#me: I want to be his parole officer

[marrow-bone]

Every now and again I get a random re-emergence of BLoSC fixation (I blame my core childhood self: Robot hyperfixation)

[conradrasputin]

via @abusivelittlebunny

X

[catoslvt]

Ben Hargreeves x Reader

I would've married you if you'd stuck around🐙

sorta s4 spoilers? but nobody takes the Marigold and lived their life.

plus I'm changing things because... yeah.

I walk into the birthday party for little Grace, who is one of Diego and Lila's children with her birthday present in my hand. It's just a silly child's keyboard because what the fuck do you get a six year old?

I make my way through the swarm of running and screaming children, the part of me that never grew up hurting because that's the childhood I always wished to have, yknow, running about, screaming my head off with all my friends but no, at the age of six I was learning how to disarm gunmen and learning how to control my powers.

God my life has gotten so much better without them.

Once I'm out the swarm of children, my eyes instantly fall on Sloane, Luther, and Ben, and I feel a slight shiver go down my spine at the sight of ben, I mean it's weird to think he has the face of the boy I used to love when we were like thirteen, but he's not the boy I love, I think anyway, I mean okay I sorta have feelings for this Ben, but I don't want him to think it's because he has the face of my old Ben, its confusing isn't it?

"y/n hi!" Sloane exclaims, waving me over with her hands, and I put on a wide smile as I make my way over to her, setting my present for Grace on the table beside her before she wraps me into a tight hug, which I return with an awkward laugh.

"I heard you're a firefighter now? that's sick." I say, turning to Luther with a smile and he just nods.

"we brought the Umbrella Academy, we're currently renovating it, I'd love for you to come stay some time." He tells me, and I widen my eyes, pretending to be interested as I make small 'oo' noises.

I hate when our family gather together, I mean Luther is married with a child, Diego is married with kids, I don't know what the fuck is going on with Allison, weve hardly spoken since we got to this time line and its not exactly that i dont want to talk to her, i just dont know what id say, Klaus doesn't need love, Five is technically married to a piece of plastic, Ben's just out of prison, Viktor has basically dated every girl in his town and I'm just.. there, I end up feeling extremely left out at the family gatherings when they start talking about issues with their kids or relationship problems because the only relationship problem was the fact Ben died on me.

"How was prison?" I ask ben, my eyes lighting up slightly as I turn to face him, all my attention now on him.

"I can't exactly say I enjoyed it." He tells me, raising a bottle of beer to his lips and taking a sip, and I just know his parole officer is gonna be pissed so I just let out a quiet laugh.

"So where are you staying then? I can't imagine your parole officer would let you live far." I then go onto ask, and he groans slightly, pointing at Luther and Sloane who are now talking to Diego.

"but I'm seriously debating robbing a bank just to get thrown back in." He then adds, looking around and I can't help but laugh a little louder.

"You're staying with them?" I scoff, turning to look at him with raised eyebrows.

"hardly by choice, I just needed a permanent address." He sighs, and I laugh again.

"Fresh out prison, and you're gonna be turned into a painter, electrician, plumber and babysitter. good luck." I tell him and he lets out a small chuckle before taking another drink from his beer.

"How have you been then?" Ben asks, and I shrug slightly.

"I mean, yeah, I've been.. living." I answer with a laugh, and he nods in agreement.

"Why don't we go get you a drink, we can sit at a table at the very back, and you can let it all out." He offers and I rapidly nod.

I sit at the table with Ben, taking a small sip from my beer before clearing my throat.

"I'm a child psychologist now." I tell him, and he nods slightly.

"I mean, it just felt right, yknow? I want to help kids so they don't end up with a childhood that we had. Well, I mean, without the powers, the robotic mom, the alien dad, you get what I mean." I tell him with a small wave of my hand, and he continues to nod, a small smile on his face.

"I get it." He tells me, and we both fall into a comfortable silence before he breaks it right as I take a mouthful of beer.

"don't you miss your powers?"

that question almost makes me spit my beer everywhere, my eyes widening as I stare at him.

"God, no, I don't miss them in this time line Nobody knows who I am, nobody takes a double take or gawks at me waiting to see my powers in use, I can be whatever I want to be in this timeline and I plan on using that to my hearts content." I tell him, and he just looks at me.

"You don't miss them? not even a little bit?" He asks, and I shake my head, which causes him to shrug slightly.

