. His hands moved to the waistband of your pants, his touch gentle but insistent. You helped him, the two of you working together to shed the last barriers between you.

When you were finally free of your clothes, Gwayne took a step back, his eyes raking over your body with a hunger that made your pulse race. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek as he leaned in for another kiss. You stood there in your underwear and so did he. It was slightly cold tonight, so it was wise not to be fully naked out in the open.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured against your lips.

You blushed, the intensity of his gaze making you feel exposed in the best possible way. "Says Mr. Handsome," you jokingly replied, your voice soft but full of conviction.

Gwayne's lips curved into a smile, and he kissed you again, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your heart ache. Each touch was a reminder of just how much he loved you, just how much he needed you.

The world seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in him. The city below, the stars above - none of it mattered. All that mattered was the way he made you feel, the way he showed you just how deeply he cared.

Without breaking the kiss, Gwayne's hands moved to your waist, slightly touching your nipples through your bra. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. When he reached your chest, he paused for a moment, his eyes dark with desire as he looked up at you.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Yes, Gwayne. Please."

That was all the encouragement he needed. His mouth descended on your chest, kissing and sucking with a need that left you breathless. His hands cupped your breasts, kneading gently as his tongue flicked over your sensitive skin. The sensation was overwhelming, and you couldn't help the soft moans that escaped your lips.

Gwayne's neediness was palpable. He was everywhere at once, his hands, his mouth, his body pressing against yours.

He worshipped your chest with an almost frantic desperation, his kisses turning into gentle bites and sucks that left you trembling with desire.

"You're so perfect," he murmured against your skin. "So fucking perfect."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. "I need you too," you breathed. "I always have."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a raw, unspoken emotion. "Then let's not waste any more time."

With that, he pulled you into another searing kiss, his hands never leaving your body. Up on the rooftop, under the moonlit sky, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, lost in each other's arms.

You pull away from the kiss, both of you breathless. Gwayne’s eyes are dark with desire, but there’s also a softness there that you don’t see often. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch tender.

He leads you to a makeshift seating area – an old blanket spread out on the rooftop, surrounded by the twinkling lights of the city. You sit down together, the cool night air wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

“Sometimes, I feel like this is the only place we can really be ourselves,” Gwayne admits, his voice raw and honest. “Away from all the bullshit.”

You nod, understanding all too well. Life in the Hightower complex is chaotic, full of drama and noise. Moments like this are rare, precious.

“What’s been going on with you?” you ask, wanting to share in his burdens, if only for a little while.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Same old shit. Trying to keep my family together, keep everyone out of trouble. It’s exhausting.”

You lean against him, your head resting on his shoulder. For a moment, the world feels right. The noise and chaos fade away, leaving just the two of you and the city lights.

The morning sun filters through the cracked blinds of the huge apartment. You wake up to the sound of Gwayne moving around the kitchen, the smell of coffee filling the air. You stretch and sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Last night was absolute perfection and bliss. He treated you well, having the most loving and gentle sex you could’ve imagined. It was all you can think about.

Gwayne turns as you enter the kitchen, a smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he says, handing you a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” you reply, taking the cup and savoring the warmth. “Thanks.”

He leans against the counter, watching you. “You should stay more often. I like waking up to you.”

You smile, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the coffee. “I like waking up here.”

Gwayne steps closer, his hand cupping your cheek. “Then stay with me, ___.”

You look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity there. It’s a big step, but one you’re willing to take. “Okay,” you say softly. He kisses you gently, sealing the promise. Gwayne traps you between the kitchen island and his arms, leaning down to match you height. You could feel him pressed against you, the only layer between the two of you was the thin underwear you both were wearing. He wanted another round.

[note: i keep adding more to my plate however, i was in NEED for this 😐, if you would like to be added to my taglist for all of my gwayne fics COMMENT!

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @spn-obession @beebeechaos @diannnnsss @thebenjiblackwoodexpress @maryldrsstuff

banner: @cafekitsune

[sushiwriterhere]

new rules

summary: "Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone. Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again. Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him."  rating: explicit (18+ mdni) pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader word count: 8.5k (this got away from me sorry y'all) warnings: angst (lack of communication!), idiots pining, PiV (unprotected), oral (f receiving), hangman x phoenix (blink and u will miss it), no use of y/n.  notes: thank you to @waklman for letting me bounce ideas off you! im very nervous abt this one, i feel like its dif from my other stuff so pls pls let me know what u think! my other works are here

Friends with benefits is maybe an inaccurate way to describe what’s going on between you and Bradley. Friends? Sure, since he asked you if you were using that bench at the beach and then he’d introduced himself. With benefits? You’re not sure if they really could be classified that way.

Bradley’s almost always a perfect gentleman. 

He doesn’t ignore you in the daylight, but the two of you never talk about the way he finds himself in your bed most nights rather than not, drunk or sober. 

It had started one night when you’d turned down an invitation to go to the Hard Deck, instead choosing to do a night of self care. You’d spent too long doing your eyebrows and managed to get a sheet mask to fully cover your face for once. You lost count of how much time you spent in the shower as an indulgence, and threw on the comfiest clothing you owned. Then, you sat yourself down in front of your TV to numb your mind with some perfectly trashy reality television.

Around 11:30, your phone had rang. Picking it up and squinting at the brightness, you saw Bradley’s face grinning back at you, the picture from one of your many beach days since you’d met. 

Despite your best instincts you’d picked up. What if he was stranded? What if something had happened? You’d steeled yourself for the worst. 

Instead, Bradley had just opened with a simple, “Hey.”

“Bradley? Is everything okay?” You could hear the noise of the Hard Deck in the background, but it had been yelling and there weren’t any sirens. 

“Yeah,” His sigh had come over extra loud through the speakers, “Just uh, was just thinking about you.”

“Okay,” What the hell? You remember mouthing the words to yourself as someone on screen had thrown a drink in someone else’s face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He hadn’t responded to your question, instead he’d just said, “Are you at your apartment?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Bradley is everything–”

“I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he’d hung up with a definitive click. 

You’d stared at the dimming screen of your phone for probably almost five minutes. Surely he couldn’t have been that drunk–god, was he planning on driving? Calling him during that was probably a bad idea.

Great, leave it to Bradley to stress you the fuck out on a Friday evening when you’d been aiming for peace. You’d tried to refocus on your show, but you weren’t even paying attention to the words. 

No more than five minutes later, there had been a knock at your door. You’d stood slowly, not sure that this was actually happening. 

You’d opened the door to a Bradley with flushed cheeks and a glint in his eye, leaning against the railing outside your apartment. It was only after a moment of silence that you realized you were wearing an old Navy shirt of his, loaned to you at the beach a few weeks ago. You could feel the way his eyes started at your legs and dragged up your frame, taking everything in.

“Bradley?”

He’d pushed off the railing and backed you into your apartment, letting the door swing shut behind the two of you. You’d backed into the living room til your back hit a wall, your heart in your throat. You couldn’t look away from him, not with the way he’d been crowding into your space, leaning into you.

“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was a tone he’d never used on you before, and you remember the way your heart had hammered in your chest. 

He’d been so warm and so close, setting all of your nerve endings on fire. It wasn’t that you hadn’t realized that Bradley was attractive–the man’s whole job was to stay in shape and be clean cut. He was beautiful. But you’d kept that to yourself, afraid of crossing that line, afraid that you’d ruin something that was turning out to be one of the strongest friendships you’d had in years. 

You still feel that fear, despite all the lines that have been crossed since that moment.

The way he’d kissed you had wiped every thought from your head. His hands had slid up your thighs to grip at your waist under his shirt hanging loosely on you. His mouth had moved smoothly against yours, making you sigh and wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

By the time the two of you had made your way into your bedroom, he’d lost every piece of clothing but his briefs and his dog tags. They’d dug into your sternum as you’d pressed yourself against him, the cool metal warming quickly between the two of you. 

The way your blood had been rushing in your ears from adrenaline had drowned out the way he’d murmured to himself as he’d kissed down your body. He never did pull his shirt off you. He’d simply maintained his grip on your hips, lifting your thighs over his shoulders as he’d pulled your panties down and licked desperately into you.

Your hands had gone to his hair out of reflex. He had been rocking you steadily and you think you’ll always remember how you felt when you’d realized it was because he was grinding his hips against the bedframe, so turned on from getting his mouth on you. 

He’d eaten you out like a man starved, his nose bumping into your clit as his tongue fucked you. It had been messy and loud but you hadn’t cared about the neighbors or your dignity, not with the way his fingers had finally curled into you. 

“Bradley,” You’d gasped when you finally came, back arching and fingers tightening in his hair to the point where your knuckles ached.

He’d held you through it, had let you rock your hips against his face and not complained at all. In fact, he’d seemed delighted by the way you’d let yourself just feel, pleasure wracking your body and consuming your mind in a haze.

Kissing his way up your body, he’d slid his hands under the shirt and groped you gently. You remember the way your mind had stayed cloudy and you’d floated, tethered only to the real world by the way his thumbs flicked gently at your nipples.

“I’m here, I’m here,” He’d panted into your mouth as you whined when he’d sat back slightly to kick off his briefs and hitch your thighs over his waist, “I’ve got you.”

The first time Bradley had ever slid his cock into you, you knew you’d never be the same, that you’d never be able to go back. Not when he’d kept himself hovering over you just barely, propped up on his elbow, with his lips still brushing yours and his dog tags catching in the sheen of sweat along your sternum. Not when he rocked into you inch by inch, making the world around you blur into nothingness. 

You’d let yourself fall apart under him, let yourself sink into the mattress and just take whatever he was willing to give you. He’d fucked you deeper and more gently than anyone before–to this day, you’re not even sure you can classify it as ‘fucking’, that always felt too vulgar for the way he’d brushed his lips over your cheekbones and murmured sweet nothings. 

But saying Bradley had, and still does, made love to you means trying to find something from nothing, means discerning some sort of level of connection he’s never made clear. You’re not trying to break your own heart more than you already are.

In spite of that, you can’t forget the way he’d held you like you were precious, like you were everything to him. He’d cum inside you with a guttural moan, a punched out gasp at the way you’d clenched around him. It had made you realize that was all you’d ever wanted, Bradley warm around you and inside you, him making you feel complete in a way you hadn’t known you weren’t whole before. 

He’d been a perfect gentleman when you’d both come down, easing out of you so he could clean up. He’d massaged your thighs and hips where you were sure you would’ve been aching the next morning if he hadn’t, had apologized under his breath at the fingerprints now dotying your hips. He’d thumbed at the collar of the Navy shirt where it had stayed on your frame the entire time, looking pensive but never saying anything.

You’d woken up alone the next morning, a sticky note on the bedside table reading–Had to run for work. Thanks for having me over. A messy heart and a hastily scrawled Bradley closing off the message. 

And so it went. So it goes. 

During the day, you and Bradley are the paragon of good friendship–he’ll send you memes when he gets access to his phone in between flights and lessons, you’ll pick him up after work to go to the beach. The two of you don’t talk about it–because what is there to talk about? 

No words are ever exchanged about the way that Bradley clears out a drawer for you at his place, you just find a few of the things you’d left at his place in there one day. You never give back his Navy shirt, not when you find yourself wearing it more often than not. Nothing is said about how you start picking up his favorite flavors of ice cream and his preferred brand of coffee creamer, you just make a habit of throwing them into your cart when you go to the store.

And everything is fine. It really is. You disregard the side glances from Phoenix and Bob as they see you leave with Bradley on Friday and Saturday nights, you ignore the way Hangman wiggles his eyebrows at you when Bradley insists on paying for your drinks. Just friends, is all. Just friends.

They can make their assumptions, whisper while you’re out of ear shot, but they don’t see the quiet, comfortable domesticity that you and Bradley engage in when the two of you are alone. You go back to his after beach afternoons since it’s closer to your favorite spot, and the two of you will shower (separately) and make dinner together. Sometimes you’ll sleep over if you’re working remote the next day, sometimes you’ll go home.

On weekends, Bradley picks you up in the morning, trunk holding a cooler full of drinks and snacks, and you two will go to the beach again or go on a hike. Sometimes Phoenix or Bob or the whole crew will come along, sometimes they won’t. 

Just friends. And it’s fine.

Until everything isn’t fine. 

Bradley and you have been at this for a few months now, and you can feel yourself cracking. You’re reaching out to kiss him when you do wake up together, before your brain is awake enough to stop you, reminding you that that’s not what you two do. On an outing to a boardwalk teeming with life and populated by those games you can win stuffed animals at, you resist the urge to press him against the railing of the pier and lick the taste of your shared gelato cone out of his mouth. 

When the dam finally breaks, it begins like any other night. You have a margarita and a half in you, some concoction that Phoenix insisted you try that’s actually good. Bradley’s already done a rendition of My Way at Penny’s request, but for now the jukebox is blaring some 80s hit Hangman picked out.

You can feel yourself swaying to the beat, just letting the warmth of the moment sink in as you’re surrounded by your friends, the people you love. 

“Hi,” Bradley breathes into your ear as he sidles up next to you, his arms coming to settle around your waist. You can feel his warmth through the flimsy fabric of the dress you’ve got on.

“Hi Brad,” He hates it when people call him that–lets you get away with it though. “What’cha doin’?”

“Waitin’ for you.” He leans his entire body weight against you, making you slump against the table you’re standing next to.

“Ah! Bradley, stop it.” You try to stand, but the way he’s laughing makes it hard to shake yourself from his grip, “What do you mean you’re waiting for me? I’m waiting for you.”

The grin he shoots you is electric, and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, right here in the middle of the Hard Deck, with all your friends around and in Penny and Mav’s line of sight. That thought makes your heart skip a beat.

“Come home with me?” He whispers, just barely letting his voice rise above the background noise, and when you don’t respond immediately, “Or let me take you home?”

That’s all it takes, really, for you to agree. The way he’s so willing, so malleable, for you. You’re leading him out by the hand without responding to his questions, making your way to the Bronco that’s parked in the back corner of the lot. 

Bradley keeps the foolish grin on his face the entire time he drives back to your apartment. The warmth radiating from him doesn’t abate when he licks into your mouth once the two of you are inside. One of his palms rests against your heart, the other working its way up your thigh and inside your panties that are already damp. 

“You’re so good to me,” He murmurs, dipping his fingers below your waistband and brushing through your curls, feeling just how slick you are. 

All you can do is whine as he picks you up and makes his way to your bedroom. For once, he doesn’t trip or stub his toe on anything, and it somehow heightens the intensity. Normally, you and Bradley seek comedic relief of some sort, something to cut the tension and keep it from making your chest tighten in a way that feels like a warning. This time, you aren’t granted any such reprieve.

He undresses you slowly and deliberately, letting his fingertips drag lightly up your sides and over your shoulders. He shrugs his Hawaiian shirt off easily, and lets you yank his wife beater over his head without complaint. 

Then, the two of you are just staring at each other, both panting lightly. You’re propped up on your elbows, staring up at him only in your panties. Bradley’s got one hand about to pop the button of his jeans, but he’s frozen. You feel like you can’t move but also like something might be changing. 

You don’t want it to change, you don’t want to lose Bradley in more ways than one. If this is what he’s willing to give you, you don’t want this to change. 

He nearly falls over when his foot gets stuck in his jeans, and even that doesn’t break the tension. Once he’s climbing over you, enveloping you, kissing up your stomach and neck, you forget all about decorum and keeping up appearances.

The whine that echoes around the room is pathetic and high pitched, but it’s the only way you think to communicate to Bradley how bad you need him in that moment. His hips are rocking gently against yours and you want the layers gone, you need to feel him. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” And his hands are around your hips, dragging your underwear off you unceremoniously. 

Although he makes a good attempt at going down on you, you don’t let him. You dig your fingers into his shoulder and yank at his hair to keep his face level with yours and kiss him desperately.

“I want to eat you out, please?” The depth of his voice sends a shiver through you.

Normally he wouldn’t even have to ask, but you don’t want that right now. You just want to feel him inside you. 

“Need you in me, please,” You take a heaving breath before the pleading spills out of you, “Pleasepleasepleaseplease–”

He shushes you as you scrunch your face up, not knowing how else to convey your desires in that moment, “Okay. I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

You almost wail in protest when his fingers slide into you. You can’t figure out why you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out, why you feel so fucking needy. 

“Sweetheart you gotta let me prep you somehow, just–” 

You feel like the embarrassment might kill you when you keen at the feeling of his fingers inside you. The way you’re trying to be good, you really are, because he does have a point. Plus, you have to be fair to Bradley, this isn’t just about you. 

So you hold still, let him work his fingers in and out of you as you pant and clutch at his shoulders like a lifeline. His mouth presses against yours, works its way over your cheeks and down your throat. He sucks a mark gently into your collarbone, and you ignore the way your brain reminds you about having to cover that up for work. 

He doesn’t shut up the entire time, just keeps telling you how good you’re doing for him, how good you feel, how he’s been thinking about this all night. The world seems to go right-side up again when he pushes into you. 

You whimper at the way he rocks his hips ever so gently before pulling out. He kisses you again and again, only letting his lips leave yours so he can kiss your forehead or cheeks. The motion of his hips is a steady tempo, he keeps time with your breaths that turn into moans when you start feeling that telltale coil in your stomach. 

He runs his tongue along your teeth and you’re done for. You clench down on him and dig your nails into his skin, bucking your hips up as your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave. 

Bradley fucks you through it like every other time, yes, but this time there’s something about the way he stutters out a moan and his hips match the faltering rhythm as he finishes right after you. The shallow rocking of his hips continues and you try to ignore the prickling of tears at the corners of your eyes. 

Something tells you that this time, you shouldn’t have let Bradley take you home. When he pulls his face back from yours and he rolls the two of you onto your sides without pulling out, he’s got this look on his face that screams unspoken words. He cups your face and strokes your cheekbone with his thumb without saying anything. 

The two of you are quiet as he cleans you up, as you dress yourself in another one of his shirts.

When you wake up the next morning, Bradley isn’t there. It doesn’t shock you necessarily, sometimes he stays, sometimes he has to leave to be on time for work.

What does send a terrible feeling trickling down your throat and into your stomach is the post-it, all four square inches covered in sloppy hearts. Bradley had signed his name in the bottom left corner, characteristic chicken scratch labeling it as him even if the name wasn’t enough.

This has to end.

Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone.

You last about three rings before you cave in, waiting for the sound of his voice to echo around the apartment. You’re holding your breath.

“I knocked.” Is all he says before you’re on your feet, making your way to the door.

There he is, and although you know he isn’t really drunk, you know he’s got a beer or two in him from the way he doesn’t try to hide how he looks at you. You hate the way you’re weak for him.

You’ve been caving to him more than once a week since that first night, since Bradley had knocked your world off kilter. Though you’re in bed together almost every night, whether at his place or yours, you don’t have sex nearly every time. Part of you thinks that might make it worse. It really had been fine at first, but the first morning you’d cried at the sight of that sticky note covered in hearts, you’d known you had to try and put an end to this.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” He tries, a crooked grin splitting his face as he walks toward you, but you know he doesn’t mean his words at all. 

“Bradshaw, have you been drinking?” You want to not want this, want to not want the way his gaze pins you down, the way the length of his body against yours just feel so right.

Let him being drunk and you being sober be the excuse, you beg silently. You can’t manage to force out that maybe he should go home, sleep this off in his own bed. You can’t find it in yourself to tell him to leave, to reject his advances. Watching as if outside your own body, he shuts the door behind him and walks up to you. 

Your chest aches with unconfessed feelings when he takes your face in his hands and lets his forehead rest against yours. His lips are soft and warm against yours, his mustache tickling you lightly when it brushes against your face. The whine you let out matches his soft groan, and the two of you stand there making out for a few minutes, almost as if you’re both content to just drink each other in without further motives. 

“I’ve got you sweetheart, I’ve got you,” And he’s picking you up.

You yelp at the way you’re suddenly lifted from the ground and you bury your face in his neck. You hate heights, your feet off the ground anything more than a few inches sends you spiraling in short order. But it’s Bradley who’s holding you, and some part of you knows he’d never let you fall, never let you crash into the ground. 

The way you two fall into your bed is too natural, it makes your stomach churn. His fingers find their place on your hips, around your thighs. It’s all too easy. You wish it would be a bit more awkward, that the chemistry could be imagined or false–instead you’re confronted by the way your bodies flow with one another’s all too easily. 

Again, somehow, you’re in nothing but his Navy shirt. 

Maybe I should give it back, the thought flits through your mind and you feel guilty immediately. Bradley always seems to take a special sort of pleasure from fucking you in his shirt, and you selfishly want to keep that bargaining chip, to have something that tethers him to you. If he won’t come back to press you into your sheets, then maybe he’ll come back one last time to get his shirt when this inevitably unravels. 

“Sweetheart,” He groans softly when his fingers reach the way you’re embarrassingly wet between your legs. 

It takes everything in you not to jerk back from his touch–you still don’t know how to confront the way you’re so responsive to his touch. His mere presence.

“I missed you.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself, your lips part and you breathe the words before you can do anything about it. He chooses that exact moment to dip a fingertip into your fluttering, but empty, hole, and you arch your back and moan. Instead of responding, he kisses you hungrily, all pretense gone. 

This isn’t something entirely tender, not anymore. He’s searching for something, a certain reaction, with the way he adds and then curls his fingers inside of you. He finds it when you jerk underneath him at the way he pets at that spot inside you you can never seem to reach on your own. 

He mumbles against your lips, “There you go,” As you squirm under him, the press of his fingers inside you relentless.

He works his fingers in and out of you, not taking anything in return. It’s all you can do to hold on to him and whine pitifully. Every sensation feels amplified, feels electric because it’s him. 

The two of you settle into a familiar rhythm for as long as it takes for Bradley to make you cum the first time. You’re rocking against him through the aftershocks and you can feel the way he’s hard against you through his clothes.

He’s still dressed. The realization sends a bolt of shame through you, but it doesn’t linger long. 

He’s shoving his jeans down his legs, not bothering with wiping his hand clean and you shiver at the thought that he’ll have to put them on again, you streaked across them. He makes quick work of his boxers too, and it occurs to you that he must’ve lost his shirt somewhere along the way when he presses his bare chest against your still clothed one.

“Bradley, Bradley,” You chant, “Take off my shirt.”

It’s the most demanding you’ve probably ever been with him, but he laughs at you anyways. There’s a glint in his eye as he sits up, his hard cock bobbing between his thighs. The sight of his naked form between your spread legs makes you swallow hard and your mouth water. 

“I like you in my shirt.” There’s something unsaid there, something about claims and ownership that isn’t truly possession, but a reminder of who belongs to whom regardless.

You pull it off your head in protest, and grab his wrist to drag him back down to you. You let yourself indulge in trailing a hand down the firm planes of his body down to where he’s smearing precum against your thigh. He’s heavy and pulsing in your hand and a light hiss rushes through his clenched teeth when you grip him tightly and twist with your wrist. 

“Fuck, fuck, not gonna last if you–” Bradley cuts himself off with a groan as you swipe your thumb over his head. 

It’s your turn to laugh, “You just got here.”

“Well, have you ever had sex with yourself? It’s tough out here–give a guy a break.”

The both of you dissolve into giggles at that, as you try to imagine how you would look sprawled under yourself. You can’t picture it, but the image of Bradley under or over you makes you think you might understand. 

He lines his hips up with yours once you’re both done making fools of yourself at the thought of you having sex with yourself (it reminds you of a drunk hypothetical you’d spent thirty minutes on with Hangman once–would you have sex with a clone of yourself?). 

The first push of him inside you cuts through the lighthearted mood immediately. It always shocks you how perfectly he fits inside you despite his size, how incredibly full you feel when his hips meet yours. The gentle friction of the neat curls at the base of his cock against your clit always provides a stimulation that makes your brain go fuzzy. 

The snap of his hips against yours is more intense this time, a sort of rhythm that makes you briefly think about the way the headboard might start knocking against the wall. But all thoughts, really, fly out of your head when Bradley brings a hand up to your nipples, the steady stroke of his fingers over the swell of your breasts as practiced and knowing as everything else he’s doing to you. 

All you can do is run your hands down his back, scratch your nails against his skin ever so often when he brushes against something so sweet and perfect inside you. You clench around him just to see the reaction it’ll get, and you’re rewarded with a broken groan.

“You’re not fighting fair,” He gasps, and he hitches one of your thighs up so he can press more insistently into you. 

You have a clever comeback somewhere in you–something about how you weren’t aware that the two of you were fighting, but it’s swallowed as he presses his lips into yours again. He seems absolutely intent on showing you exactly how you make him feel because the sensations of pleasure become overwhelming. 

“Fuck sweetheart, you feel perfect, god you’re so wet for me,” He’s rambling mindlessly, but you let it happen, clinging to any expression of emotion, any sliver of dedication in his tone that you can hold on to til the next time you find yourself in this position. 

You know he’s close when his grip on your thigh tightens forcefully and the strokes go from long and deep to slightly shorter and stunted. He’s grunting and gasping, but it’s all the best thing you’ve ever heard. 

“Come for me Bradley, I want to feel you,” And at that, he follows your orders, listens to you for once in his life. 

Everything is hazy as he keeps himself hovering over you and continues to rock his hips. You start to try and tell him he can pull out before his fingers find your clit and he dives back in to kiss you passionately. 

Bradley is a perfectionist at heart, an overachiever. You suppose it isn’t entirely ridiculous that that extends to his performance in the bedroom–he’s insistent you finish every time, and always more than him. Feeling the way he’s still warm and heavy inside you, his lips firm against yours, brings you over the edge more quickly than you’d like to admit. 

Still, you heave a shuddering gasp and let the pleasure wash over you. It’s overwhelming and all consuming, but he’s there through all of it til you feel yourself come back into your own body. 

You think he might be writing something on your skin, the way his finger loops and dips softly over your hip bone as he kisses you gently. He’s softening inside you and you can feel the mess the two of you made under your hips, except he isn’t moving, not yet at least, to rectify that situation. 

For once, you don’t push him to go clean up or scold him for another set of ruined sheets, you just let yourself bask in the moment as you imagine a world where the two of you will talk about this in the morning. You think of a timeline where this is where you end up because it’s where you’re meant to be, not because it’s something you’re choosing despite how it hurts you every time. You think of a place where Bradley is yours and you are his, wholly and completely.

Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again. 

“Didn’t you have a date tonight?” You breathe into his mouth.

Bradley just hums in response, brushing his lips over yours, down your jawline and your throat. His breath comes in warm puffs over your collarbones before he pulls back.

Hands pinned above your head, you squirm under his gaze. There’s something so intense about the way he’s looking at you, but you can’t bring yourself to squeeze your eyes shut to avoid it. Both of you lost your clothes somewhere on your way to the bedroom, and you’re thinking about how to persuade him to be the one to pick it all up when this is inevitably over. 

He smells like expensive cologne, and he’s got some product in his hair that made it difficult for you to brush your hands through it earlier. Plus, Phoenix had been dropping unsubtle hints earlier in the week (Hangman had affectionately called her out, a little sigh following— “You’re being such a shit stirrer.”)

“Bradley,” You try again, this time with a slight whine.

Did he seriously ditch some girl that’s probably been waiting on their date all week for this?

He responds by whispering your name back to you, the same tone undercutting the way he says it, “That doesn’t matter, I’m here now.”

The urge to keep complaining rises in you but he preempts your worries by licking into your mouth when you open it. 

He presses you into the mattress, weighing you down as he kisses you languidly, as if he’s trying to taste every part of you, as if he’s trying to memorize the sounds that escape you when he does. The warmth of his body makes your mind fog, and for the time being, everything else but this goes quiet. 

Distantly, you know that in the morning, he’ll have to leave. At the very least, he’ll have to go back to his to grab his stuff for the beach, a change of clothes. It isn’t kicking him out, but watching him leave again and again has started to build this pit at the bottom of your stomach. 

It would be different, you think, if the two of you were together. Because then, him leaving wouldn’t mean much where there would be an implicit promise and understanding that he was going to come back. Every time he closed the door behind him, you swallowed the fear that that would be your final memory of him. 

You’re selfish though. And you want to focus on the feeling of his touch instead of thinking about how you may never get to have this again. 

He makes it easy. Bradley pulls his shirt off and his dog tags make a gentle clinking sound as they hit each other and then finally come to rest on his chest. He looks like a god, backlit by the setting sun coming through your windows. 

This is how you want to remember him. Smiling down at you as he dives back in to kiss you breathless, twitching when you skim your fingertips up his sides because he’s ticklish. 

He makes short work of your shirt and sleep shorts, then his jeans are discarded. He stops briefly when his fingers reach the waistband of your underwear, a silent question that you answer by lifting your hips and letting him pull them off you. 

Every time he’s between your legs, he has this reverent look on his face, and it makes your chest twist at the fact that this time is no different. He holds your thighs open gently but firmly, and he presses his face into your pussy. Then, his tongue is darting out and licking up your core, flat and wide. 

You’d asked him once, if he likes going down on you. With a gleam in his eye, Bradley had said it was second only to being inside of you. You think of that as he eats you out enthusiastically, as you bury your hands in his hair and pull. 

He slides his tongue in and out of you, curls it around your clit and sucks in a way that makes your back arch and your thighs clenched around his head. Then, he’s slipping a finger inside and fucking you slowly with it. It makes you shiver as you realize how close you are. 

“Sweetheart, fuck, you taste incredible,” He murmurs, more to himself than anything else, pulling back briefly to make eye contact and you feel the way your breath quickens at the intensity of his gaze.

It only takes a few more minutes of him licking into you, tonguing at your clit, and adding another finger before you feel that familiar swooping in your stomach, before you’re choking out his name. Your back arches so much it aches, but it’s all you can do as the pleasure is all consuming. Bradley works you through it like every other time, holding you and letting you take what you need from him.

Then, he’s on you in an instant, kissing you furiously and sliding his hardness up and down you, covering himself in your slick. It’s filthy and sloppy but neither of you seem to mind. He lets himself rut against you til you’re hooking your legs around him and digging one of your heels into his back.

“Alright, alright,” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but you know he’s more affected than his light tone lets on. 

The first push into you is always the most intense, but you suck in a deep breath that you force out through your teeth.

“I know, I know,” He croons, pressing little kisses all over your face as you adjust to him.

Bradley inches into you slowly, inch by inch. The initial stretch subsides til it’s replaced by the sweetest feeling of fullness, the way you can feel all of him. 

If there’s one thing the Navy’s good for, it’s the sheer strength Bradley possesses and has to maintain. You feel it in the way he fucks you, his back muscles rippling as you hold on for dear life. You feel it in the way his hips press into yours, shunting you slightly up the mattress.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are his hips meeting yours and the slick between the two of you. Momentarily, he pulls away from kissing you to look down to where he’s disappearing inside of you, that ring of you collecting at the base of his cock. His groan is guttural and broken. 

“Fuck, Bradley, it feels so good.”

He leans down again to kiss you sloppily, and the simple action of him burying a hand in your hair and twisting his wrist makes your heart skip a beat. He always knows exactly what you need when you need it. 

“C’mon, come for me, sweetheart, let me feel you.”

And because you’ve never been able to deny him anything, there you are, hurtling over the edge again. He’s everywhere around you, inside you, and his tongue in your mouth is the last thing you need to feel that wave crest inside of you. Bradley’s moan is deep as he feels you bare down on him and he follows you shortly after.

The moments after, when the glow is still settling and your mind is still hazy, are your favorite. Your mind is too foggy to focus on the fact that you know he’ll be leaving, but present enough to feel the way he doesn’t stop pressing kisses to your lips. You’re cognizant of how he cleans you up tenderly and presses his fingers into the skin of your thighs and hips just to watch it dimple. 

In those precious few minutes, that’s all that exists to you.

Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him. 

You’re trying to ignore him, you really are. You start going to the beach an hour earlier than you usually do, hoping that he’s maintaining his schedule. Every tall brunette jogging across the sand sends your heart into overdrive. 

You still see Bradley when you go to the Hard Deck for a drink, but you keep a respectable distance between the two of you. If Phoenix mentions a round of pool, you jump at the chance, while asking Bob and Payback if they’d like to be the opposing team. You ignore the way your heart jumps into your throat when you can feel his eyes on you. 

Every note of Great Big Balls of Fire feels like a stab in the chest, and you hold back tears of frustration when you see some girl wrap her arms around his neck and rock along with him as he belts out the lyrics. You’re a fool. 

You’ve been ignoring his calls about Saturday morning beach runs and the memes he sends during the day go unanswered except for the little reactions iPhones let you send. You suppose it’s only fair that he gets to ignore you a little bit too.

Your little charade doesn’t last long, not truly in the grand scheme of things. Bradley doesn’t put up with you skirting his advances for long–he knows what he wants and he’ll be relentless til he gets it. And right now, he’s trying to corner you. 

And you’re weak for him. You should’ve known from the start that you wouldn’t be able to resist him. You can’t even now, even when you’re only getting him in pieces.

It’s not exactly your bravest moment to be hiding slightly behind Phoenix so he can’t see you (if you can’t see him, he can’t see you, right?) while she stares at you with an endlessly amused expression in her eyes. She doesn’t move to expose you, though.

“What’cha doin’?” Her tone is light, but you can tell she means business. 

The two of you are friends yes, but she’s known Bradley for a million times longer. There’s some girl-girl solidarity, but if you were in her shoes, you might have a few bones to pick about potentially throwing Bradley to the wolves on this one. You wonder for a moment if he’s been talking to her about all this, but again, is there even anything to talk about?

“Just uh, trying to see where Hangman’s at?” You sound like you’re asking her a question, and she quirks an eyebrow. 

She stretches the syllables of her next word out, letting it hang in the air, “Right. Even I don’t look at Hangman with that sort of intensity.”

That’s not entirely true, but you don’t really feel like getting into a competition with Phoenix of all people, over who’s looking at whom how. 

“Sweetheart? Can we talk?” 

You’d let Phoenix distract you for just a split second, and there he is, in all his glory. Bradley is beautiful, yes, but he looks tired. His sunny’s are hanging haphazardly from a floral button down that looks like it’s maybe seen better days, and he’s got dark circles marring the perfect tone of his tanned skin. 

This time, Phoenix just side-steps you and lets Bradley into your space. 

His presence is just as affecting there, in the middle of the Hard Deck, as it was the first time you saw him on the beach. Even with how tired he looks, he’s still glowing just slightly in the evening sun.

“Hi, Bradley,” You breathe, not daring to speak louder, as if that would make the moment real. 

You can feel Phoenix’s eyes on you, the way that Bob and Payback are starting to let their attention drift to from the game of pool. This, you don’t want anyone else to be witness to. This is something between just the two of you. You don’t really need the whole world to witness your imminent heartbreak. 

“I don’t want to do this here, is my place okay?” He looks so nervous, as if you’re going to push him away. It’s funny really, what you know is about to happen, and yet he still looks like this is about to break him entirely. 

Nodding, you let him lead you out of the bar. It feels like deja vu, how however many weeks ago you were tracing these exact steps but making your way towards a very different fate. 

The two of you are silent in the Bronco, and Bradley doesn’t bother turning the radio up to belt along to the 80s classic on the radio. Everything feels like you’re underwater, like the world is out of focus. You think you might start crying, but you try and swallow it down, be an adult. 

Pulling into the driveway, it’s silent in the car when he turns the engine off. Neither of you go to get out, but you know you can’t sit here forever. This had to happen at some point, had to come to a close. That doesn’t make getting out of the car and waiting for Bradley to unlock the door any easier, though. 

You toe off your shoes and let him get you a glass of water. Then, you’re standing on opposite sides of his kitchen, the pristine shine of the countertops and appliances making him feel a thousand miles away. You two are usually tumbling in, mouths locked together, or walking in with groceries, prepared to spend a comfortable evening cooking and watching a movie. This is everything coming apart at the seams. 

“Bradley,” You start, not really knowing where you’re going, but just wanting to break the silence.

He looks distraught and your stomach drops with guilt. 

This is your fault. 

He says your name once as he settles back against a countertop, and it hangs in the air between the two of you, til he starts speaking again, “I’ve been trying to figure out where I went wrong, what lines I crossed, and I guess at some point I realized it was all of them. I shouldn't have pushed you, I shouldn’t have–”

“I thought that that was all I could have of you, so I was selfish and I took it.” You say, the words tumbling out of you before you can stop yourself from interrupting him, but still unable to tear your eyes away from him, “But I was hurting you. I still am, and god, Bradley, I’ll make it up to you somehow, I’m so sorry.”

It’s almost funny, really, the way you’ll look back on this moment a year from now and laugh at the way the two of you are talking past each other, unwilling to acknowledge that your deepest desires could be attainable. But for now, all you can feel is the guilt in your veins, your heartbeat pounding your chest. 