"I miss my powers, I feel.. ordinary without them." He tells me, and I furrow my eyebrows slightly.

"No offence, but I'm glad you don't have your powers. You died because of them in my original timeline, and it's good to see what my ben would've looked like grown up." I tell him, and he gives me a sad smile before we fall quiet yet again.

"and i think it's good to feel ordinary, I spent my whole childhood wanting to be normal to fit in, and now I do." I then add, and he scoffs.

"There's nothing ordinary about us y/n. Apart from the Umbrella Academy and the Sparrow Academy, nobody in the world has gone through even a fraction of what we have, and you've technically went through more than me because the Umbrellas ended the world in 2019, just to then go and do it again back in the 60s, to come back for it to end in 2019 again.." Ben says, and I just scoff, but I can't help but laugh and nod.

"and both times was technically Viktors fault." I argue, and we both smile before Five appears from under a slide somewhere and nods, a bottle of beer in his hand.

"it was Viktors fault both times. Actually, she's not making that up." He tells ben as he makes his way over to our table, dragging a chair along behind him, and ben just raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly pissed off our conversation had been distributed by Five, who still looks like a kid.

"Well, isn't this just a sad table of losers who feel out of place at their nieces birthday party with all the married couples and kids." Five says as he sits his beer down on our table with a large clink.

"I don't feel out of place, I could easily find someone I could marry and have kids with. you couldn't because you look like you're 18." I argue, and five leans back in his seat and crosses his arms slightly, mouthing ben so subtly so that ben can't see.

"Wait, y/n, did you ever even move on after your ben died?" My other Ben asks, and I look at him, my eyes wide as I try to muster an answer.

I try to muster up and answer, but none suitable come to my mind because the truth is I didn't even try to move on, I felt like there was no point, my whole childhood my heart was set on the fact that I'd be marrying Ben, I wanted to at the time despite how young we were and the fact we didn't fully understand the whole concept of marrige and he said he wanted to aswell. when he died I just blamed myself, I thought it was my fault he had died and I convinced myself everyone I love will die because of me, as a sort of reminder that my powers were a curse. obviously, that fact was proven false because my powers are gone. but even now, I'm still cautious to open myself back up to love, but when I'm with this ben, I feel myself slowly opening up again.

"I tried, but nobody stuck around." I lie, and Five shoots me a knowing glare, and Ben just nods, yet another comfortable silence falling over us as I take a large drink from my beer, staring down at my hands before Five starts a conversation with Ben and I can't help but sigh a sigh of relief.

somehow, Luther and Sloane have convinced me to come to theirs to stay the night.

"I think it'll have beneficial effects on releasing your childhood trauma y/n." Luther tells me as I sit in the back of his car, ben at the other side as sloane sits in the front and stares out the window.

"I'm the child psychologist Luther. You just stick to putting out fires." I state, crossing my arms slightly as I stare out the car window, watching the world go by the single frame of glass, trying to hide my smile as I hear Ben laugh at my comment.

"Do you ever sit and look at people and just laugh to yourself because you've saved their asses from the end of the world three times now?" I ask to Luther mainly due to the fact the Sparrow Academy have only had to save the world once, which ended up in all but two of them dying and he just shrugs as he continues to drive.

"Imagine how Viktor feels, knowing he almost killed them twice." Ben says, and that causes me to laugh, slapping a hand over my mouth as I try to stop it.

"That's nasty! the first time wasn't fully his fault. He just discovered his powers and didn't know how to stop them." I tell him, leaning over to gently slap his arm, but I'm still laughing.

"Plus, it's also semi Luther fault for locking him in this weird, safe thing." I add, and Luther groans, muttering something under his breath, leaving me to smile proudly.

"Let's just sit in silence till we get home." Luther suggests, and nobody says a single word to protest and I guess it would be sorta rude if I did seeing as I'm staying at his house tonight.

I sit in my old room, looking around at how empty it is because the Umbrella Academy doesn't exist in this timeline, meaning this room is just a room where I just so happened to share all of my good childhood memories, or atleast the handful I can call good.

"Why would you actually agree to come back here?" Ben asks with a laugh as he stands at the doorframe, staring down at me with questioning eyes.

"I think it's actually partly to do with what Luther said, I think it's good for myself to come see the place and realise that everything that happened back in my time line is just memories now, I dont know I guess I'm trying to give myself some closure." I answer with a shrug as ben walks further into the room, now sitting beside me on the bed.

"What were we like? in your timeline anyway?" ben asks, and I feel my heart stop for a second as I look at him for a brief moment.

"Really young but you -" I cut myself off. Is it wrong to address this ben as my Ben? because it is the same person, but it's not at the same time.

"we understood each other, he- *you* were one of the only people at the Umbrella Academy who showed me love despite our age. if we were doing paired work, we'd always be together, at meals we'd always pass notes, during training we always went easy on each other, during missions we always had a close eye on each other, we'd always spend time in my room. yeah, we were really young, but we still loved each other." I tell him, and he just looks at me, a sad smile on his face.

"we were convinced we were gonna get married, and in all honesty, I would've married you if you stuck around." I then add, looking away as I get an unbearable feeling of sadness.

"I would've married you if you came to the Sparrow Academy timeline earlier." Ben tells me, and I almost choke on my spit as I look at him, my eyes wide.

"What?" I ask, shaking my head slightly.

"I felt myself changing slightly the minute I looked at you when our academies met, but I was too.." He trails off trying to find the words.

"stuck up? full of yourself?" I begin listing and he rolls his eyes but he smiles slightly.

"Yeah, yeah, I was too stuck up to actually allow myself to change for you, and also, I was too scared because I know im nothing like your ben so I didn't want to cause a disappointment as though you lost him again." Ben admits, and I just stare at him.

"Ben, you are my ben." I state, my eyes not leaving his face, not even when his eyes light up slightly, not even when he turns to look at me.

"I didn't want to tell you in case you thought I'm just using you because of what happened with Umbrella Ben, but I promise you that is not the case. You are my ben." I then add, and I see his eyes softening as a small smile appears on the edge of his lips.

"so it's safe to say we like each other then?" He asks after a moment of us just staring at each other.

"I guess so." I jokingly groan, but I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him into a hug, just savouring the feeling of ben in my arms, my ben as one of his arms wrap around my waist, the other one coming up to reach into my hair, pressing the back of my head closer into him.

"I can't believe you went to prison, you asshole! I was gonna tell you I had feelings for you once we all settled into the new timeline, and then you went to prison."I scoff, and he pulls away from the embrace slightly and looks at me.

"You could've always written a letter or something." He tells me, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I would've been better using a carrier pigeon. No chance was I gonna have a prison pen pal." I scoff, rolling my eyes, but I did write, and then I wrote again, and again, and guess what? I wrote again.

"I did write to you, over and over again, I just never had the courage to send them, because imagine you got one of the letters, wrote back but it didn't send to me?" I ask, a shiver going down my spine at the thought of never knowing if he felt the same way.

"Well, I would've rewrote the same letter every day and sent it to you until you got it." Ben says, a slight hint of promise in his words, and with that, I press a kiss to his lips, and he instantly returns it, his hand on my waist tightening, gently pushing my head closer to his as he depends the kiss and we continue in our kissing embrace got a few moments, before we hear a:

"When I said coming here would help to release your childhood trauma, I didn't mean by doing.. this." Luther says, and I just pull away laughing.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 So Close, Quantico.

Post prison Reid x Fem!reader

Read part one here!

Summary: A strange visit to the prison ends with an unexpected confession of love and makes you run away again. You were ready to leave, but maybe this time he'll make you stay.

Words: 2,5k.

TW: literally none, just drama and sweet love+emily being a bestie. english is not my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I didn't expect to be asked for a second part because I'm still new here and I don't think anyone will read me (intrusive thoughts lol), but here I am giving it to you because Spencer needs a happy ending!

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Just as you sat down and pulled out a travel magazine to read while you waited for your flight, you got a call from Emily. You frowned and were confused for a few seconds until you remembered that you hadn't told her that you were going back to London so soon and that the possibility of having a drink together would not be fulfilled. You hadn't even said goodbye in person, and it was only now that you realized it.

You hadn't noticed anything after working on Spencer's case for four days straight and losing your mind over it. It was the first time you hadn't seen your client or personally briefed him on the progress of the investigation, and that impersonality made everything strange, but you knew he didn't want to see you, and you weren't going to push him. At least you managed to get him released on parole after you found some evidence of third party involvement in his alleged crime. And as soon as you were informed of this decision, you assigned a trusted lawyer to the case, booked a flight, and packed your bags.

“Don't hate me, but I'm about to catch a flight and I forgot to tell you.” You said quickly as soon as the call started and you could hear a sigh of shock from the other end.