“What?” He’d looked at the floor for a moment, but when you finish speaking he’s looking at you intently. “What did you say?”

Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself and start from the beginning, “I thought that you coming to me, like that, was the only way I could have you. And, and maybe it was me taking advantage because you were sometimes not super sober, but I would never–”

“I was always sober. Every time. I would never do that to you. What do you mean that was the only way you thought you could have me?” Bradley’s standing fully now, not leaning. 

“I thought you drank before, to, y’know, make it tolerable.” You regret the words as soon as you say them, “Sorry, that’s–you’re not that kind of person.”

He smiles ruefully, “I’m still focused on the part about that being the only way you could have me.”

Here it is. 

“I love you, Bradley. And not just as a friend, but more. But I didn’t want to push that on you, and so I thought–”

“You love me?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

Then, he’s laughing in that hysterical way when people are so overcome, the only way it’ll escape them is if they double over in giggles. But he’s trying to compose himself as quickly as he started. 

“I tried to tell you so many times how I felt, I left you all those post-it notes, god, I thought you were seeing them and just didn’t feel the same.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“The hearts. That’s how I,” He heaves a shuddering breath, his voice thick with unshed tears, “That’s how I told my parents I loved them before I could really write. I was saying it to you every time I left.”

“You love me?” You’re crying now, and he squeezes his eyes shut til tears run down his cheeks too. 

His laugh is bitter but you know that’s not directed at you, “Was the sticky note covered in hearts not clear enough?”

You feel the way your cheeks warm and your stomach churns as you try and defend yourself, “You were thanking me for letting you sleep over?”

At that, he laughs, genuine this time, breaking the sadness that has been building in the air. Finally, he makes his way across the room to you and crowds into your space, wrapping you in his arms and pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes are closed. 

“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning, a plea, and a prayer all in one. “I meant every heart, every I love you, from the very first one I left.”

“I kept them all. In my bedside table.”

Then his lips are on yours. The kiss is salty, reminding you of all the emotion that’s been building for the past few months, every moment you didn’t confess, every moment you assumed the worst, it’s all there. But you don’t want to dwell on that now, now that you’ve heard him say something plucked from your wildest dreams.

“Say it again,” You whisper when his lips leave yours ever so briefly as the two of you are stumbling to the bedroom.

And he does. As he’s undressing you, he says it. He mumbles it against your lips and into your mouth. 

He says it against your bare skin as he presses you into his bed, the sheets smelling like him before he puts on cologne. It’s muffled momentarily by the way he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, but you feel the way his jaw works anyways as you cup his face. You let your legs fall open around him and feel the way he slides his fingers into you.

When he’s pressing into you, he’s saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you.

In those moments between start and finish, when the world falls away and all you know is the warmth of his body against yours, the slight slick of sweat on your skin, that’s when you think you realize that he means it. The motion of his hips is deep and insistent, as if to try and leave a permanent reminder that he was there. 

You’re crying, you realize. And he’s kissing the tears away like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pressing his forehead to yours as his lips keep forming the words. At some point, you’ve started saying them back to him too, choking them out despite everything so that you know that he knows that you love him.

When you finish, it feels like a supernova exploding inside of you. It starts in the center of your body and pushes its way to your fingertips til you’re gasping for air and he fucks you through it. Bradley cums moments later, filling you with his warmth in a way that’s both familiar and still thrilling. 

He rolls gently off you, and you hiss as he slips out. That’ll be a mess to clean up. 

But he’s looking at you, brushing your sweaty hair from your face, and his eyes are shining so brightly that it feels like looking at the sun. You want to look away, but you think that losing your vision in return for staring at the way his eyes crinkle in genuine happiness is well worth the price. 

I love you, he mouths. And you believe him. 

You whisper it back.

tagging: @sebsxphia @roosterbruiser @bradshawburner @gretagerwigsmuse @sometimesanalice @joaquinwhorres @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @bradshawsbitch @seresinsweetie @notroosterbradshaw @genius2050 @peachystenbrough @rhettabbotts @theharddeck @wkndwlff - tagging ppl either by request or whom i feel like are horny for bradley soooo pls let me know if you'd like to be added/removed

[sheluvslani]

Not What It Looks Like Pt. 1

Request: Omg Lani, I’m so fucking high rn and I gots an idea. What about a ghostface Amber fic where she breaks into r’s house as ghostface. I kinda want it to be like in scream 1996 with Tatum where r goes: “don’t kill me Mr ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel.” But like ghostface/amber spares them for s*x in return. And then r finds out it’s Amber bc of the way ghostface is fucking them. ITS A LOT, I KNOW BUT I FEEL LIKE IM COOKING UP SOMETHING HERE- (anyway, I love your work ;3, keep doing yo shi bsf)

Pairing: Ghostface!Amber x fem!reader

Summary: Ghostface breaks into r’s apartment, fearing for her life, r would do anything to survive.

Warning: Ghostface, breaking in, red text color is ghostface talking, set in scream 5 but with certain characters added from scream 6🤓

A/n: okay Walter white, I see you cooking up something other than that weed :3 I love this request tho, istg I gotta get high more often to create ideas this good LMAO! No but seriously, this sounds amazing and thank you for asking me to write this! (Plus, I find it funny that you censored sex)

You were at your friend Tara’s dorm with the rest of your friend group, playing uno and getting drunk. You were sat down between Tara and your girlfriend Amber. She rested her hand on your thigh as she watched the game, sipping on her beer. 

“Uno!” You raised your hands in the air as a sign in victory, the rest of the group groaning and slamming their cards down onto the wooden dining table.

As you cheered and gloated in front of everyone’s face, the news on the TV started blaring, the siren blaring in your ears.

“Breaking News: Blackmore University film student by the name of Jason Carvey was found brutally stabbed in his dorm. The mutilated body of his roommate, Gary Bruckner, has been found crammed inside the fridge. A bloody Ghostface mask was found on the scene, police ran a DNA test and concluded that the mask belonged to Billy Loomis,”

“The infamous Ghostface of Woodsboro,” You and the group finished the sentence in unison. After the Woodsboro attack, the group moved to New York to live a “normal life”

But it looks like the plans gone to shit.

Amber reached over for the remote and shut the TV off. When you looked at her, her expression was stone cold, her jaw clenched as she stared at the blank screen. You originally thought it was from shock, but there was something in the way her lips pursed too hard that made it seem odd.

“It’s probably not even Ghostface this time, just some random looking for a thrill.” Mindy said as she got up to grab another beer.

“I’m sorry, Catherine Obvious, but have you been here for the past year?” Chad waved his hand in front of Mindy’s face when she sat down. “It’s obviously him… they followed us.” He leaned back his chair, drumming his fingers on his arm.

The room was silent for a moment, everyone taking in the information that no one wanted to hear.

“We need to go.” Sam stared down in the middle of the table, her eyes burning holes into the colorful Uno cards. 

“Psh, Sam, it’ll be fine. Don’t be dramatic.” Amber smirked as she wrapped her arm around your shoulder, her attitude completely different than what it was 10 seconds ago.

Sam threw a death-glance at Amber, about to cuss her out before Anika spoke up, 

“Yeah, I think we’ll be fine. If anything, we have cute boy across the street to help us.” Anika smirked as Sam’s face grew a bright red, muttering something under her breath before beelining to her room.

“Well. I say we call it a night.” Chad said as he stretched his arms over his head.

Everyone agreed and collected their belongings while Mindy was (rightfully) the one to help clean up everything.

————————————————————————

Amber had her arm wrapped around your waist as she walked you back to your dorm. When you arrived, Amber softly kissed your cheek as her other hand traveled up your shoulder, her fingers digging into your skin.

“Be safe, y/n. I can’t handle another one of Sam’s hour-long speeches about sticking together.”

You softly chuckled as she swept a strand of hair from your face. “I’ll try. But if anything happens, I’ll call you. Goodnight, Amber.” You softly squeezed her arm before letting go, entering your dorm as you blew her a kiss.

You locked the door behind you, placing your phone and keys on the entryway table. You stretched your arms above your head, your muscles tense from the game and a pounding headache from the news and the amount of alcohol in your system. 

You walked into your bedroom, taking off your shoes before grabbing a pair of pajamas and heading to the bathroom, your steps slow and relaxed.

The hot water of the shower rained down on you, your muscles relaxing from the aroma of the lavender bodywash that Amber bought for you. The soap suds ran down your curves, collecting at the foot of the shower before being washed away.

When you finished and wrapped yourself in a towel, you walked to the sink to brush your teeth. The spearmint toothpaste lingered in your mouth before being replaced with the strong taste of the cool mint mouthwash you spat out into the sink.

You put in a black bra and a pair of black panties before grabbing your pajamas. The blue cotton antic stuck to your damp body as you pulled the shirt over your head and stepped into the matching pants.

You threw your dirty clothes into the weaven laundry hamper, the bin rocking against the wall for a split second. 

You sat down in front of your vanity, grabbing your brush and running it through the knots in your hair. The brush caught on one particularly big knot in your hair. As you struggled to brush it out, the landline that was sitting on your bedside table started ringing.

“Unknown Number”

The words flashed on the tiny screen as the ringing filled the room.

 Once you brushed out the tangle, you reached over to press the “accept” button on the landline.

“Hello? Y/n speaking. ” You called out as you ran a hand through your hair.

“Hello? Is Maria there?” The voice on the other line was adenoidal and croaky.

Maria was your roommate who was currently out of town, visiting her parents.

“No, she’s not available. Might I ask who this is?”

“I’m Joey. I’m in her trig class” The caller cleared their throat.

“Oh yeah? Joey from trigonometry. How come I’ve never heard of you, Joey from trigonometry?” You smirked as you teased the poor person on the other line.

“You sound exactly like how she describes you.”

“She talks about me?

“I don’t think I can really talk about that.”

“What does she say about me?”

“She says that you’re creative. You love reading and TV and movies.”

“Lots of people love movies.”

“Yeah, but she says you love scary movies and that you guys have that in common.”

“She told me the other day, she wonders…” The voice trailed off for a moment before continuing.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

Your ear perked up as you faced the landline, the bright green color of the screen stared at you, blinking the numbers over and over again.

“Well, I really liked “X”. It’s great representation of the psycho-biddy genre.”

“Sounds kinda boring to me. Have you ever seen Stab?”

“Once, i think. At a sleepover when I was, like, 12.”

“You lived in Woodsboro when you were a kid and you don’t know Stab?”

Now that, caught your attention. No one exceopt for the rest of the group knew you were from Woodsboro. You picked up the phone, pulling it to your ear as you made your way back into the living room to grab your cell.

“How’d you know I lived in Woodsboro?”

The voice on the other line was replaced by heavy breathing and the sound of rummaging.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Amber.”

“I told you, this isn’t Amber. But you’re looking particularly fetching tonight. Those blue pajamas really fit you.”

“What do you want?” You grabbed your phone and pulled up the dial button, as you pressed in the 9 and 1, the voice boomed again.

“Stop right there, y/n. You call the cops, you die. You hang up the phone, you die. It’s not hard getting into your dorm. Especially when you leave your window unlocked.”

That’s when you felt the slight breeze behind you. As you turned around, you saw that the living room window was wide open, the wind flowing with the curtains.

You bolted to the window, slamming it shut and locking it. You ran into your room, locking the door behind you.

The voice came on the landline again, “Come on, y/n… Don’t be shy, come and find me…”

You searched every nook and cranny in your room, carefully making sure there was no sign of Ghostface here.

When you searched under your bed, you found a bloody Ghostface mask, more blood stuck to your hands the longer you held it… it was easy to recognize this one too…

Mickey Alteri

The 2nd Ghostface

“What the fu-,” was all you could manage to get out before you heard the doors of your closet adjacent to the bed, crashing open. A black-robed figure sprinting at you was the last thing you saw before being tackled to the ground by Ghostface. A knife was pressed against your throat from the person above you, the voice changer crackled with every heavy breath.

“Surprise, y/n.”

[cloudyeventss]

141 x assistant reader Part 6

Warnings: crude language, sexual scenarios MDNI

Sorry for the short/sloppy writing. I'm at work and have a shit ton to do so I tried to make one quick, but I'll make it up (:

Soaps POV 

It's finally Saturday, usually when we're home and it's the weekend I'd head to the pub and find me a pretty lass to take home. But not since y/n's came to work with us. No, I'm perfectly happy trading in drunken hook ups to lay up in her bed and watch movies with her and Gaz. I always end up in my room fucking my hand to the thought of her at the end of the night. Imagining how pretty she'd look underneath me. I swear the woman a siren she makes its hard to think straight.

I walk into y/n's room and start looking around while she showers, and Gaz picks up the pizza she called in. There are little Knick knacks scattered across her dresser and a picture of her and her father at the end. I open her top drawer to find her satin underwear, when I hear footsteps coming towards her door, I quickly grab a pair and shove it into my pocket before closing the drawer and hopping on the bed... 

   "You look gobsmacked mate"

Gaz can always tell when I'm lying. So, I give him my best cheeky grin 

 "Ah huv nae idea whit yer talkin' aboot" 

          "Yeah, right, mate. Wotcha doin'?"

I pull the pink panties from my pocket and dangle it in front of him. 

              "Sick bastard" Gaz chuckles as he falls on the bed.

I stuff y/n's underwear back into my jeans when her bathroom door swings open, and she walks out. Her hair still wet drenching her oversized shirt. It's one of Gaz's, he slipped it into her laundry the other week. God she is stunning, this woman quite literally takes my breath away. Y/n walks over and hops on the bed beside me hissing when her ass hits the covers a little too hard. She tries to cover it up by asking what movie we'll be watching. But I have something else in mind for tonight. 

"Whit happened tae yer arse?" 

          She shakes her head "nothin"

We already know about the little mark of claim Ghost made. He told us the next morning. Almost sent Cap off the handle. When y/n first got here, we knew she had to be ours, but we didn't want to scare her. We wanted to give her time to ease into us. He had no idea how she'd react after the little stunt LT pulled. But I know my girl, I know what she likes 

 "Ye lyin lass?" 

  Y/n tries to look away "no"

I get up and grab her ankles flipping her on her stomach. She starts to struggle, wiggling around "johnny what the fuck are you doing"

 "Get her airms Gaz"

Gaz gets off the bed and walks towards the headboard grabbing both of her hands and pinning them down. 

" Now lass, is there somethin' ye wanna tell me?" Tears edge her eyes, and she shakes her head "no" I push up her shirt and pull down her shorts and underwear in a quick motion. Exposing her round plumped ass. I trace the outline of her freshly done tattoo.

"Now, how yee get this" 

Y/n moves to try and hide the blush creeping upon her cheeks "Ghost" 

  "Dae ye like it?"

     If I wasn't holding my breath, I don't think I would have heard her "yes, I don't know why" she sounded almost like she was guilty for enjoying something a little darker than most would like. I can't have my baby thinking like that now. No. 

 "Start the movie, Gaz" 

Gaz releasing y/n's arms and presses play on a horror film he picked out earlier. 

I trace my hands up her legs before sitting back down in the middle of the bed. I spread my legs and pat the space between them "Come ere" y/ns slowly gets up and seats herself perfectly between my legs with her back to my chest. I lean down a bit my mouth hovering over the shell of her ear "Ah want tae mak ye feel guid, bonnie" 

She goes to face me; I grab her chin and force her to look at the TV.

  " Watch the movie" 

I glide my hands to the front of her thighs moving inward, forcing her to spread her legs as wide as she could. Her breath picks up and she leans more into me. Gaz has taken a seat straight across from the bed watching us.

 My fingers slid across her slit, gathering her wetness before pushing a finger inside. fuckk her little pants, are all the encouragement I need. I add in another finger and my thumb finds her clit rubbing circles. I can feel her tight cunt spasm, she's getting close, just by a simple touch. I stop and give her pussy a hard slap "watch the movie y/n"

...

Y/N POV

I want to scream; Johnny keeps bringing me to the edge and as soon as I’m about to cum he stops talkin about “watch the movie”. I can’t take anymore. My legs are shaking, my eyes are blurry, and I feel like I’m on fire. Its too much every movement of Johnnys fingers has me seeing stars “Please johnny, I need you” The movie’s end credits finally start to roll, Gaz stands up out of his chair and stalks over towards me crouching down at the end of the bed.  “Make her cum johnny” I can feel Soaps breath on the side of my neck “Dae ye deserve it darling” I’m a blubbing mess spilling over mix pleases and chants of his name. He presses harder on my clit and his fingers pick up pace. My body jolts but he holds me firm against him. It feels like small volts of electricity is coursing through my veins. My mouth goes dry, and my head is so fuzzy I can no longer hear Johnny’s and Gaz’s praises. My vison darkens and I’m hit with the most intense feeling I’ve ever experienced. My breathing starts to even out and the sound of running water has me opening my eyes, Gaz walks out of my bathroom and gently picks me up out of Johnny’s arms carrying me to my sink. He sits me down, lifting my shirt over my body. Gaz softly grabs my face, making me look up at him. “You okay doll?’. I’m too exhausted to respond instead I lean into his touch, giving a small smile. He picks me up and places me in the tub. Gaz continues to wash me until he’s satisfied. It was sweet, he barely spoke just hush praises of how pretty his girl is, how well I did. I’ve never seen this side of him before and it’s making me feel something unfamiliar. I like it… He finished washing and helping me get dressed. I was ready to crawl into bed when I noticed Johnny had changed my sheets and laid waiting for us to return. Gaz turns me, giving me a kiss goodnight and leaves, turning off the lights. I crawl into bed; Johnny pulls me towards him “get some sleep love"

[himboskywalker]

Thank you so much for these many recommendations, i will definitely read some of them. I finally ordered lord of the rings, always wanted to do it but I finally did it.

I would love a separate rec list of less new books and overall classics. If you have the time of course. I always have a hard time finding new books for myself or to gift to other people.

Sure! And I'm ecstatic to hear you bought lotr! Another one to be welcomed into my fold! This list is decidedly less organized, but here's a list of more classic/ older works I always recommend or gift to people.

Anything written by our beloved Neil Gaiman. He's most well known, especially in this sphere, for "Good Omens" cowritten by Terry Pratchett, and rightfully so. If you've never read anything by either author, it is absolutely worth the hype, and even if you've watched the tv show, it is so incredibly funny and wonderful. "American Gods" is also phenomenal and very well known from its tv show now, but my personal favorite of Gaiman's is "Anansi Boys." No one does urban fantasy like him, and his works will always be the gold standard for me for this genre.