“You what? Why? You just got here and we haven't even had a chance to talk and drink wine.” She replied after a few minutes of processing the information.

“I'm really sorry, Ems. I have things to do at my office and my work here is already done.” You tried to explain as you fiddled with the hem of your skirt. You didn't like the idea of looking like you were running away again, even if you were. “I really have to go.”

“You have or you want?”

The question alone made you sigh and question being best friends with a profiler. It was impossible to hide your feelings and thoughts from her.

“It doesn't matter...anyway, you can visit me whenever you want, I have plenty of wine at home.” You spoke trying to avoid her question at all costs. “Penelope and JJ can come, girls' night out and all.”

“And Spencer...?” She asked in a cautious tone, knowing that this was a complicated subject. After all, Emily was the one who had to put up with your sighing and crying over Reid for years.

“He's not a girl.”

You could almost see her roll her eyes at your answer, and by the tone of her voice when she told you she meant it, you knew she did.

“Seeing him was as strange as I imagined, but confirming that he doesn't want to see me and that he hates me felt worse than I thought. I have to face this from a distance.” You tried to explain and put into words the feelings you were avoiding.

“He doesn't hate you, and he definitely wants to see you.” She corrected you, making you frown.

“What? Please don't try to make me feel better with emotional profiling tricks.” You said wearily, looking up at the big screen with the flight schedules and realizing that it was still more than half an hour before your plane was due to arrive.

“These are not tricks. Seriously, if he didn't want to see you, he wouldn't have asked me for your hotel address yesterday.”

Your heart stopped at that moment, and any attempt to focus your attention on something else, or even keep your cool, failed. You didn't want to get your hopes up again and sound like a fool for getting excited about something so minimal.

“I'm not even at the hotel anymore, and he never went there.” You tried to control your nervousness and conceal how this information had thrown you. “Ems, my flight arrives in 30 minutes, I have to leave you, but I promise to call you more often and visit you sometime. I love you.” You ended in a chaotic way.

“Well, me too. But don't disappear, I'll wait for that girls' night.” She replied, defeated by your insistence, and paused before speaking again. “And tell Reid we have a case in Utah, we're leaving in 30.”

“What?” You asked immediately, not understanding if you had heard wrong, but she had already hung up.

You looked up again, expecting to see the central screen with the schedules, but instead of seeing your flight number in bright letters, you saw Spencer's brown eyes searching for you a few feet away. You had to blink several times to confirm that it was him and that you weren't hallucinating, and only then did Emily's last words make sense.

Was he here to see you? Was it possible?

You remained motionless in your seat, as if bound to it, and watched as Reid walked at a brisk pace straight towards you. It was the first time you had seen him since that chaotic visit to the prison, and you still had a bittersweet taste in your mouth from that interaction. He was wearing a suit now, probably the clothes he wore to work, and he looked like he had run several miles, judging by his disheveled hair and labored breathing.

“What are you doing here?” You asked as soon as you had him in front of you, rising from your seat to be at his height even though you were several inches shorter.

“I needed to talk to you for days and you never came to see me again.” He explained, still trying to regulate his breathing after searching for you all over the airport. “About what you told me before you left.”

“I didn't come back because you made it clear that you didn't want to see me, and I respected your wish.” You explained as calmly as you could. “And as for what I said, there's no need to talk about it. It's outdated and I shouldn't have brought it up.”

You saw him sigh and fidget chaotically for a second before he spoke again. He seemed nervous, as if he had rehearsed the conversation a thousand times in his mind.

“I need to talk about this. You told me you were in love with me...I just found out and I couldn't stop thinking about it, it's stuck in my head because you never told me.” He tried to speak slowly, but it was as if the old Spencer you once knew had reappeared and started babbling. “You said you were leaving because you were offered a better position and you were bored with this job, you never mentioned that...that you liked me.”

“My flight leaves in less than 30 minutes, I can't talk now.” You tried to get out of the situation, but he gently grabbed your arm before you could escape. And with a sigh, you spoke again. “Good. I never told you how much I liked you, but that doesn't change anything.”

You pulled away from his touch and putting your hands on your bags so you could leave soon.

“It changes. It really changes everything.”

“What? How?” You dropped the suitcases and looked at him in confusion.