The Discworld series by Terry Pratchett. There's 41 books in the series so it's a mighty undertaking, I myself haven't gotten through all of them yet, I think I have about ten books left. They are so wonderfully funny and philosophical and witty. I don't recommend reading the books in the order Pratchett wrote them, rather there are collections in the series you'll want to read in order. The Death collection and City Watch books are my favorites but there are many more than that you may like better.

"The Princess Bride" by William Goldman. This is one of my favorite books of all time and while the movie certainly gets the vibe, it's a whole different animal. It's just so incredibly funny and fun and smartly written, and I've given it to many family and friends for Christmas and birthday presents.

"The Lies of Locke Lamora" by Scott Lynch. This is commonly regarded as a fantasy genre must and I often vehemently disagree with what's considered a "classic" but I have to side with the powers that be in the lit community on this one. It's just damn well written and character driven in the exact kind of way I love in stories. If you start reading it and think "oh look morally gray thief characters doing a heist" just remember, Lynch published it in '06 and pretty much wrote the template for everyone who has copied him since.

Anything by Ursula Le Guin although I read the "Earthsea" series first and would recommend starting there as well. She just really is that bitch, it doesn't get better written or more observant of life than her. Outside of Tolkien I don't know if there's anyone I admire more as an author than Le Guin. Her prose are not only stunningly gorgeous, but line after line after line hits like a sucker punch to the side of the head for how she makes you see life and yourself in new ways. “Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk's flight on the empty sky.”

The Redwall series by Brian Jacques! I love them so dearly, they're fun and beautifully written and full of adventuring that only forest animals with swords are capable of. I do recommend reading them in order, or at least the original "Redwall" before you dive into the rest of the series, but "Taggerung" is my favorite.

This is a more divisive rec nowadays but Kurt Vonnegut. If you read "Slaughterhouse Five" in school and hated it I don't blame you, it's not my favorite of his and not what I urge people to look to if they want to fall in love with him like I did when I was a teenager. My favorite Vonnegut is "Sirens of Titan" and "Breakfast of Champions." Do look at content warnings for "Sirens of Titan" and I've seen a lot of vitriolic reviews of the book in recent years by younger readers, but I absolutely think it's worth the read and the shining glorious example of what I mean when I say protagonists aren't meant to be liked or morally right.

And speaking of squicky divisive recs! May I tell you about our lord and savior of "oh god I don't know if I can get through this" Margaret Atwood? Most people know her for "Handmaid's Tale" but I first read "Oryx and Crake." Seriously, read the content warnings, but Atwood is known for writing the best of speculative sci-fi for a reason.

Anything by Octavia Butler. My intro to her was through "Bloodchild" which I highly recommend, and I think is the perfect introduction to her brand of unnerving brilliance. She is most well known for "Kindred" and rightfully so.

"Perfume" The Story of a Murderer" by Patrick Suskind. It's weird, by god it's weird, and it's one of my absolute favorite "classic lit" novels. In 18th century France a weird little freak of a guy with a super sense of smell winds up murdering a bunch of people to make perfume. It's fantastic and the quintessential, I will not morally justify this, but boy am I enjoying reading about this little creep.

"Trainspotting" by Irvine Welsh. I also love "Filth" and "Porno" by him. I think Welsh is brilliant at characterization, especially when most of his characters are morally bankrupt and terrible. But what he does best is make you feel for these characters who have often put themselves in these terrible positions. They're just people, and life is shitty, and I don't think anyone writes that better than Welsh.

"The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien. O'Brien made a career of writing fictionalized recounts of his time in Vietnam. I love everything he's written, he is one of my favorite modern lit authors, but "The Things They Carried" is his best known work and what I first read of his. It's brilliant and beautiful and sad, and it was the first time I ever had to put a book down and read in chunks because it affected me so emotionally.

Cormac McCarthy, any and everything he has ever written. He's best known for "The Road" of course, and it's certainly worth the read but "Blood Meridian" is my absolute favorite of his. His stuff is brutal and wry and full of the dry irony that only the bleakness of reality offers, and by god is it well written.

And finally I'll leave you with a single nonfiction recommendation. I try to keep those minimal when I know that's not usually what people are looking for when they ask for reading recs. But since I'm giving a list of books I have often gifted, I can't NOT include this one. "Man's Search for Meaning" by Victor Frankl. I read this at 18 and it had a profound impact on how I think and view life. Any time someone I love has gone through a difficult time I've bought them their own copy.“For the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth - that Love is the ultimate and highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love.”

[pigeonwhumps]

Forced to hurt a loved one

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 13: forced to hurt a loved one

Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @den-of-evil @dustypinetree @cardboardarsonist @skittles-the-whumpee

Morgan's conditioning is triggered again, for more nefarious purposes, and Director Jodie Armstrong makes a breakthrough.

1.3k

CWs: conditioned whumpee, living weapon whump, forced to hurt, burns, dehumanisation, self dehumanisation

Morgan lies on the floor in the front room, legs up against Rhian's armchair, colouring. This is the most comfortable position, and even though weapons shouldn't take up so much space, Rhian says it's acceptable to sit here.

Asha hops over Morgan's legs to join Asim and Blue on the sofa, and the weapon cranes its neck all the way back to look up at her. She peers at the colouring book.

"Nice owl. You're doing the same colours as your Archimedes?"

Morgan nods. Technically this is a Sword in the Stone colouring book and so maybe it should colour the pictures the same as the film, but both Asha and Rhian have said that it doesn't need to be accurate, and this is the first time in its memory that that's been allowed. Despite seeing the video, it still can't remember any solid memories of its childhood before the government.

It is allowed, right?

Asha grins. "I like it. Hey, Asim, you can start the whales now."

Rhian squeezes its ankle reassuringly as the DVD starts, and it relaxes. Yes, it's allowed.

This is Asha's favourite whale documentary, and Morgan's seen it several times before, so it doesn't pay as close attention as it might otherwise, focusing on its colouring. It's okay, that's allowed here, the video isn't training or a briefing or anything that it's expected to memorise in its entirety. It's just entertainment.

Suddenly, a loud siren-like sound emits from the TV and Morgan jumps, looking up. Blue curses.

Asim frowns. "We didn't hear anything about this."

The screen switches to a news channel, and Morgan straightens up immediately, dropping its pencil and sliding onto its knees, hands behind its back.

"Morgan?"

Morgan doesn't respond, doesn't look round. It can't. That's the Director on-screen, and its full attention must be focused on her at all times.

"This is an emergency announcement. All citizens within the immediate area of Base 47 are requested to stay in their homes until further notice. Please be alert, but do not be alarmed, there is no danger to civilians if you do as requested. We are searching for the stolen government property MD-264N and the traitors hiding it. The crisis will be resolved swiftly and the traitors taken into permanent custody."

MD-264N, whose mind went blank when the Director spoke its designation, doesn't hear anything beyond that point. It has its orders, to take the traitors into permanent custody, and it stands, swiftly identifying the leader. It picks up the nearest makeshift weapon it can identify, an electric iron that swiftly heats in its hands.

Then it strides forward and pushes the rebel leader to the ground. It's not hard, he's clearly not really expecting it, and it presses the iron into the top of his shoulders. It tunes out his ear-splitting screams from years of practice, pressing it down, its free hand holding him down to stop him bucking away.

Someone wrenches it off its target and throws it to the side, kneeling on its back to cuff its hands as it struggles. No, no, it hasn't completed its task yet, it can't be captured.

It's sat up against the wall forcefully, still struggling, and someone crouches down in front of it.

"Sweetheart, you're crying," she says gently.

"Weapons don't cry," refutes MD-264N.

"Yes. You do. Morgan, do you remember who I am? Think, sweetheart, it's okay. Come back to me."

The person touches it gently on the shoulder and pulls it into a careful hug, one its commanders have never given it before. It feels so warm, so cared for, so–

A soft and rough owl-shaped toy is pushed into its hands.

Its mind rushes back and it gasps. Morgan. It's Morgan. That's Rhian. This is Archimedes. And– and–

"Asim. This weapon hurt him. Is he okay? It– it didn't want to, it's sorry, it's sorry, it–"

"Shh. It wasn't your fault, that was Armstrong forcing you. Asha's with him now, he'll be okay, I'm sure. Do you want to go back to your room?"

Morgan nods vigorously. "Please."

"Okay. Let me help you up, sweetheart. Blue's going to escort us."

"This weapon's ankle is malfunctioning. It, it doesn't think it can walk there."

"I'll help you."

Rhian puts her arm under Morgan's shoulders and starts helping it towards their bedroom, Blue following close behind. He shuts the door, standing guard outside, and Rhian tries to help Morgan into the bed.

Morgan stops dead in its tracks, forcing Rhian to pause, frowning at it.

"Sweetheart?"

"This weapon is dangerous. It should not be out in the open where it can hurt people."

"We broke through your conditioning, faster than last time. You're not going to hurt me."

"But it, it, I, it might. Something could set it off again. It doesn't want to risk it. Please, Rhian, it should go in the cupboard, where it can't harm anyone."

Rhian bites her lip. "It won't be comfortable."

"Weapons do not need comfort. It is a more usual place to be stored than a bed anyway, it will stay in good condition."

She sighs. "Okay. Okay. Can I uncuff you?" Morgan shakes its head. It should stay disarmed, it's not safe. "At least let me refasten them in front of you." The weapon pauses, uncertain, and then nods. Its hands will still be cuffed, after all.

Rhian uncuffs it, massaging its shoulders as she moves its arms in front of it, making sure that the sleeves of its hoodie are cushioning the cuffs.

"Is that comfortable? I know you said that doesn't matter but it does to me."

Morgan nods. "Thank you, Rhian."

"No problem. Let me sort out the cupboard. I wish you'd consent to staying somewhere more comfortable, sweetheart."

"The cupboard is already more than this weapon needs or deserves," replies Morgan readily. "This weapon's top priority is your safety and the cupboard will allow it to fulfil that objective best."

"Okay. Okay."

Rhian doesn't look happy as they line the cupboard with spare blankets and pillows, and Morgan doesn't understand. It's fulfilling one of its basic functions, to keep people safe, surely they should be pleased?

"Alright. I'll give you a duvet, torch, and a bottle of squash once you're in, we have all of them in this room. Can I give you another hug first?"

"Yes, Rhian."

They pull them into a tight, warm hug that Morgan wishes it could stay in forever.

"You're sure about this, sweetheart?" Morgan nods. "Okay."

Too soon, Rhian lets go, and Morgan climbs inside the little cupboard. Rhian passes it a duvet, a bottle of squash, and a torch.

"Come out when you're ready, yeah? I hope it's soon."

"Yes, Rhian." It might not be soon, it needs to stay in here until everyone's safe, but it will come out.

Rhian shuts the door behind it, and it's in darkness, alone. It buries its head in its knees, Archimedes held close to its chest, and tries to stifle its muffled sobs.

It didn't want to hurt anyone. It never does. But somehow, it always has to anyway.

_

A few miles away, Director Jodie Armstrong smiles at the blinking light on her computer screen. It worked. It actually worked. Maybe the scientists deserve a bonus for this.

It'll be a few days before anything's settled enough to come online properly, but that's okay. She can wait. She's waited months, after all.

And then, once MD-264N's back, they'll see what needs to be done about it. Whether it can be re-trained, used for experiments, or just needs decommissioning. It all depends on what's been done to it in its absence, because wherever it is, she's sure it hasn't been treated appropriately.

She presses a finger to her ear.

"Contact Colonel Colgrave of Section 13. Tell him that the verbal activation of the implants worked. We'll have MD-264N back in a matter of days, along with all the information we require. There's no need for him to interfere again."

[sheikitoff]

ocarina of time as fearless

If you're not deeply versed in Swiftian Lore, you probably think this was her first album, and understandably so. It's the album that Love Story and You Belong With Me are on, the album she first one the aoty grammy for, the album that gave rise to That VMA Incident- in other words, although it's her sophmore album, it's the one that broke out of the country music charts and into the Pop Sphere. Even if you've never listened to the album, you know it, at least to some degree. (Sound familiar?)

Yes, I've been trying to avoid making these analyses about the meta status of these works in pop culture, and instead about the contents and themes of the works themselves, but it's hard to talk about Ocarina without acknowledging its colossal footprint on games as a medium. While Fearless wasn't quite as pioneering as, say, inventing lock-on targeting, it did have a massive impact on the music industry, not only from a commercial perspective (revitalizing the country music market from its death throes), but from an important artistic perspective: she was a teenage girl who wrote her own songs, and in the last few years we've been seeing how significant an impact that had in the number of young female songwriters who cite Swift and this album as what made them realize they, too, could pick up a guitar and write their own stories.

(Also, this album includes the lyric "I don't know how it gets better than this", which is exactly what everyone said when Ocarina first came out xD )

Okay, onto the real analysis!

Fearless is an album about growing up, and reconciling the idealized vision of adulthood (or late adolescence) you've dreamed of all your life - the pastiche made up of images from teen movies and tv and magazines - with the uncomfortable and often disappointing reality you find upon your arrival. it's about making a beeline for adulthood and then looking back and wishing you could tell your younger self to stop and breathe (literally - there's a lyric on the album that goes "count to ten, take it in / this is life before you know who you're gonna be"). OOT is also, obviously and devastatingly, about growing up, and specifically about wanting to grow up and then getting there and realizing it's nothing like you thought it would be, and it cost you something you can never get back.

Fearless starts out with the title track, an ode to the excitement at the beginning of a first relationship, the siren call of young love; the whole world is wide open before you, and even the most mundane of things ("there's something 'bout the way / the street looks when it's just rained / there's a glow off the pavement) can seem magical. you want to bask in the moment and to hightail it to happily ever after all at once. taylor describes this feeling as "fearless", and one of the examples she gives of this fearlessness is "with you i'd dance / in a storm, in my best dress / fearless". it's kind of a perfect encapsulation of the exact brand of fearlessness that comes with youth: you can be that fearless in large part because you don't yet know what there is to fear out there. there are much scarier things in adult life and relationships than ruining your clothes in a storm, and there are much scarier things in hyrule than the stalchildren in hyrule field at night; and by the end of their respective album and game, both taylor and link will have learned that, however much they might wish they could go back to a time they'd not yet had to learn those lessons.

one of the oft-discussed kind of metanarrative features of OOT is that kids spend the opening section desperate to reach Adult Link. You'll hear people (mostly younger people, and people who haven't played since they were much younger) talk about the jump to Adult Link as "where the game really starts", or something along those lines. It's kind of trite to even point out how well this maps onto being a kid who can't wait to grow up, who sees adulthood as "when life really starts", and how central the difference between a child and adult's perspective on childhood is to the game and its themes. everyone somersaults and sidesteps across hyrule field as they try to book it to hyrule castle, and yeah, part of that is because hyrule field is so damn big and empty, but it makes for a nice little microcosm of what OOT is saying about growing up, as you hightail towards a destination you might not like once you get there.

even amidst the lows of growing up, there are always highs, too; both fearless and OOT let you bask in moments of triumph. there's a reason "love story" and "you belong with me" are still hailed among the best of pop music (fittingly enough, the former sees Taylor "sneak out to the garden to see you", just like Link sneaks into the castle garden to meet with Zelda; yes, I've been giggling about that since it occured to me.) but you can't freeze time in one, perfect moment, and even the cutesiest love songs start to develop a bit of a sad undertone: "hey stephen, why are people always leaving? / i think you and i should stay the same." while link's big "coming of age" moment obviously happens when he blinks and finds himself seven years older, his actual coming of age story starts at the very beginning of the game, as the darkness of the larger world encroaches on the idyllic kokori forest, poisoning and killing the deku tree; and in his child link travels, he encounters more of this darkness, be it darunia's depression or princess ruta’s deceased mother. notably, the darkest dungeon (pun not intended) of the whole game can only be accessed by child link. it's also likely the last extended bit of time you'll spend as child link in this game; some things you can't come back from knowing.

fearless charts a number of losses that come with growing up. on “white horse”, taylor laments the loss of the fantasies that come with childhood naïveté (“now i know / that i’m not a princess, this ain’t a fairytale”). this bears some similarity to the transition between acts one and two of OOT, as link and zelda’s grand plan to save the kingdom crashes down around them and they discover they’ve been outwitted since the very start; they fail, something stories and prophecies never prepared them for, and the consequences are more horrifying than they could have imagined (hyrule castle town post-time jump, anyone?) another fearless track, “breathe”, mourns the end of a friendship - not because you moved away or changed schools and lost touch, as with countless childhood friendships, but because the people you’ve grown into are just too different. it’s one of the less common elements of coming of age narratives, but one of the most heartbreaking parts of growing up: “never a clean break, no one here to save me / you’re the only thing i know like the back of my hand”. while link doesn’t lose a friend quite in the same way, there’s a similar kind of heartache in his friendship with saria, both in the realization that she hasn’t grown up and never will, and the discovery that they both have destinies that lead them apart, and must say goodbye.

“tell me why” and “you’re not sorry” both document the loss of blind trust, from a place of anger and of sadness respectively; then “the way i loved you” and “forever & always” each grapple with memories, how they can hold you back and how they can betray you. the former sees taylor unable to emotionally invest in a new relationship because of the intensity of a former one, which she misses in spite of herself: “my heart's not breaking /

'cause I'm not feeling anything at all.” in the latter, taylor is dismayed and angry to find that promises she and her partner made to each other meant less to him than they did to her. what’s particularly interesting about the latter song with regards to OOT is how it frames an emotional imbalance in a relationship in terms of memory: “back up, baby, back up / did you forget everything?” one of the most horrifying implications of everything link goes through in OOT is that, at the end, no one remembers but him, and none of the people he forged friendships with have any recollection of it at all; even navi leaves him. so much of OOT maps onto real parts of growing up, albeit in a fantastical and exaggerated fashion, and this has always evoked to me the experience of learning that someone you cherish your memories of doesn’t feel the same way, or remember nearly as much of your time together in childhood.

as we can see, the second half of the album is pretty much all sad or angry, until the very last two songs, but even those have caveats. "the best day" is a heartwarming tribute to her mother, but with a bittersweet twinge, as her recollections go from her mother taking her to a pumpkin patch to her mother consoling her as she cries about school bullies, and while her mother manages to cheer her up, taylor still notes that she “don't know how long it's gonna take to feel okay”; growing up means your problems aren’t as easily fixable, and your hurts last much longer. the final song, change, takes the inevitability of change, responsible for so much of the heartbreak throughout the album, and frames it as a source of hope, that if things can change, they will change again. it’s an anthem against giving up, but the song is premised on being stuck in a present that makes you want to give up (“you know it's all the same, another time and place / repeating history and you're getting sick of it”). in the final verse of the song, taylor goes from future tense (“these things will change”) to past tense (“it was the night things changed”). the music quiets down, and then the instruments kick back in more triumphant than ever (cue OOT end credits.) and yet the triumph here doesn’t hold a candle to the highs of “love story” and “you belong with me”. it’s the end of the album, and yet there’s less resolution here than there is on earlier tracks. real life doesn’t really have happily ever afters, not because happiness doesn’t exist but because life carries on where a movie would roll credits; all we can look forward to is the inexorable approach of change.