He remained silent for a few seconds, looking at the clock on the bright screen above you, trying to use the little time he had to talk to you and express himself. He felt the words catch in his throat, and it was a disappointment after having only you as the protagonist of all his thoughts since you had visited him, pushing away any possibility of holding a grudge against you because the only thing on his mind was doubt about what would have happened if he had known.

Spencer had spent so many years locked in hate, trying to hold a grudge against you for leaving, leaving nothing but torturous memories in an eidetic memory and a ridiculous need for a hug from you every time things went wrong. And suddenly you showed up, looking as beautiful as ever, saving him from a traumatic experience and delivering information he never expected.

He had only been free for a few days and yet everyone looked at him differently, from pity to fear, knowing that prison had changed him forever. But not you, you looked at him as if he were the same as always, even though years had passed and you had only seen his worst face again.

“If I had known...if you had told me I...” He stammered, trying to find some courage to stop feeling like the same young man you had left. “You would know that I felt the same way.”

At that moment, you almost had to sit up again because of the impression his words had made on you. You closed your eyes and opened them again to make sure that you were not hallucinating and that it was really the one you had been dreaming about for years who was telling you that he also felt something for you before.

“You don't have to lie...no, don't lie to me like that just because I got you out of jail.” You started to blurt out, completely denying the strong beating of your heart.

“I appreciate you doing this, but I won't lie to you. I could never do something like this.” He assured you, looking you straight in the eye for confirmation. “And if you don't believe me, I can tell you exactly when I first realized I liked you, it was November 8, 2005, it was 11:35 in the morning because I looked at the clock. You had completed your third month with us and you went to talk to Gideon and Hotch because you wanted to get out in the field and stop doing paperwork. You were so nervous about getting fired that you grabbed my hand before you left, but you didn't notice because you were busy listening to my comments about your performance. I thought it was nothing and that I was just nervous because you were the only one I was talking to and I was afraid of losing you, but before you left you smiled at me and I knew everything was going to be okay. Again I thought it was nothing...but every time things went wrong I thought about it, I still do because that smile is probably the cutest thing I've ever seen in my life.”

“I...” You tried to speak and formulate even one word, but it kept getting stuck in your throat.

“Wait, I'm not done yet.” He interrupted you, saving you from a possible babble. “I never told you because I thought you didn't feel the same way and that you saw me as a younger brother to be taken care of. I'd rather have you as a friend than not have you at all, so I left it in my mind as an impossibility and I thought I was completely over it until you left and I lost my mind...and it's happening again.”

“God, I need to sit down.” It was all you could say at the time as you tried to process everything he said.

You sat down with his help and watched him relax a little as he finished speaking, as if he had waited a long time to say it and had practiced it many times. You felt your heart pound after years of dreaming of hearing those words from him. You had never imagined a life where Spencer felt anything more than friendship for you, and now it was real. He had loved you as much as you wanted, and you had been too blind to see it before other people came along.

“I know it's been years since you got over me and that I was a jerk to you when you came to see me, but you need to know that ever since I saw you I couldn't stop thinking about what my life would have been like if I had told you from the beginning.” He spoke again, trying to look closely at you to decipher what was going through your mind. “I'm sorry, I'm really sorry if this has upset you or...”

“Do you know how long I've waited to hear you say that?” You said, still surprised, taking the opportunity to get up from your chair.

“I'm sorry, I know it's too late and now you're going to leave again, but this time I'm here to ask you not to do it again.” He came over and took you by the hands, bending down a little to be at your level, as if he was begging you. “And I know it's selfish because you have to go and you have a life away, but I really...”

“Spencer.” You stopped him before he started babbling, and he looked at you anxiously for your answer. “It's not too late.”

“Really?” He asked, as if he could not believe he had heard you correctly.

“Really.”

You gave him a small smile of affirmation and felt your eyes glaze over with emotion as you felt him release your hands and grab your cheeks to wipe away the stray tear that had fallen. The look of tenderness he gave you along with his touch made you tremble.

“Are you planning to kiss me already or are you going to wait 13 more years?” You spoke without even thinking.

He didn't have to think once before closing the distance between you and fulfilling the longing that had been in your mind for so long. You couldn't say anything because his lips had been on yours before and the first contact had almost made you melt. His hands were still on your cheeks, but one of them went down to your waist to pull you closer and make sure you were real.

Your lips tasted like cherries and that made him smile immediately in the middle of the kiss, thinking that you were still wearing the same lipstick that you had applied in front of him so many times and that he had only dreamed of tasting. Finally, the reality was far better than any fantasy and the softness mixed with the intensity of a repressed love during the kiss because finally the stars had aligned for the two of you.

“Are you going to go out on a date with me?” He asked as soon as you both parted.

“I have a girls' night out first.” You replied, letting it be known that you were tired of running away. “But I'd love to go on a date with you.”

He came over and gave you a quick kiss before you could say anything else. You returned the kiss and then pulled away, putting your arms around his neck.

“You're kissing me like this before the first date?” You joked, still trapped in the bubble of love you felt you were in.

“I don't intend to wait any longer now that I have you here.” He responded by giving you a kiss on the head and wrapping his arms around you to hug you. “So please don't go away for 6 years again.”

“I don't plan to go anywhere now.”

[seat-safety-switch]

"Doctor, you have to help. My broth is so thin, and flavourless." cries another patient.

I have been working at Dr. Soup's Soup Hospital for the last couple of weeks. Normally, by now, I would have already been fired for stealing office supplies or general sloth. Something about the good doctor, however, motivates me to keep working. He came up one morning in the unemployment office's ads, and I figured I'd take it.

It's not hard to see why a soup hospital would be needed. People take their soups very seriously. Perhaps it's a recipe from great-grandma, and being able to consistently make it is the only link from the present day back to that idyllic past. Maybe they just want to have something good to eat on a cold day. We don't know, and importantly, we can't judge. If your goulash sucks ass, he's there to fix it.

Even though he drives a pickup truck (a Dodge Ram-en, get it?) I don't hold it against him. He genuinely uses it to pick up large amounts of soup that are in distress and carry them back to his hospital, where he applies strategic spices and sometimes even exotic homemade broths to bring the flavour back to the liquid-lunch-but-not-that-kind crowd. They deserve it, really, and are always grateful to the doc for saving their food.

If there is something I don't like about working for Dr. Soup, it's the casual racism. No, not against cultures. That would be too normal. No, what he hates is stew. Too thick, he tells me. Pick a side, we're at war, he complains whenever we're at the medical supply store, buying paprika. One day I'll ask about curries, but it will have to wait. My parole officer is going to drop by for an inspection sometime this week, and I'd really prefer for him not to go home with third-degree burns and a recommendation that I get sent back to prison. I can't go back there, now that I've tasted this beautiful life on the outside once more. They don't even use chives in their stock.

[luv4slts]

Corruption

- neuvillette x fem!reader ˖⋆࿐໋₊  

tags: dubcon, bimbofication, breeding, praise kink, degrading kink, corruption, abuse of power, mention of crimes such as murder. wc: 1.7k — this is my first ever fanfic so it's not the best but i hope you enjoy it anyways <3

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

There were strange cases of murders happening throughout the capital of Fontaine, all very eerily similar to one another. You never intended to be caught but even a small mistake can lead to disaster. Being caught wasn't even a thought that was acknowledged in your mind. You thought no one could ever catch you. You had been so meticulous in how you went about the murders. And yet, a miscalculation did occur. You loved thinking of yourself as a brilliant mind. Maybe in another life you could’ve been the top student at the Akademiya in Sumeru, but that was too tedious for you.

“Ms. L/n, you are currently being sat for a trial so I would suggest you stop dozing off.” said the man in the golden chair

“I’m sorry, your honor.” you reply with a hint of snideness

You hated him. He was the most pretentious man you had ever met. The man in question was the Chief of Justice of Fontaine, Neuvillette. He was the man in charge of ruling decisions that concerned Justice, which Fontaine was the land of. Anyone in charge of that power would only be second to the Archon.

“Courts adjourned. It will be held again tomorrow at noon.” he declares to everyone in the court

Finally, there was nothing you hated more than this boring affair. You knew that the odds weren’t very good against you so in the end you would probably be put to death anyways. Or given life imprisonment without parole. The only thing that could save you was if somehow the Archon herself ruled a decision over the case in your favor but that would never happen. You gather your things and start leaving the court, following your lawyer.

“Ms. L/n, you will not be leaving yet. I need you to come with me to my office.” he said stoically while collecting his documents.

“Of course, your honor. What would be the reason for this?”

“I just need to have a talk with you, that’s all. Nothing will be used against you so please do not fret about such things.”

He starts walking towards the door and you follow him closely. After a few minutes, you finally reach his office. You take a seat on the couch that’s in front of his desk. His room had an air of luxury and power to it. Any person with keen eyes would be able to recognize that this room belongs to someone of high esteem.