[whumpsical]

A Light in the Dark

contents: trafficking, captivity, forced romance, emotional manipulation, expIicit dubcon, intimate whumper, defiant whumpee

Jian spots an opportunity

November 2019

taglist!! @yet-another-heathen @much-ado-about-whumping @minerscanary

🌲🌲🌲 -> next (soon)

The sun was already setting over the mountain by the time Dickass Lee finally decided to start heading back to the house. Jian wasn’t at all sold on the idea that the loss of light had been a simple miscalculation. The hand-holding was already easier to tolerate in the growing dark.

The woods were still a foreign territory to him, and his fear went double without sunlight. He even found himself gripping Dickass Lee’s hand in return instead of his usual dissociation, making himself limp so that his arm was like a fabric leash, just an object for Dickass Lee to keep track of him by. And Dickass Lee must have noticed the shift, because he leaned close and affectionately bumped Jian’s shoulder with his own.

“Don’t be scared, Jian.”

“I’m not scared,” Jian said adamantly, simmering with annoyance at the man’s condescending tone. But he kept his hand tightly clasped, his palm beginning to sweat as his footing grew more unsure. “I just can’t see.”

Dickass Lee chuckled. “I know these woods very well. You can’t get lost when you’re out here with me.”

Jian rolled his eyes freely in the dark. He was already lost out here, as long as Dickass Lee was at his side.

Blue-black darkness fell quickly around them, and the temperature seemed to drop another twenty degrees. The light jacket wasn’t cutting it anymore. Jian doubted the simple miscalculation of that, too. When his shivers grew violent, Jian clenched his jaw and huddled close to Dickass Lee, despite the biting nausea. Dickass Lee let go of Jian’s hand and wrapped his heavy arm around Jian’s shoulders, keeping him warm and steady as they walked. Jian tried not to feel comforted, and for the first time in ages it wasn’t a challenge. His thoughts drifted to the tall tree behind the murder shack, to his brush with hypothermia. No, Jian couldn’t see this as anything other than more manipulation of the same kind. He didn’t know what exactly Dickass Lee wanted from him this time, but he knew he’d acquiesce without much of a fight, as long as that threat of cold hung over him.

Nighttime out here was dazzlingly noisy, much louder than in the city. Compared to the soft rumble of traffic, to drunk clubbers laughing their way to the next venue, even to the occasional nearby siren, the woods were downright chaotic. With a sound like TV static blasting through concert speakers, everything alive in the forest came together in an invisible choir around and above him. Jian swept the forest with his eyes, squinting to find any hint of suspicious movement to serve as proof of the vast network of insects which were obviously still thriving here in what felt like early winter, but all he saw was black.

Jian’s eyes felt dry and glassy from straining through the darkness when he noticed movement off to his left. He wouldn’t have seen it in the daylight. He almost stopped in his tracks, but bundled up so close to Dickass Lee, he just stumbled slightly and moved along. He couldn’t hear it behind the frenzied woods swallowing up any noise that wasn’t its own, but there was no mistaking the twin dots of yellow light that rose and flashed and diminished as the vehicle’s headlights turned towards him and away.

A car, a road, people. A way out.

Jian’s mind raced. The road was a long way from the house. It was hard to gauge distance over the hills and winding trodden paths, especially when he hadn't been paying that much attention, but it felt like maybe a mile or two. He’d walked this far already. How much further could he go, if he ran? At least to the side of the road, where he might just collapse and wait for another car to rumble by what a driver might at first take for a corpse. He’d probably have better luck playing dead than if he showed up to the road with his thumb out.

He’d imagined this plot of land as an endless mountain, even an isolated universe. There was no room for other people and their cars, no way for a public road to sneak through the little snowglobe he lived in with Dickass Lee. He tried to memorize the route they were taking, to feel the direction from which they’d come and keep it locked in his body, so that no matter where he started from, he’d know which way to turn once he finally got his chance to run.

Somehow, they made it back to the house. Even Dickass Lee had stumbled over fallen branches in the dark a few times, but he laughed it off with such ease that Jian couldn’t find any sadistic humor in it, instead feeling more tense the better Dickass Lee’s mood got.

They showered together. Dickass Lee urged Jian up to the bathroom with a playfulness that made Jian’s stomach flip. Without invitation, he helped Jian undress, taking every opportunity to run gently violating hands over every soft spot he came across in the process. Jian shivered, remembering the chill outside, and didn’t fight him. Eventually he stopped trying to use his own hands at all, letting Dickass Lee unravel him to the skin. He felt his expression slipping away to vacancy, and wished his brain could do the same.

He tried to disappear into the warmth of the shower, to focus on the earthy rosemary scent of the soap that Dickass Lee was lathering onto him. His movements slowed at Jian’s shoulders, rubbing small circles into the tightness he felt there.

“Jian, why are you so nervous?” Dickass Lee asked. His voice was sweet, caring. He brushed a soapy thumb across Jian’s jawline, his hand resting steadily on the side of his neck. It could’ve been adoringly. “Hey, I promise not to keep us out after dark again. Relax. We’re home now.”

Jian swallowed and nodded, shutting his eyes and taking an intentional breath to try and let go of the tension riddling his body, imagining it flowing down the drain. He imagined it clogging the pipes, a plumber being called in, driving a painted company van along that road through the woods.

A wet hand broke through the dark, Dickass Lee lifting Jian’s face to kiss him. All of that tension bubbled right back up, gray and stinking from the sewer, boiling hot at their feet, and Jian reflexively broke the kiss with a grimace and a violent turn of his head. He stood still for a moment, blinking away flashes of bright light and panting as the sick fumes died down.

“M’sorry,” he murmured quickly, before Dickass Lee could say anything about it.

“Hey, come on. You know I don’t want to threaten you. It’s alright.”

Jian recognized the threat for what it was. He bit back another flinch, sudden echoes of pain sparking across his thighs like a match striking over his skin, and leaned back into Dickass Lee’s touch, returning the kiss when it was offered again. He supposed he should be feeling grateful for the second chance.

Just one more night. He could do just one more night of this. He ran appeasing hands over Dickass Lee’s dripping chest and up around the back of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. One more surrender, and tomorrow Jian would disappear from this mountainside universe, crash through the glass of the snowglobe and spill out into another world, soaking wet and wild-eyed.

Dickass Lee pulled back suddenly, smoothing a fingertip over his bottom lip, a sideways smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That so, sweetheart?” he said in a darkly playful tone, teasing and a little bit impressed.

It took Jian a moment to realize what had happened. A moment later and he’d tugged Dickass Lee’s head down to bite him again, even harder, forging a path from the man’s lips to his jaw and down to his neck, dragging teeth over skin between each aggressive kiss.

It wasn’t long before they found themselves in the master bedroom, hair still dripping as Jian shoved Dickass Lee onto the bed, wasting no time in climbing on top of him to straddle his hips. The man’s proud fucking smile hadn’t faltered once, and Jian smothered it with another heated kiss, pinning Dickass Lee firmly to the mattress and pretending he could rip the man to shreds with the grip he had on his hair.

One more night. Why did it have to be a surrender? It wasn’t. Jian was taking his spoils of war, in a victory he just hadn’t technically earned quite yet.

Dickass Lee trawled strong hands up Jian’s thighs, his fingertips digging into the skin and snagging on short hairs as he went. Jian shuddered, and he was already grinding his hips against the warm body beneath his when those hands settled around his waist, their grip tightening along with a hitch in Dickass Lee’s breathing.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Dickass Lee crooned breathlessly, adoring eyes flashing up at Jian, who straightened up to find more leverage and pressure. He raked dull fingernails over Dickass Lee’s torso, imagining rivers of the man’s blood in place of the little pink welts that surfaced instead. Jian’s hands faltered and froze as Dickass Lee’s began to wander downward, featherlight touches forcing out a desperate twitch and an equally as damning gasp and whimper.

Dickass Lee laughed at him softly, wistful affection clouding his face, one hand holding tight to Jian’s hip, keeping him from wriggling away while the other hand continued with gentle strokes. A sting of resentment sprang up in Jian’s core alongside the glow of pleasure, and he dug into Dickass Lee’s chest with his nails.

This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to tear into Dickass Lee, to hurt him, to make him go along with whatever Jian bid, for once. And whether that meant beating him to a pulp or riding him until he was raw, Jian wanted to be the one calling the shots.

But Jian couldn’t help but react to the touch with exactly what the man was looking for, all but rutting into Dickass Lee’s hand, only held back by the firm grip on his right hip and his own fraught attempts to convince himself he didn’t also want this so badly.

“Someone’s in a mood tonight,” Dickass Lee said, his voice dropping to a rumble. The man’s unquestioned confidence radiated out from him like barbs that jabbed into Jian’s chest, making him sick with irritation and futile fury, despite the pleasure that he couldn’t deny or escape. “I wonder where that’s coming from. Was there something you wan--”

Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Dickass Lee leaned down over him, taking his time, drawing out the agony in the slow roll of his hips over Jian’s ass, relishing in making him squirm even as Jian weathered through the shame of his impulsive attempt at retaliation. He nipped at Jian’s ear, breathing a fond chuckle when it made Jian’s hips twitch beneath him. Jian shut his eyes tight, breathing in little nervous shots through his nose and trying to hold back his moans.

Before he could think about it, Jian aimed a punch to Dickass Lee’s throat, his arm flying as if fueled by fire. He didn’t even get to make contact. With startling agility, Dickass Lee dropped off mid-sentence to intercept Jian’s fist, then snatched both of Jian’s arms and flipped him to his stomach with such unnerving efficiency that Jian barely had time to blink before he found himself suffocating facedown in the sheets, fighting off a wild rush of arousal as his arms were pinned behind him.

“That was cute,” Dickass Lee said, letting his lips brush against the sensitive shell of Jian’s ear. “But I’m sorry, sweetheart, it’s not going to happen. You understand, don’t you, baby?”

Jian shifted, trying to shrug his arms free, and got nowhere. He huffed out his frustration, mostly aimed at himself. Of course Dickass Lee had only been letting Jian toss him around. Of course Jian knew that. He cursed himself for getting caught up in the fantasy.

“I’m going to forgive you for that, Jian,” Dickass Lee said as he kissed a line down the back of Jian’s neck and between his shoulders, until he got to where he held Jian’s arms in that unforgiving grip. “Mainly because I’d rather just get back to where we left off. Are you going to behave yourself?”

One more night. One more surrender.

Breathlessly, through gritted teeth, “Yes.”

Dickass Lee hummed against Jian’s skin, pleased, finally letting go of Jian’s aching arms to press him more gently into the bed, one broad, steady hand on the nape of his neck and another caressing along the sides of his ribs. Of their own accord, Jian’s hips made eager little rocking motions into the mattress, and he had no way of stopping or concealing it, especially when Dickass Lee was doing about the same to him, teasing over his lower back.

“You’ll have to be good for me, Jian. No fighting this time. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Jian arched his back, pushing his hips up and back, a mewling noise spilling out of him, only halfway unbidden. Fuck it. This was still his victory.

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“Yes, Richard,” Jian said, his voice muffled into the sheets. He turned his face to the side, catching fresher air and glancing over his shoulder at Dickass Lee. “Fucking hell, please.”

Dickass Lee finally entered him, maddeningly gently at first, but it went on until Jian was begging at every desperate bid for a climax that Dickass Lee held just out of his reach. At some point a dull prong of actual pain started to build in his core like a lead weight in his stomach, growing with each new denial. By the time Dickass Lee finally allowed him to come, Jian had been sobbing for several rounds already.

His orgasm was blindingly bright, his vision going white as he wailed through it, and the last thing he remembered before passing out was a tender kiss on the cheek and Dickass Lee’s voice, soft between panting breaths.

“I knew you would, Jian. I knew you’d want me to.”

[bishiglomper]

I'm super sad, disappointed and frustrated that I'm not gonna see many deafie/ASL fics/headcannons with Alastor because, well, ....the obvious. The whole radio thing.

There is ONE little ficlet someone posted here about a deaf oc that has a hypnotic siren voice they don't like using so they use ASL. I'm honestly impressed it exists but also sad because I haven't seen updates about it.. 👀

Present Mic wasn't my favorite character in MHA but omg I ate up Mic/deafie fics. LOVED those. Didn't know I needed deafie SO fics in my life before that.

I'm only hard of hearing so I don't feel like it's my place to make those fics (╥ᆺ╥；)

But also how would that even work.

If someone put me in the middle of Alastor and Vox's "which media is better " discourse of course I have no choice but to pick TV. Because then there's visual context and the possibilities of captions.

Which is where it gets personal for me because I can't stand audio. I always have audio off, it's overstimulating especially when half of it is just noise and nothing contextually relevant (like tiktoks). I don't ever listen to music because even if I can hear the words I also have audio processing disorder so even if its clear I still get garbled garbage. I need written words in front of me to fill in the blanks.

And I never listen to music unless I'm entirely alone or people know my attention is off limits. Because that 1 earbud renders me 100% deaf to the world. Completely unaware of sound. It's terribly inconvenient for everyone.

So I don't even know what I expect by putting one of those people next to the Radio Demon LOL

He doesn't strike me as someone who would learn ASL for anyone. They can't listen to his broadcast or even his own voice (which is like half his whole thing) so I see him having absolutely 0 interest if he can't get anything interesting out of those interactions.

I mean, maybe to place them by him as a specific annoyance. 🤔 a mini rival/enemy. A Vox knockoff. 🤣

"what is that noise" - "Shut up, your voice is annoying." - "Sorry I couldn't understand a word you said under that garbled mess." (It could be such fun 😗)

Bonus headcannon:

Can you imagine trying to have a conversation in sign language with Angel? He could have 3 convos going at once 🤭

I mean, I doubt he'd have the brain power to pull that off but the possibilities. 🤌

Imagine having a spicy conversation with Angel in front of Alastor and obviously he can distinguish some gestures (👉👌) but not have the full scope and yall are just giggling. I think it would irritate him to no end. 😈🤣

You know, THAT might be enough to get him interested in learning ASL

Just to have that moment to one day, out of the blue, respond with perfect ASL to their bullshit.

I love comebacks like that.

I can't decide which would be better: a whole thought out paragraph in response or something simple and concise like: "Never going to happen." And he just walks away.

But alas. I'm never gonna get it. 🙃

Argh why my favorite blorbo gotta be such a niche asshole? 🙄

[handoverthekawaii]

We Go Together | Homelander x You | Chapter 7

Taglist: @hom3landr

Homelander’s mid-meal departure leaves you feeling down in the dumps. He can’t control his schedule, and you know that — there’s no way to predict when lives will be in danger or disaster will strike.

But, selfishly, you’re sad that the two of you didn’t have time to enjoy a simple meal together, uninterrupted by the demands of the outside world. After dinner, you had planned to pull out a fleece blanket, turn on American Idol, and… well, there’s no sense in wondering where the night may have gone from there, since it’s not going to happen now.

You have no idea whether to expect Homelander back later, but you imagine that either way you’ll see him again soon. Since he didn’t get a chance to finish his dinner, you pack it in some Tupperware to give to him next time you see him.

You load the dishwasher, tidy up the kitchen, and then go change into your pajamas. Once you finish your nighttime beauty routine, you decide to watch a bit of television and (hopefully) take your mind off your disappointment.

But nothing is ever that simple, is it? You’re flipping channels when you run across the VNN nightly news, and — of course — they are covering Homelander’s response to some car chase in California.

Live footage from a helicopter high above the chaos dominates your television screen. An armored truck, probably clocking over 125 mph, darts among other cars on the congested interstate.

A train of police cars is in hot pursuit, sirens flashing, more seeming to join the chase with every passing mile. As you watch, one cruiser darts across the median and attempts to ram the truck, but the vehicle swerves away at the last moment and continues its wild ride.

“— just getting word that The Homelander has arrived at the scene and is preparing to engage,” says an offscreen anchor.

The camera feed dutifully zooms in on a tiny speck accelerating through the horde of police cars and closing in on the truck. It’s hard to see him clearly, but you can pick out Homelander’s American flag cape whipping in the wind.

You can also see the metal side of the armored truck, which has been defaced with a scrawl of dripping, red spray paint. Have you done your part? It reads.

What the hell does that even mean? you think to yourself, but there’s no time to dwell on the details as high-intensity action erupts on your screen. You see Homelander rip off the truck’s driver door — starbursts of gunfire in the cabin and a flash of red light — the vehicle swerving to one side and slamming into a guardrail before coming to an eventual stop.

And just like that, the crisis is averted as suddenly as it began. A swarm of law enforcement vehicles surrounds the truck, bathing the wreckage in strobing red and blue police lights. Through the aerial helicopter feed, you see Homelander emerge from the twisted metal, unflappable as ever, and throw a thumbs-up sign.

The camera cuts back to the VNN Newsroom, and you release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Seeing a Supe save the day on TV is one thing, but watching a Supe that you know (and, let’s be honest, like) save the day is an entirely different, much more stressful experience.

You begin to zone out as the VNN anchors discuss the circumstances surrounding the chase. Your eyelids flutter and your head begins to droop, when suddenly you hear:

“We’re learning now that The Homelander ‘saved the day’ for a busload of beauty queens!”

The fuck? you think, refocusing your attention on the screen as the newscaster continues,

“The contestants for this year’s Miss Evangelical — sponsored by VET — would have been late for tonight’s Godly Swimsuit Competition if not for The Homelander’s intervention! Our field reporter has the story as the ladies show America’s hero their appreciation…” [continued on AO3]

[antagonisticism]

Serpent's Nest: Part One

“Osiel.” An old woman with long graying hair motioned for the little boy standing at the window of the candy shop. “Come here. Your papa said he’s going to be late. . . again.” 

Osiel could hear her mutter something in Spanish regarding his dad’s tardiness, but chose to ignore it. 