You snap out of your thoughts, “What did you want to talk to me about, sir?”

He sits on his chair, looking out the window behind him.

“I know that the odds aren’t very good against you in this case.”

Thanks for stating the obvious you think to yourself.

“And so, I would like to offer you an arrangement. Something that I think would be beneficial for the both of us.”

“What would this arrangement you speak of entail?” you’re confused but enticed at the offer

“Hmm…” he trails off for a bit before speaking again, “I would get something that I want and you receive freedom. Does that interest you?”

“Yes, it does. What might you want from me though?”

He stands from his chair, slowly walking behind you. You feel his slender hands as they rest on your shoulders.

“You don’t need to worry about that, all I need is your agreement.” you can feel his hot breath

You don’t have any other options so this wouldn’t hurt, you think to yourself.

“I agree, then.”

“Wonderful.”

He slowly starts trailing his right hand down to your necklace, playing with it. He then starts placing kisses all over your neck while his hand starts going down further to the buttons of your shirt. He bites on your neck and you let out a yelp in surprise.

You can feel a smile form on his lips against your skin. He lets out a low chuckle and starts circling the spot with his tongue where he bit you before sucking on it. The sensations start building up and your breath hitches. This wasn't exactly what you had in mind but you don't protest.

His hand finishes unbuttoning your shirt and you’re left exposed in your bra.

He walks in front of you.

"Such a pretty girl..." he murmurs while putting his hand under your chin and rubbing his thumb over your lips

The heat between your thighs starts growing by each passing second. You take his thumb into your mouth before starting to slowly suck on it, moving your tongue in swirls around it.

"So needy." he purrs. He leans down towards you before clashing his lips into yours, slipping his tongue inside.

You let out a small moan into his mouth and he can feel his cock twitch in his pants.

As he continues to explore you mouth, he effortlessly undoes your bra. Your nipples harden as they hit the cool air.

He pulls away and a string of saliva is left that connects both of your lips before breaking as he sets his sights on your nipples. He slowly starts sucking on them, you roll your head back into the couch and writhe as the heat starts pooling in your underwear.

"More, please." you say quietly

"More? Use your words, tell me what you want." he teased

"Please pleasure me, sir." you plead and your face grows red

As soon as he hears your cries, he begins to slide his fingers down your aching body. Making sure to take his time to get more of a reaction out of you. Finally, he reaches the waist band and slides your pants off of your body. He brings his fingers over your underwear, noticing the wet pool on them.

"Do you want my fingers?" he asks while tracing the pool of wetness

"Yes, please" you whisper while biting back a moan

He hums while taking your panties off of you, the last piece of clothing on your body. He lets his fingers explore your folds, gathering the wetness on his fingers before bringing them to his mouth and sucking on them. Keeping his eyes on yours as he does so. You subtly arch your back, needy for more.

He chuckles before letting his fingers rub small circles on your sensitive spot. In a quick thrust, he pushes two fingers into your cunt. He curls the fingers and watches for your reaction. You let out breathy moans as they start filling the room together with the thrusts of his fingers inside your dripping cunt.

"F-fuck!" you cry out

He slams his lips into yours, "Quiet down, you don't want others to know that you're whoring yourself out to the Chief Justice, do you?"

You whimper

"Or.. do you want everyone to know? Is that it?"

You're too dumb to let out anything intelligible, letting out a whine instead.

"Mmm, how about I just breed you and make you mine instead? Then you can do whatever you want without repercussions. Do you want that?" he cooes while setting an even more brutal pace with his slender fingers

"Mmnh- yes, sir." you moan out, rolling your hips and becoming even needier than before as you feel your cunt clenching around his fingers and the climax coming closer.

Then, suddenly, he brings his fingers out and you whimper at the loss of them.

You then notice him taking his pants off. His erection is tight against his underwear. He lets it out and your eyes stay on it as you notice the girth of it.

"Spread your legs, mon chéri." he says lowly

You spread your legs, desperate for the length inside you. He teases your slit with his tip. Rubbing it slowly in circles.

Before you can react, he plunges his length into you. He sets a merciless rhythm and keeps a confident pace as he thrusts into you.

"Too much-" you sob out and he starts going faster

"No, no, my love. You're doing so well."

He brings his fingers to your mouth and you instinctively start sucking on them.