The candy shop was vibrant, with clear jars lining the walls. Gummies, chocolates, and hard candies. All so tantalizingly visible to a seven year old boy. Just to stick his hand into and grab as many as he wanted. 

But he refrained, obeying his abuela’s call to walk with her to the back of the shop. They made eye contact and he shifted his gaze to the Reese’s cups that were nearby before looking back at her.

A pause.

A quiet plea. 

Her eyes rolled heavenward as she sighed. 

“Ay, Dios mío. What am I going to do with you?” Her hand motioned again curtly. “Go, go.”

She watched his little brown eyes light up as he darted his hand into the jar and, carefully, pulled out two. One immediately went into his mouth while the other was held by his left hand. His right hand extended and caught hers so they could walk out the store together. He watched her pull along the waste bag from beneath the cashier’s desk on her other side. 

Osiel looked up at his abuelita and she smiled down as he let go long enough to turn out the lights in the usual ritual. Then, hand in hand, they walked out the backdoor to an alleyway.

Humid air was the first to hit his senses. Its putrid smell was just a reminder of the alleyway dumpsters that never seemed to be fully emptied on trash day. He wanted to go back inside the shop where warm vanilla would welcome him. 

Darkness blanketed the big city, barely working streetlights were their only source of light as they walked to one of the dumpsters. He tried his best to avoid the murky puddles along the path while he finished off his last Reese’s. 

He let go of his abuela’s hand so she could open the dumpster door and throw the garbage bag in. He watched her wipe her hands on the apron she was wearing. Isabela’s Cleaning was embroidered in a little corner at the top right. His abuela’s own name as the proud owner of her very own company. He remembered a couple Christmases ago how proud she was to have received it from her son, his father. Her eyes had lit up from the surprise, tears falling down her cheeks. 

That was the last time he ever saw his abuela look at his dad with that much love. 

“Osiel.” Her hand squeezed his as they started walking back to her apartment. 

“¿Mande?” He asked, watching a rat scurry into the darkness at the sound of their footsteps. 

“I need you to keep an eye on your papa for me.” She often told him this on nights like these when she got news his dad would be late to pick him up.

He nodded, not telling her of the last four nights when his dad came home late. Drunk and muttering about needing to make a payment. How his father had pawned all the jewelry that Osiel’s late mother used to wear save for the silver chain with a cross he had hid underneath his bed - that was now in his pocket. The man would start to violently sob and come into Osiel’s bedroom and brush a hand against his hair, thinking he was asleep. The mutterings that came from him were asking God not to let anyone take his son.  

Osiel knew his abuela would begin a screaming match as she always did. Then his dad wouldn’t let him see her for weeks until the anger had died down and the need for her money outweighed his feelings. 

Quietly, grandmother and grandson trudged on. His abuela from exhaustion of a long week’s work. Osiel from considering what his grandmother was asking of him. The sounds of New York all around them. Ambulances, police sirens. Sometimes voices as they passed a busy street. All the usual noises on a night like tonight. 

So why did he feel like something was wrong? 

When they got to the apartment, everything went in a normal routine. Dinner, homework, and then sit on the couch watching TV waiting for his father. The hours ticked by. 

Eight. 

Nine.

Ten. 

Osiel dozed on the couch as a rerun of Tom and Jerry was playing. His head snapped up when he heard the turn of a key and then the door swung open. Little hands rubbed at tired eyes as his father finally made the grand entrance. 

Sweat beaded at his brow. The clipped brown hair was standing upright from the amount of times he had run his hands through it. He looked tense, as if he was ready to snap or jump from the smallest sound. The smile on his lips was close to falling from his face. He didn’t move from the doorway to try to come inside. 

Osiel knew that look, feared that look. 

“Hola.” Abuela called from her recliner, keeping her eyes on the TV. “What took you so long?”

“I was tying up some loose ends.” He replied, feet firmly planted at the entrance. 

Her hand lifted and waved to dismiss. She was too tired to argue. 

“Osiel.” His dad’s voice sounded strained. “Say goodbye.”

Osiel nodded and yawned. His arms lifted to the sky in a stretch. Reluctantly, he moved the blanket his grandmother had covered him with and slid off the couch. His feet slowly patted against the carpet floor to where she sat in her recliner. By the time he reached her her arms were opened for a warm embrace. She crushed him into it.

She smelled of roses and vanilla even after a day like today. The warmth of her love was a reminder that he was cherished. He gripped her tightly and whispered goodbye in her ear. 

“Te amo mi corazón.” She whispered back as she let him go. 

He gave her a small smile and then turned towards the ghost of his dad. The grownups didn’t say a word to each other, or even dare to make eye contact. 

Osiel looked up at his dad and the waning smile on his lips. 

“Let’s go.” He said, taking his son’s hand while he closed the door behind them. 

The apartment’s complex lights made the building look like a dull green from the inside. Already Osiel was wishing he was back in his grandmother’s apartment and its communal warmth. He kept in his heart the promise of tomorrow night. 

“Osiel.” His father’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Osiel, you’re not going home tonight.”

The seven year old glanced up at his dad as they descended the steps ever so slowly.

“What do you mean?” He asked. 

“Something happened.” His father was looking everywhere but him. 

Osiel was quiet before he tried again. “At the gambling tables?”

He had overheard his grandmother talking to one of her friends about how that was where his dad was if he was ever late picking him up. 

“Yes.” He could practically hear the gulp his dad took. “I messed up, mijo. I lost it all. And now the men who I borrowed from. . . They’ve come to collect.”

“What do you mean?”

They pushed open the entrance door and Osiel had to blink a few times as the air outside whipped at his face. His father’s hand squeezed his hard enough to make him look up. He looked from his dad to the direction of where he was staring, stone faced.

A black limousine was parked right out front. The man that stood by it was large. He could tower over anyone, Osiel guessed. His black suit made him stand out from the neighborhood he was in. His eyes were on Osiel’s dad. Never wavering, always forward. 

“Dad?” Osiel whispered.

He was ignored. “You told me I had until tomorrow.”

“Mr. Castillo was in the neighborhood.” The large man replied. “You’ve had more than enough time.”

“Dad?” Osiel’s voice rose from panic. 

Finally, his father looked down at him. It was then Osiel saw the terror in his father’s eyes. 

“What is happening?” He whispered. “I want to go home.”

His dad dropped to his knees to look Osiel in the eyes on his level. His fingers were shaking as he grasped his little boy by the shoulders. That was when the tears welled up in his eyes and the sweat fell from his brow. 

“You can’t go home, mijo.”

“I want to go ho-.”

“No.” His father shook him just a little. “You. . . you can’t go home. See, I made a deal and I can’t live up to the bargain. But you can.”

Osiel felt tears lifting to the surface as his father’s manic expression. 

“You see, I have to give you up. You have to go with this man and Mr. Castillo for me.”

“Why do I-?”

“Osiel.” His father’s voice was sharp and soft at the same time. “You will be fine.

Won’t he?”

He shouted at the large man. A nod was the only response.

“See?” He was laughing and crying now and Osiel didn’t know how to respond. “So you’ll go with them. It’ll just be for a couple nights. Until I turn my luck around. I always do. . . don’t I?”

Osiel nodded, remembering the last few times that came true. 

“Bueno.” He rose from his spot at Osiel’s eye level and together they walked towards the car. 

The man waiting for them opened the door and Osiel retreated backwards behind his father’s leg. 

The back of the limousine was dark except for one strip of red light below the seats. The shadows made for demons in his mind and he saw from it what appeared to be a man around his father’s age in a black suit also. The silhouette was easy enough to make out and he watched as it lifted a finger to its face. The motion to be quiet. 

His father pushed him forward and into the car. There, Osiel sat on the edge as his father leaned down and held his hands. 

“You can do this, Osiel.” He whispered, trying to look confident. “Remember, it’s just a couple of days. And then, we will be back at abuela’s.”

Osiel opened his mouth to respond, but the man was pulling his father away and shutting the door with a slam. 

Silence, and then the limousine lurched forward as it began its journey. Osiel cowered in the corner closest to the door as he stared at the silhouette of a man. The silhouette never moved and in the red light he could make out more of his features. They stayed like that for a long time while tears clouded Osiel’s eyes as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He sniffed loudly, trying to defy as best he could the man’s request for silence. 

“What is your name?” Finally, it spoke.

The surprise of being spoken to caused Osiel to cough on his own sobs and the silhouette waited patiently for him to calm down. 

“O. . . Osiel.” He whispered. 

The man diagonal from him appeared to nod and remained quiet for a while. 

“That won’t work.” He said matter-of-factly. “We already have a fairly good Osiel.”

“But that’s my name.” 

“We’ll call you something different.” He pushed on as if he hadn’t heard. “Let’s see. . .”

“My name is Osiel.”

“Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “Mateo!”

“That’s not my name!” He shrieked.

Faster than he thought was humanly possible, the man’s hand was around his neck and it was pushing him back into the cushion of the seat. Osiel’s eyes went wide with fear as the shadow loomed over him, blocking his sight and his airway. 

“Listen, little boy.” The man’s voice hissed like a serpent. “You best forget everything you’ve known. Your father has a debt he has to pay to me and the only thing to keep him from dying is your life. Do you understand? He traded your life for his. So, now you’re mine to do with as I please. As such, you will take on a new name.”

Osiel’s small hands grasped at the one crushing his throat, trying to pry it away. It remained there for a minute longer before the man loosened his grip and went to sit back down. 

The rest of the car ride was quiet, with Osiel staring at his assailant and the man staring forward out a blacked out window no one could see out of. 

Brakes squeaked their submission at the sudden stop after several minutes. Then, the large man was opening the door and Osiel was tumbling out. Pebbled gravel met hands and face before he was pulled up. He was pushed to the side so that the one that had calmly almost strangled him could venture out. Standing there, he watched him step out. 

Tall and muscular with a beard hiding a chiseled jaw. Salt and pepper hair was slicked back to give him a more put together look. He was clean cut from the suit to the shoes. Polished up with an air of authority. In the light of the mansion they had just stopped in front of, Osiel could finally see him in all his unholy glory. The eyes of a devil were the ones that glanced down at him. 

“Daddy!” A little girl’s voice shrieked so loudly that it made Osiel jump and look in the direction it was coming from.

A girl that appeared around his age was in hot pink pajamas and her natural waves bounced as she ran from the entry door towards the man next to Osiel. With Osiel watching in shock and disbelief, the man’s lips lifted in a smile and his expression softened to putty at the sight of her. The little girl practically dove into his arms and he chuckled with delight.

“Diana!” His tone was nothing like what he had been like in the limousine. “What are you doing up so late, mi amor?” 

“I had some candy.” The little girl, Diana, giggled as she clutched her father’s neck in a tight squeeze while he held her up. “Mama doesn’t know, so shhhh.”

Diana’s finger lifted to her lips and her father mimicked the motion with his free hand. Osiel’s stomach dropped, flashing back to when the limousine door first opened.  

“Well, we need to get you to bed, princesa.” The man began to walk towards the mansion, leaving Osiel behind with his bodyguard. 

The little girl glanced at her surroundings and finally noticed the boy at her father’s side. “Daddy, who’s that?” She asked, curiosity apparent in her features.

The man turned slightly to look back at Osiel. His black eyes burned holes in Osiel’s skin. It was as if he was daring the boy to make one wrong move, say one wrong thing. Osiel’s hands balled into fists as he felt a strange stirring in his chest for the first time in his life. A new emotion began to rumble beneath the surface.

“Go on.” The man prompted, his voice flat as it was before.

Osiel wanted to open his mouth and shout his name proudly, but there was something in the back of his mind shutting him up. It pleaded with him to remember how he had been gasping for air after defying one statement before. He tried to say it. He tried to find the courage and the will to speak the truth, but he just couldn’t.

He was too scared. Finally, he spat it out.

“I’m Mateo. . . Mateo Sanchez.”

[blondrichclosetwitch]

Real families stick together and see through the mirage

Seems it could be simple if I could just grow up

Angel wings are broken, you have not truly spoken to the ones whose pointed guns have set the sun

I could never hold you in my hands

“Switch on the TV, we may pick him up on Channel 2.”

In dark trees (“is there anything you want to say about in dark trees?” “I see you”)

Beat communication, beat connection

Refuse confusion, diffuse illusion

I know I've never lived before and my heart is very sure no one else could love you more (:38/:23)

When we’re writing all together, I’m a different kind of girl

From stage to stage we flew a drink in every hand, driveway to driveway drunk

And the names were all we knew

“What’s wrong with me?”

It’s a war scene chaos and all that ghosts and shades I can’t get it out of my mind actually

New Orleans….very strange

It’s a grotesque caricature

They call it tv talk

The real gun is in performing (autocorrect)

Let the public decide. 

Welcome back to the fold, the human family embraces you

it’s cycles of nonproductiveness and intense periods of creativity

If you keep saying the same thing over and over it’s bound to get boring

“there’s no plot no story and that’s where it ends. There were four that made it, me and three others. the film took over and went in its own direction and became something a little different.”

“I hear it was really horrible.”

Money does beat soul every time

Not only that it’s a form of communication

“There will probably be a big trial I might even buy a suit to make a good impression of the judge and the jury. Maybe I’ll keep a diary of the whole thing and publish it in Esquire.”

I’ve noticed when people are joking they’re dead serious and when they’re dead serious, they’re actually pretty funny

“The government heard.”

I mean, what kind of kid were you when you were a kid?

What kind of woman would do what you did?

I cursed the gloom that set upon us, but I know that I love you so

It isn't hard to feel me glowing

Young girl side of the road baby

She sings a song and I listen to what it says

It brought peace to my mind in the summertime...

I love her I mean it’s oh so serious as serious as can be 

The number 8 like pretty Kate has sex ornate, now devastate, fabricate, guilt debate, the youth irate.

I woke the same as any other day except a voice was in my head. It said, "Seize the day. Pull the trigger, drop the blade and watch the rolling heads"

Heavenly arms come to my rescue

Every finger in the room is pointing at me

My heart is sick of being in chains

Got enough girls to start my own religion (autocorrect from guilt)

I’m stiff in my tracks, trying to recover from whatever drug you used to put me under.

 that murderer had his chokehold on me 

Now I need you more than ever 

Loneliness will blind you in between the wrong, and the right

You got your demons you got desires well, I got a few of my own

 can’t tell the real from reflection

No Steel reproaches on the table from before

For rumors in the wake of such a lonely crowd, trading in my shelter for danger

“I’m changing my name. “

You just got caught in a game.

She’ll Network till her dreams come true, even if it means getting into bed with you 

I’m not passing judgment on her sexual life; I’m passing judgment on the way she always stuck her knife in my back ever since we were starting out.

When there was no ear to hear you sang to me

In the book of loves own dreams, where all the print is blood, where all the pages are my days, and all my lights grow old

“Well, Janey’s got a cop who lives around the block and checks on her every night. The skin turned pale as the siren (s)he’d wail outside when (s)he knew I was inside.”

You girls mean business, and I do too.

“I’ve seen the storyline, played out so many times before.” (:9/:14)

I can change

It’s just sex and violence, Melody, and silence

 One is on ones knees

Looses one head

Except maybe a… Delicious demon

Then one is no longer.

Both of them side-by-side, so determined

After you trip life opens up, You start doing what you want to do

But you know more than you thought you knew

And you're looking at the world With brand new eyes, And no one can ever spoil the view

You’ve got to open up your mind and let everything come through

nobody deserves to die but you were awful adamant*

(07/:51)

Love's the key to the things that you see

But you don't mind moving

From you, I get the story

I trip, we box up crazy bitches aiming guns in all my baby pictures

Beef with housing police, release scriptures that's maybe Hitler's

My strength, my son, the star, will be my resurrection

[mr-m-murdock]

to play the fool pt 2

| natasha x fem!reader | request by @strangegardentaco | part one, three

warnings: injuries, idiots, claustrophobia tw

a/n: I know I wrote this but DAMN just kiss already

You don’t see her again for almost a week after that. It drives you a little crazy, because you know she’s looking out for you and has probably been within feet of you at one point without you noticing, but won’t show herself.

She does seek you out eventually, though. You’re watching a police car whine its way downtown below you when you hear a light thump of feet, and you know Natasha has just landed behind you.

“Evening,” you say shortly.

“Blast of cold air much?” she asks, settling down beside you.

“I know you’ve been following me,” you say. You turn to look at her, narrowing your eyes to catch any semblance of guilt flashing across her face, but all she does is blink innocently back at you.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says blankly. Before you can argue, she says, “Anyway, I’m here to warn you, not entertain your paranoia.”

“Oh yeah?” you grunt, turning your attention to the street below. You try to ignore the frustration gathering beneath your skin.

“Yeah. We’ve got intel that means you need to stay away from the Empire State building on Friday,” she says.

“What intel?” you ask sharply. “Stay away?”

“None of your business,” Natasha says smoothly. “And yes, stay away. Because we have it under control.”

“The Empire State building? But there’ll be so many people-”

“Like I said,” Natasha says, through closed teeth. “We have it under control.”

“Right,” you say, your frustration building to spite. “Like you had that robot infestation under control.”

“Until you turned up,” Natasha says coolly. This enrages you even more, and your hands fist on your knees.

“Fine,” you say, teeth gritted. “Whatever.”

“Oh, you want to get mashed by the Hulk before you even have the chance to introduce yourself, do you?” Natasha asks - it almost sounds like a taunt.

“No I don’t want to get mashed by the Hulk, Romanoff,” you snap back. “You can fuck off now, if you want.” She’s stiffly silent beside you for a second.

“Right,” she says. “Message received.” And when you look around, she’s gone.

Maybe if she had a little more faith in you, you wouldn’t be so angry. But come on, she’s the Black Widow. It’s not like you even have a chance of ever being on her level: of course she’s not impressed with you.

With a long-suffering sigh, you lever yourself off the edge of the roof and get to work.

Friday comes with bright blue skies and fire engines. You don’t register it at first, half-asleep brushing your teeth at the bathroom sink, but then the high whine and whoop of the sirens passes right by your window, and you jolt awake. You rush to the window to see the fire engines rushing past in droves, lights going, cars skirting left and right.

You lunge into your kitchen and flick the radio on.

“Panic in Manhattan today as fire spreads downtown from the Empire State building. Fire engines have been scrambled and an evacuation issued a kilometre wide. The New York City subway service has been drawn to a stop all through Manhattan, and commuters are encouraged to steer clear of the evacuation area. Firefighters are working hard to stop the fire from spreading, and there have been rumours of the Avengers on the scene. Over to-”

You switch the radio off. There’s no point stewing about the situation if the minute you try and help, you might be blasted into the next century. Fucking Avengers.

Muttering under your breath, you tug on your clothes and head to work.

Soon enough, it’s five in the evening and when you get home and switch on the TV, CNN is live streaming the Empire State building debacle. There’s rubble and fire everywhere, the tower still miraculously standing. The camera focuses shakily on Captain America’s dirt and ash-streaked face as he surveys the situation, panting hard.

“-all the New York heroes have come out to play,” announces the reporter gleefully. “Look at that, even Spider-Man is here, haven’t seen that guy in a while-”

You grab the remote and turn the damn thing off. Silence permeates your apartment like syrup. The sun is blank and white amongst the apartment blocks outside your window, and the sky is the colour of ash. It’s probably because of the fire. You sigh and slump back against the couch.

Maybe you should go. Not to get involved, just to sit somewhere out of sight and watch until the whole event gets too much for everyone. Maybe you’ll be forced to step in. You cast a long glance at your dresser, which is just visible past your bedroom door a few metres away.

It doesn’t take you long to get dressed. Thank God, your ankle is healed now, and you slip out of your window and down the wall with no trouble. Manhattan is a little while away, but you can fly: you like to fly. It’ll be fun.

You land haphazardly on a rooftop in the smoke ten minutes later, and within seconds you’re hacking up coughs, even through your mask. It’s much worse than the news is making it out to be, and that’s saying something. The whole place is orange, buildings mere shapes in the gloom, only broken by the flash of fire engine lights and the shouts of rescuers down below. Your eyes start to stream with tears as you struggle to make out what’s happening. It’s odd. It’s like they’re fighting a forest fire, not a supervillain. And they’re losing, apparently. The smoke is engulfing everything.

Though Natasha never actually said anything about a supervillain.

There. You see a shadow dart over the rubble on the ground, and you know it’s her, even from this distance. You sit back, content to let the Avengers do their thing, for once.

As you watch, the evening comes on, and nothing seems to be getting better. The flames and smoke are still high, the screams of civilians and the roars of orders still permeate the thick air. You begin to get restless.

“I told you to stay away.”

You spin, startled, to see Natasha standing above you, her pale face and her suit streaked with ash and dust. Her mouth is set in a thin line. There’s blood dried over a thin cut on her cheek. You rise to your feet.

“I am away. I’m just watching.”

She raises her eyebrows wearily at you. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Didn’t wanna sit at home like an idiot,” you say with a shrug.

“I see,” she replies. “So you’re going to sit here like an idiot. You know, you’re just one more casualty if this building goes up, too.”

You bristle at the tone of her voice. “I can handle myself,” you snap.

“You’ll only get in the way, I don’t need you on my mind as well. So go home,” Natasha replies, with a bite in the words. She’s not too weary to argue, then.

“And do what?” you reply, stepping up to her in your anger. “Why do you think I made this suit, so I could sit on my couch and watch shit go down? What if one of you gets injured? I defend this city, too!”

Natasha observes you for a long, tense moment. “I said we can handle it,” she says, her voice flat. Stubborn. “Go home. For your own safety.” You open your mouth to protest again, but she’s already turned around, and she walks without looking back.

“I’m not leaving!” you yell, desperate to have the last word. She disappears into the smoke.

Maybe to spite her, or prove something to her, or whatever, you decide to slip down to ground level. No one sees you through the smoke, and no one cares: ha. Mashed by the Hulk, your ass.

You crouch behind an overturned dumpster to watch, the smoke stinging your eyes. Maybe you need a film over your eyeholes, like Spider-Man.

You don’t have time to ruminate on it because suddenly the ground ripples with a sound like a thunderclap, and the dumpster is ripped off the ground and goes flying past your head, leaving you completely exposed. You’re thrown backwards and slammed back against the concrete. Your head spins. Your ears ring. You try to breathe, the wind knocked out of you.

Slowly, you come back to your senses. Your hearing returns in cuts and whines. You raise your head and feel warm blood soak your nostrils, your upper lip. The ground is still trembling beneath you and you cling to it, your head throbbing. Fires flare in little pockets all around, the air still dry and brittle, sucked clear of spray from fire hoses.

You hear the thud of feet.

You look up and you see Natasha: just a shape in the gloom with a flash of a red ponytail. She’s running across the ruined ground, stumbling as the ground warps beneath her feet. She yells something, a word, the sound jumbled in your head. She’s angry, desperate. She’s limping as she runs.

You want to warn her: of what, you don’t know. But she’s exposed and upright, a perfect target.

That’s when the second wave hits. The ground bursts open around Natasha, great slabs of rock soaring upwards towards the sky. You slide backwards amongst the gravel, scrabbling at the erupting ground to keep yourself from being thrown backwards.

The rumbling ceases. When you dare to look up, the ground is a heap of huge concrete slabs, rubble, dust settling in waves. And Natasha is gone.

A second later, you hear a whoosh and a roar, and flames leap towards the sky once more, spreading across the ground. Your brain takes a second to register this, even as the heat hits you like a wave. You blink, slowly, tears filling your eyes, expecting Captain America to leap through the flames after her, or for her to come rushing through the thick smoke. Nothing happens.

You wait, begging the world to change, the future to shift. But the place is silent now, save for the crackle of fire. No shouts, no commands given.

You can’t leave her down there.

You get to your feet with difficulty, still breathing hard, grazes all down your legs and sides. You stagger forward on shaky knees, skirting little pockets of flame. You’re going in blind: you have no idea who they’re fighting or what the hell just happened but you know there’s no way you’re sitting by and watching now.

You reach the pile of rubble and pause to catch your breath in shallow little sips. Your side aches. You reach out and press a hand against the rock: it’s warm through your gloves.

“Natasha?” you call, tentatively. Your voice emerges hoarse and cracked.

“Step away,” comes a deep voice from behind you. You spin, alarmed, hands up in front of you and ready to gather a blast of electricity. Hawkeye levels an arrow at you evenly. His arms are streaked with ash and blood, his hair wet with it. He’s favouring his right leg, unsteady on his feet. But his aim never wavers.

“I’m not your enemy,” you say. Hawkeye opens and closes one eye, shifting his aim almost imperceptibly.

“Funny you should say that, since I don’t even know who we’ve been fighting this whole time,” he replies. “And here you are. Right place, right time. Now step away.”

Frustration builds and builds, sparking at your fingertips. Why does this happen? How can they be so dense? “No,” you snap. “I am not going to fight you.”

“Then you’re going to take an arrow to the eye,” Hawkeye replies. His lips are wet with blood.

“You’re wasting time,” you growl. “Natasha’s in there. I’m going to get her out.” His eyes narrow, the bowstring tightening.

“You’re not going anywhere near her,” he spits.

“For fuck’s sake!” you exclaim. “What is the matter with you people? I’m trying to help you!”

“So get facedown on the ground before I shoot you!” Hawkeye replies. His arm is trembling, the arrow ready to loose.

With a yell of anger, you thrust your arm out: a stream of energy bursts from your fingertips and blasts him right in the chest, throwing him off his feet. When you relent, chest heaving, he sprawls backwards on the ground, bow clattering beside him, and he doesn’t get up.

No time to consider the outcome of that terrible decision. You turn back to the heap of rock and scan it, your heart pounding. There’s a little opening a few feet to your left, a chunk of darkness barely visible through the smoke. Your eyes sting. You move up to it, shove your hands into it to feel it out. The walls of it are rough and narrow, sharp cold rock.

There’s no time to be cautious now. Natasha is in there. You swallow your hesitation and thrust yourself head and shoulders first into the crack, and pull yourself all the way in.

It’s pitch black inside. You feel your feet drag past the opening and although you can’t look back over your shoulder to check, you can feel that you’ve been swallowed. You prop yourself up on your elbows, panting hard. Your hair sticks to your forehead.

You begin to inch forward, the rough ground digging into you at all angles: there’ll be bruises tomorrow, big fat purple ones. The tunnel swells and tightens and rises and falls as you struggle deeper in, pausing every few feet to listen, the darkness absolute and almost overwhelming.

At one point, it’s wide enough to crouch, the rubble loose beneath your palms, and you look over your shoulder. Nothing but darkness, like a pressure on your eyes. Panic seizes you by the throat like a clawed hand, and it’s suddenly swelteringly hot in the tunnel, your skin crawling, your hands clenching in the dirt. You feel a cry build up in your chest and you stuff a gloved fist into your mouth to keep it from erupting. Your chest grows tight. Your head spins, the rock harsh against your bruised knees.

You don’t know how long you kneel there, whimpering into your knuckles in panic, but at some point your mind clears. Maybe it’s the thought of Natasha’s eyes narrowed in anger as she spits the words I don’t need you on my mind as well right in your face. There are tear tracks drying on your cheeks: you don’t remember crying. Doesn’t matter now. Natasha matters.

You begin to crawl forward again.

The tunnel widens as you move, blindly feeling your way with palms skinned even through your gloves, fingernails cracked from scrambling in the rough dirt. You can feel blood on your hands. Eventually, you gain the courage to speak, to call for her. “Natasha,” you say, and your voice emerges from your throat hoarse and tired. It vanishes into the dark ahead of you. You must be deep into the rubble now. You can hear water dripping, smell gas. You wouldn’t dare a spark now, not even to light your way.

The walls of the tunnel drop away, the ceiling still painfully low. You come to a stop, still on all fours, and search through the gravelly floor with your hands. Nothing but cool soil and stone. The air is still stiflingly warm, though.

It strikes you, the absurdity of this. You dived headfirst into a pitch black hole to search for a single woman, when you have no idea the magnitude or even the faintest clue of the threat you’re facing, the threat that blew the ground below the Empire State building to pieces. No one knows.

But to be fair, you’ve never been one for caution.

You shift yourself to a sitting position, so you’re angled feet first into this new, wide unknown. Fear rises for a sharp second: what if you can’t find the tunnel again? What if you never get out?

“Natasha,” you say, speaking over your own thoughts.

In the darkness, an answering groan. Your heart lifts like a kite on the wind, stupidly. It might not even be her- but you know her voice. You know it far too well.

“I’m here!” you exclaim, shifting forwards. She’s not been crushed under eight feet of rock. Yet. “Where are you?”

A grunt. You angle towards it and shuffle faster, the ground sharp and uncomfortable beneath you. Rocks clatter in the dark ahead.

Your name, spoken in a gasp. She’s right there. Blindly, you reach out a hand and feel warmth, the smoothness of her suit smeared with blood and grime. “That’s my ass,” she mumbles. Mortified, you instantly snatch your hand back.

“Sorry,” you say. “Sorry, sorry-” Your heart is thundering in your chest, excitement, relief, embarrassment.

“Shut up. Where’s your hand?” Her fingers grope blindly over your knee, hit the ground, inch towards your hand. You grip her by the wrist. Her fingers flex against you. “Pull,” she says.

“Pardon?”

“Pull. I’m stuck.”

You frown at nothing. “Under what?”

“A rock. I don’t know,” Natasha replies impatiently. “Hurry, we gotta get her out of here.”

“Let me find it,” you say. “I’ll move it.” You pause. “Wait, her?”

“A kid,” Natasha says. “You think I ran into that fucking explosion willingly?”

“A kid?” you exclaim. “I thought there was an evacuation-”

She says your name, her voice hard. “Hurry,” she repeats urgently.

“Right,” you say. “Right.” You pull yourself together. “What part of you is stuck?”

“Leg,” Natasha says. She must have been hiding it before, but now you can hear easily that her voice is strained with pain. “Below the knee. Please hurry up.”

You reach out and your hand lands on her thigh, the back of her knee. Your knuckles collide with a large slab of concrete. Natasha’s breaths hiss in and out, barely audible.

“Got it,” you say. “When I lift, you move. The ceiling’s low but there’s nothing around you. Just crawl.” You hook your hands under the slab. With the sheer adrenaline feeding your body right now, you can do anything.

“Okay,” Natasha says. Her voice is impossibly small.

You brace yourself into a crouch, head bent against the ceiling, and lift with your legs. The slab creaks, groans, and rises. “Go,” you say through gritted teeth, straining with every muscle in your back, your thighs, your calves. You hear Natasha squirm against the ground and you keep the slab there, until you're sure she’s gone, even as your muscles burn and your bones ache and sweat drips into your mouth. You drop the slab, barely missing your toes in the dark. “Natasha,” you say, collapsing back onto your ass.

“I’m here,” she says. You shake off the exhaustion.

“Okay.” You try to wipe your face, only for your hand to hit your mask. “Where’s this kid?”

“Got her.” You hear her shuffle closer, until you’re shoulder to shoulder. Her breath lands hot on your neck above your suit collar. She sounds exhausted, and she’s dragging her leg. Understandable. “Here, take her.” Fumbling, she presses the child into your arms, and God, it’s a baby. Heavy, awake, snuffling, hands grasping in the dark. Maybe eighteen months old. You grab it and hold it the way you would when you were younger, when babies got passed around at family occasions, their big heads heavy in the crook of your arm.

“Okay,” you say. You don’t know how you’re going to get this child back through that godforsaken tunnel. You don’t even know where the tunnel is anymore. Somewhere behind you. “Nat, give me your hand. Let’s find the tunnel.” She doesn’t answer, and when you search for her, you realise she’s fallen back onto the ground, lying there, breaths laboured. “Nat,” you say. Fear rises. She doesn’t respond. She’s the only damn reason you came down here in the first place, in this hot, hellish dark. “Nat,” you say, your voice rising.

“Godammit, take the fucking kid and get out of here,” she breathes, a bite still in her voice.

“I came for you,” you insist. Your eyes are watering.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. The words are little more than puffs of air. “I can’t make it that far.”

“Nat,” you say, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes. “You’re the only good one. We can’t lose you.” I can’t lose you.

“Fuck off,” she says, softly, seriously. “Are you fucking kidding me? Just let me have this, for Christ’s sake.” Something shifts in the dark, the groan of rock against rock. You twist, staring uselessly around. “It’s coming down,” Natasha pants. “Go on. If you don’t go I’ll kill you myself.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you for making me do this.” The tears come freely now, an ache like a bullet hole in your chest.

“Fuck you too,” she says. You find her hand and grip it. The child shifts in your arms, whining against your chest.

“I’ll come back for you,” you say. Her hand is limp and lifeless. Your hand travels up her arm, to find her face; it's warm and wet. Tears or blood - same as you. You press your cheek to hers and when she speaks, almost too quiet to hear, her jaw moves against your face and you feel her voice in your skull.

“You’d better fucking not.” She's shaking against you.

“I will,” you say. More rock shifting and sliding. You squeeze her hand and pull away, even as it pains you. “I’ll be back in a minute.” You leave her before she can argue. You leap away, on two legs and one hand, your spine scraping the ceiling and the baby snug against your chest. You find the tunnel like you’re magnetised to it, a circular opening, and it feels horribly small as you tuck yourself into it. The baby whimpers when you drop to your hands and knees. “It’s alright,” you say, cradling her. You begin to crawl, feeling out the walls. “I got you. We’re gonna get outta here.” You keep talking the whole way, even when your breath is coming in short bursts, even through the narrow stretches where you have to set the baby down and push her along ahead of you, trying desperately to ignore her cries of protest.

When the dull, smoky light of the outside shows like a pinprick in the distance, you almost weep with relief. You drag yourself the rest of the way and when the opening widens to swallow you, you tumble head first onto the ground, sucking in air with the baby wrapped in both arms. The light is an onslaught, a relief, like water on desert parched lips. You feel a sob erupt from your chest, more tears.

Someone grips your shoulder and weakly, you twist away from them. “Hey.”

“Hey, fuck off,” you mumble, one hand protectively over the baby’s head. “I’ll blast you. I can do it.”

“Yeah, I know that,” they say dryly. You squint upwards. Hawkeye is eyeing you from above, his face in anxious twists. “Gimme the kid,” he says.

You hand him the baby and she grabs at you as she’s lifted away. “You’re alright,” you say. Her face is smeared with dust. You did good.

“You did good,” says Hawkeye. His voice is tentative.

Natasha.

Your heart drops like a stone with a splash into your stomach. You try to scramble upright, but where is up? Your hands scrabble in the dirt. “Natasha,” you blurt.

“Hey, hold on,” Hawkeye says, and you launch yourself right back into the tunnel. It’s a miracle you manage to get yourself in: the world is spinning every which way and Hawkeye’s hands are on your shoulders, your ankles, but you kick him away and soon you’re crawling back down that hellish wormhole, your breath hot on your hands.

The fear sets in again about a third of the way in. Panic in your throat, your stomach, seizing at your spine like whipcords. It’s different this time, feral, sending you scrambling like a mad rabbit down the tunnel with tears and snot on your face, bile on your tongue. You can’t do it, won’t make it, but you must. And you burst into the opening with the sound of rockfall in your ears, your hands numb and wet with blood.

“Natasha!” you rasp. No, she won’t hear you now. She’ll be drifting in and out of consciousness, easily slipping away. You crawl towards where you know you found her before, hands patting every inch of ground. The place is coming apart around you, dust choking the air and forcing dry fingers down your throat.

Your hand finds an arm. A shoulder. Half buried in gravel and soil. You grab at her waist and heave, pulling her out. You can’t tell where your strength is coming from: desperation, perhaps. “I told you I’d come back,” you say, the words a gasp. Of course, she doesn’t reply.

The next few minutes is a smudge of time, blurred like the wash of buildings outside a car window in the rain. It’s dark and hot, it’s Natasha’s terrifyingly heavy and cumbersome body in your hands. It’s dragging her down that tight tunnel with oxygen always tantalisingly out of reach. It’s smoke in your lungs. Tears on your face. Your voice, barely even your own any more, billowing in your mouth and forcing out incoherent babble.

When your feet hit the ground and the light hits your eyes, you are alone. Hawkeye is gone. You give an almighty tug and Natasha’s body slithers from the tunnel. She lands across your chest, forcing the air from your lungs once again. You wrap arms around her, twist and shove her off.

The sky is a dull grey - but that’s not the sky, is it? It’s smoke. You can hear the fire, sparks and grease turned flame.

A shadow steps into your view. The click of metal. You close your eyes: Hawkeye’s come back for you.

“Give me the child,” says the shadow, and you open your eyes again.

Not Hawkeye.

The shadow squats, a hood coming into a blurred view. Something cool and round rests against your forehead. “I’m going to decorate the ground with your brains unless you come to your senses and tell me where she is,” says the shadow. Hard voice, like treated wood. You register this slowly. Your arms are still wrapped loosely around Natasha’s torso.

“Fuck you,” you mumble. You hear a hammer cocked.

“Fine,” says the shadow. “I don’t need you anyway, whoever you are.”

It must be reflex. It must be the last of your energy. Through slitted eyes, you see a burst and crackle of light, feel the heat coming from your own head. The beam cuts through the shadow’s hood, the head jerks back, the gun goes off. The shadow falls. Crumples on the ground beside you.

Silence.

“Ha,” you say weakly, as your eyes return to their normal state. You sigh, feel something wet on your lips. “That was cool.”

No one comes for you. You lie there, hear sirens in the distance, the gush of fire hoses. The shadow lies dead beside you: you don’t register this - the death, the murder, the gun still hot in their hand.

Instead, when it becomes clear that you are on your own, you get to your feet, as if in some kind of dream. You drape Natasha’s arm over your shoulder. Even if you were in the right mind, you wouldn’t dare to look over at her pallid face or check her pulse. She’s alive. She has to be.

The two of you take to the skies.

requests | masterlist

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @fayhar @maggieromanov @transbi-spidey @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizlil @screechcat @maddess @mellxa @haeva @diaryoflife @natashasilverfox @vicmc624 @strangegardentaco @phantomvael @lorsstar1st @rysnwilder @ima-gi–na-tion @paryl @picnicmic  @smallestavenger @lainjupi   @d1s0nym @simpforflorencepugh1 @the-v01d @kqmui @s1ut4nat @btay3115 @emril-osvigne

notes: okay so part 3... I PROMISE I’ll be quicker this time. PLEASE REBLOG PRETTY PLEASE

[five-rivers]

Angelus

For @gamma-radio-dp and @kiinotasha

.

It had been a long time since the last truly quiet night in Amity Park, the last night when the skies were empty of anything but clouds and no alarms, sirens, or ectoplasmic zings filled the air, the last night when all its residents were able to sleep deeply, without it being a ghostly plot.  They took advantage of it and enjoyed it immensely.  

But when they woke up, they had to wonder if they shouldn’t have been at least a little suspicious.

.

Danny had a habit of looking up when he went outside.  This was mostly because of ghost attacks, but also because people looking to mess with the ‘local crackpots’ (or just Danny) used to rig pranks to the door (which had, incidentally, fueled Jack’s tendency to answer the door with a ectogun in hand and blame random things on ghosts).

This meant that he saw the… thing almost immediately.  

He took several steps back.  “What is that?” 

“A ghost?” called Jack from the kitchen.  

“Uh,” said Danny, eyes still fixed on the sky.  “No.”  No, he was fairly certain what he was looking at wasn’t a ghost.  Yes, it was out of range of his ghost sense, but he was still, somehow, absolutely sure it was not a ghost.  Or a half ghost, for that matter, although that thought was ridiculous on the surface of it.  

No.  It wasn’t a ghost.  

Still.  

“You guys had better come see this.”

.

The thing in the sky over Amity Park was huge.  So big it was hard to really comprehend as a thing that was actually there.  It didn’t look real, and not in the way that ghosts sometimes didn’t look real, lacking substance and texture, but more because of the way its edges were sharp but faded from distance, from the way it hung suspended in the air, from its detailing.  

As for its shape…  It was roughly humanoid, with giant feathered white wings alternately wrapped around itself and spread wide.  From Danny’s perspective, he could count at least six, but he thought there might be more.  The rest of its body was covered with a kind of armor that included a featureless mask.  Something like horns spiraled from its helm.  

It was upside down.  Head pointed at Amity Park.

Distantly, Danny could hear people shouting about the apocalypse, shouting about angels and demons and the end of things, shouting about ghosts and about how this was just too much.  

Danny rather agreed with that last one.  This was too much.  

“--the figure in the sky appeared sometime last night, between the hours of two and four AM,” said the TV.  “No one is sure how it arrived, and we have yet to receive any reports of a person seeing it arrive.  Thus far, it hasn’t made any aggressive moves or attempts to communicate.”

He walked back to the couch and sat down.  Jack and Maddie were in the kitchen arguing about whether or not and how to shoot the thing.  Apparently, something the size of a mountain gave even them pause.  

The ticker at the bottom of the TV screen read out the names of schools that had canceled classes.  He watched the band go across rather dispiritedly.  

Danny had done a lot of things for this town.  Vortex, Undergrowth, Nocturne, and Pariah Dark had all been really big, but they’d been, at most, skyscraper big. 

This was a lot bigger, and it wasn’t even a ghost.  

Really, it was too much.

Jazz sat down next to him.  “I was worried you’d sneak out.”

“Still might,” mumbled Danny.  “Just.  You know.  To go up there and see what it wants.”

“You think it wants something?”

“It’s got to, right?”

“Hm,” said Jazz.  “I suppose.  It could also just… be there.  Passing through.”

Danny gave her a look.  “I’m not going to be picking a fight with something that could level the whole town just by falling.  It could probably crush all of downtown with its foot.”  He slouched down.  “Maybe I should just leave it alone.”

“Sadly,” said Jazz, “if you don’t do something, someone else will.”  She tilted her head at the kitchen significantly.  “You know what they’re like, and you know what the GIW are like.  Plus, they have those hovercraft things.  I’m not saying you have to do anything.  I’d actually like it if you didn’t, but…”

But then he’d have to live with the results.  Overall, Danny was action-oriented.  He preferred to do something rather than to not do something.  

“I guess there’s Vlad, too,” said Danny.  “Even as a human, he’s got those helicopters.”

“He’d probably work with you on this,” said Jazz.  

“Yeah, and then he’d ditch me as soon as it got too hard for him.  That’s what he always does.”  He stood up.  “Cover for me?” 

“Always.”

.

As Danny got closer, the thing in the sky got bigger and bigger.  Which was, of course, how perspective worked, but Danny had been hoping it had been closer than it looked and, thus, smaller.  But it was, in fact, farther away than it looked.  

Danny thought this was unfair.  

With his eyes fixed on it as his destination, he also saw how still it was.  It didn’t move or breathe.  The wind didn’t ruffle its feathers.  It added to the air of unreality.  

Speaking of the air, it was also… humming.  No, that was the wrong word for it, but it certainly had some similarities to sound, whatever it was.  An energy that wasn’t physical, but also wasn’t emotion or ectoplasm or anything like that.  

He stopped.  

He was probably within shouting distance now, right?  Assuming this could even hear him.  His voice might be too quiet to make its eardrums vibrate, assuming it had eardrums.  

“HELLO,” he called, the faintest touch of his ghostly wail leaking in.  He paused, waiting to see if there was a response.  

There wasn’t.  At least, there wasn’t a physical, visible response.  Whatever feeling was in the air intensified.  Danny felt uncomfortably aware of his own skin.  Between his back started to itch to the point where he looked around to see if there was anyone behind him.  

There wasn’t.  

He turned back.  

“WE WERE WONDERING WHAT YOU WANTED.”  He paused again, more from uncertainty than anything else.  “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

This time, there was movement.  Movement that looked agonizingly slow, but only by virtue of how big the thing was.  Two of its wings unfurled, freeing a hand that pointed down.  

At the city?

Danny looked down, trying to determine if it meant the city in general, or if it was pointing at some specific building or–

But then the sensation spilling over his body became too much to ignore, and he curled in on himself, his gloves the only things keeping him from digging furrows into his back.  What was this, some kind of supernatural radiation?

Oh, gosh, this was some kind of supernatural radiation.  He should probably leave, like, right now.

He should be flying away right now.  

Why wasn’t he flying away?

He looked up.  

The other thing the hand could possibly be pointing at was him.  

His eyes rolled back in his head.  

.

Phantom’s approach was, of course, filmed and broadcasted.  Vlad watched.  No need to put himself at risk when the boy was perfectly willing to do it for him.  

He watched the tiny, blurry picture of Phantom come to a stop, then seem to shout at the angel-like figure.  He watched as Phantom curled into a tiny ball, then went limp.  

He watched as Phantom fell. 

“Fudge buckets.”  A fall from that height would be unpleasant even if Daniel managed to keep hold of his ghost half.  

If he didn’t…

Vlad was phasing through his ceiling before the wine glass he’d been holding hit the floor.  

.

The eyes of Amity Park were on Phantom as he fell.  Perhaps that’s why no one immediately noticed the giant creature that had been hanging over their heads all day simply vanishing.

But perhaps the true reason was something else, something more related to the being’s nature, whatever it had been.  

It was impossible to tell. 

.

Vlad caught Daniel.  It was a near thing, and Vlad wasn’t experienced with catching people falling from the sky at speed, but he did do it, and Daniel’s back didn’t break or anything.  

He would have to count this incident as something to lord over Daniel in the future.  

In the meantime, Daniel was spasming, as if he was having a seizure.  It was remarkably inconvenient, and also troubling, because Vlad hadn’t thought that half ghosts could have seizures while transformed.  

He adjusted his grip on Daniel and noticed–

Pausing mid-air, he turned Daniel over.  There, on Daniel’s back, small but unmistakable, were six snow-white wings. 

[itsthe-neo-zone]

[03:18PM] ~ Park Jongseong x Reader, Apocalypse au

You didn’t want to live with the misery of regretting everything.

But that all went out the window as soon as the apocalypse began.

2 weeks, it’s been 13 whole days and 12 nights since the whole world decided to end itself.

The reason? An outbreak, a malicious deadly disease terraforming the earth in its own way. Killing everyone and everything with it. And when you say terraforming you mean turning us all against each other.

You regretted waking up that Wednesday morning, regretted getting out of bed, not hugging your mother in your arms longer and giving your family a proper farewell.

You were in school when it happened your district sounding the sirens, mid-week morning meaning you were in the dinner halls, you heard the sirens and all hell broke loose, the diners small tv monitor picked up an emergency broadcast.

Shaking your head subconsciously you drifted your mind away from what happened. It had been difficult thinking the past few days, even eating was becoming a luxury at times.

Like now, you’ve been wandering empty suburb streets looking for something to sustain yourself, where you were looked to be like a neighbouring district, but you weren’t sure, the sign posts were all ripped down to make any form of defence weapon, supplies were scarce at this point.

The scent on you was horrid but not as putrid as the stench of rotting corpses filing the earth. You stopped turning to look around you. The street was dusted with ruined houses all damaged and crumbled to the grounds.

Maybe you could crash into an abandoned one, maybe there was food and maybe you’d finally be able to use an actual bathroom. Your stomach grumbled with delight at the thought of food.

As you were about to pull the rusting metal rod in your hand towards the nearest property you heard a shrieking ear deafening pop,

The blood hit your brain, adrenaline began quickly building up inside you, like a band slowly stretching about to snap, your heart rattling in your chest. It tightened slightly. You swayed slightly from the shock of adrenaline hitting your numb body.

You swiftly turned to see nothing behind you but a pelleted bullet, someone around you had a weapon, and their target? You.

You began seeing the blurred edges of your sight return a sign to take response. Fight or flight. You chose the latter feeling weaker than expected. Heading outwards past the last few properties your best hope was to lose your hunter out in the wilderness.

Brushing past leaves twigs and the thicket of the edges of the lush greenery you low down once you’re no longer hearing bullets trailing after you. It was quiet

Almost too quiet to be normal. You push yourself up against a tree, straining your breath to regulate faster than it should. You regretted being stupid to do that too as you felt the persisting tickle at the back of your throat.

It let a much needed cough to begin crawling up your oesophagus. Shutting your eyes for a moment you stiffened your lips slightly holding it back. Why now of all times, you’d been surviving fine…

You could hear a slight crunch of foliage under careful feet, slowly creeping up on you.

You’d be done for this time if they did have a weapon. Trembling fingers dug into the metallic rod in your palms, they’d make indents from how hard you were gripping.

Feeling your chest tighten a little. The metal was starting to feel slippery in between clammy fingers but you held it to your face keeping your stance ready.

You were scared, no, terrified even. But that didn’t mean you were going to give up so easily. You wanted to survive, you had to.

Ironic.

A few weeks you were ready to give up on life itself.

As you sighed, you prepared to turn and show yourself but as you made a move you felt something restrict your breath and pull you away from the edge of the tree. You didn’t have your hand on your mouth though.

It was a foreign feeling but it was something you greeted with open arms, it was warm, and you forgot the caress of another on your cold stiff body.

Caress of another? It wasn’t my hands.

Gunshots sounded across the clearing you hid from. Disturbing screeches of birds fleeted from above. A harsh thump fell to the floor. A limp body.

But it wasn’t yours. You still had a chance.

Eyes widening, you registered the figure behind you keeping you hold in a strong grip.

The surging boost of energy you had left pushed you to kick with your feet. Backwards tripping up your attacker. The gunshots stopped but you were sure it was them, not just one but 2, maybe more…

The figure fell back unable to balance themselves but you were pulled back, you pushed yourself out of their hold, they pulled away regained their stance before attacking you from your side,

the male twisted his arm around your head and the other at your waist holding your arms down. He was agile and had strength but you managed to be faster. Quickly thinking, you moved.

Digging your elbow into their side hitting them right beneath their rib cage.

Bingo,

you heard a slight grunt they pushed away from you trying to recover.

You turned grabbing the rod, eyes shaking to survey the sight before you. It was just one, you swing your arms back getting ready to attack.

“Stop!” A strained call out towards your direction, but you faltered, it wasn’t for you? He directed it behind you falling back slightly. You turned to see another male.

Eyes trained like he was about to pounce on his prey. What was more horrifying was the gun now in his hold pointed directly at you.

“Don’t, Jake, she’s harmless.”

His arms stayed firmly ahead of him holding the weapon. “Harmless my ass, you were about to lose your head,” his fingers wavered.

“Just listen to me.” The guy stood up. You noticed the tattered and beaten up clothes they wore, rips and smears all over each article. Dried blood splattered across parts of their body. Judging by the colour it wasn’t from today.  

The combat boots the two wore made you think twice about setting down your weapon as you remained in your stance.

But their eyes and faces showed different,

They were anxious, in pain, alert like you.

“Idiot.” He dropped his arms. Mumbling before walking towards the other who was now slowly guiding himself down by supporting himself on the tree.

His face was etched with strain. And for a second you felt a pang of regret. You shrugged the feeling away watching the two converse.

“Are you survivors?” you swayed slightly, pressing forward kept your feet stable you regrated the shakiness your voice had, first people you spoke to in a while and you sound like you were about to cry.

“Just barely,” one huffed, “As I said he was about to lose his head.” The one named Jake turned from tending to his friend and shot you a dirty glare.

Jakes eyes were intense and focused, he didn’t flit nor shy away. Pressing further. You subconsciously step back, eyes looking past him and towards his friend.

“I had to protect myself.” You pull your arms downwards stepping out of the position and lowering your guard slightly.

“Mhm, sure.” He muttered. He turned back lifting the others shirt. A long tear in the seamless skin ran down the males side. It wasn’t bleeding, it looked like it was an old scar. Just barely healed.

“You’re, fine,”

“She had, shit, every right to do that.” The other caught his breath then spoke.

“Right.” Jake pressed his lips into a thin line. It looked like he wasn’t having any of that, his jaw clenched, he was stopping himself from speaking any further.

Standing up and walking past you. He glanced at you up and down before moving back to the clearing.

“Sorry about that,” the boy sitting at the bottom of the tree pushed himself to try getting to his feet, you stared cautiously your fingers tingling to help him, so now you were starting to get your humanity back? Where was this feeling a few days ago?

The fliting sound of slipping feet against the rough terrain is what brought your focus back as you moved to assist him. He groaned.

His eyes caught yours, cautious and foreign, was this just the way he looked at people him or was he anxious to be around you.  

“I’ll … uh.” Your hand waivered, before holding his free arm. “I’ll help you.”

“Um… Thanks.” He nodded clenching his jaw he pushed himself up with your help.

“I’m jay.” His lips pressed into a thin line the edges pushing upwards slightly as he nodded, he stayed silent for a second. You figured out this was an introduction a few seconds late, sucking in a quick breath you mumbled.

“Ah i- yeah…. I’m _____ .” your face tensed up. Jay flashed you a lopsided smile.

“Sorry about earlier, I had to make sure you didn’t interfere while Jake finished up with—uh…”

“Were you the—” you paused. How were you going to ask him if he was the one that was chasing you. How do you word that without sounding weird. “the… I was—”

“You mean the gunshots?” he mumbled.

You quickly nodded giving yourself a mini headache at the fast movement.

“No, we were… in the distance, yeah, when we heard the sound. Just me and Jake.” He lead you to the clearing.

You were slowly introduced into the new space, you watched Jake push the body dressed in black to the side. There was someone following you his face hidden beneath the mask.

“Found all this.” He kicked at the floor with his foot. “shit thing is he’s probably a trained assassin.” He nodded towards the pile of weaponry. “All in his bag, some on him,”

Jake stood up facing Jay. “We need to fucking leave, where there’s one there’s always more.” He lifted a few small items. Something that looked like a smaller loaded gun, testing its scope he tucked it into his pocket.

“Here, take that.” He threw a shielded knife at jay and grabbed a larger gun and handed it to the male next to you.

“lets go.” He walked past Jay and farther out.

As Jay turned he caught your eyes, he saw the anxious glimmer, the shiver you tried to hid and the fact that your fingers were digging in to your palm.

“Our chances of survival are bigger…” he stated. It cut you out of the worry trail your brain was starting to follow,

“Together than apart.”

You caught his eyes. Jay was trying to be as friendly as he could, you could see a glimmer of hope, something you lost within the first 3 days.

“Are you-, I’m sorry I’m a bit confused right— shit, I’ll just ask… are you asking me to…”

“You should come with us.” You silently thanked him for putting you out of your misery. Shocked he was asking you this. And relieved to have met people you could somewhat trust.

“What?”

“HEY! Hurry up if you want to fucking live dude!” Jake was already way ahead.

“Gimme a second!” he sighed, calling out.  

“I was wondering if you wanted to join us. That is if you’re not with anyone right now.”

You could almost cry from the surge of relief you felt. It was almost draining the life out of you fending for yourself. And night-time was when it got its worst alone. No more going crazy talking to yourself.

“Yeah, that would be great.” You voiced out, he smirked, hearing your voice so relieved.

“Glad to hear.” He nodded towards the direction they were headed. Leading you further ahead.

“Do you know how to wield a gun?”

You shook your head.

“I’ll teach you don’t worry.”

~~~

(thinking of truning this idea into a fic what do you think?)

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