"You look so pretty under me." he purrs before letting out a low groan

He continues stretching out your swollen cunt. The sound of your bodies clashing continues to fill the room and you're sure that everyone knows what's happening inside.

"Don't hold back, I want to hear you." he says shakily and you can feel his pace starting to become more frenzied

You wrap your legs around him and let our strangled noises.

"Please. Mmnh-"

His thrusts become more desperate. He lets out pants but tries to cover them by sucking in sharp breaths to try and remain composed.

"Fuck" he groans before giving one more powerful thrust and emptying himself inside of you

Your walls tighten at his length and your eyes roll back as waves of pleasure spread through your body.

He sloppily kisses you while both of you ride out of the high. He takes it out of you and you whimper as you lose the filling sensation.

Immediately he presses your legs together, "Don't make it go to waste. I need to impregnate you after all, darling." he mutters

You feel your cheeks burning and look away towards the wall. You notice yourself in the mirror and how disheveled you look.

"I have important things to go over so I would suggest you start dressing up."

"Yes, I'm sorry." you reply quietly

You put your clothes back on while he's organizing his documents.

He notices you looking at him, he curls his fingers at you. You come over to him and he puts a piece of hair behind your ear before whispering into it, "I'll do everything that needs to be done when it comes to your case so don't concern yourself with that anymore."

He stops before continuing, "However, I would like you to start working for me. I need an assistant and.. I don't think I got enough of you just from today as it was quite rushed."

He looks into you before kissing you slowly.

"I would be happy to work for such an esteemed person. sir."

"Excellent. Then, I expect to see you next week so you can get started. You may leave now." he instructs

"Have a good day, sir."

You leave, pleased at what occurred today. Thinking to yourself that perhaps it wasn't such a boring affair after all.

[bloodandthestars]

HOLY FUDGE NUGGETS!! Why is Miguel so beautiful.. 😭

Can I request a Miguel O’Hara x Madam-Web reader? Like maybe she’s well known for being the “Mom” on campus in the Spider-Society, with her and Miguel having a “will they, won’t they” flirty vibe going on?

And she verbally beats his fine a$s for how horrible he treated Miles (who was undoubtedly a victim of circumstance, just like most all Spider-Men) but Miguel can’t really focus on what she’s saying because he just finds her “Mama bear” attitude Hot as hell.. and she can sense it..

Reader: *blank stare*.. horny a$s vampspider~ 😒

Miguel: … 😏

Petter B: guys PLEASE! Not infront of the kids!!!

⸗ 𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄

tags: NO SPOILERS!, spouse! spanish speaking! gn reader

author’s note: hello lovie! you’re my first request ever! i hope you’ll enjoy this, since i had to tweak it due to me not seeing the movie yet and having a few ideas that made me want to write this IMMEDIATELY. translations at the bottom of the post!

wc :: 1.4k masterlist

Spider-man 2099, Miguel O’hara to differentiate him from the rest. The leader and creator of the Spider Society. In the protection of the multiverse, he’s dedicated his life to it. Unwavering, unmoving, if there was an obstacle, he intends to removes it.

“No! It’s not up for discussion.” He snaps back to the group behind him. Peter B., Miles, and Gwen follow behind him in his furious stride to his control center. His voice could echo amongst the society’s campus. Some of the spider-people wince at the boom of his voice. It was easy for them to conclude that it was another day, another problem to handle.

“Oh come on, Miguel.” Peter B. says with a groan. “It’s not a big deal. You can let him off the hook!”

“Having someone watching over like some kind of-” Gwen sputters to find her words. “-parole officer isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Well you said it, not me.” The larger man huffs, causing the trio to roll their eyes.

The doors of his control center slide open with a hiss. Miguel can’t help the scowl on his face, all the more natural with his work. He continues to walk, head turning over his shoulder to speak to them. “I told him and you, if he wants a spot back here he had to earn it-”

Miles frowns. It feels like they’ve been going in endless circles about him coming back into the society and leaving him close to exhausted. “But I-”

“Enough, he’s doing it my way or not at-”

“Uh…Miguel…?” Peter B. trails off with a finger pointing behind him.

“What-?!”

Turning to his vast data center, he stops immediately in his tracks just to practically feel his heart fall into his ass.

You had your arms crossed, a crease to mesh your brows together furiously. Peter B. grimaces at the stern look on your face, knowing it all too well from his own spouse back in his universe. Miles is surprised to witness Miguel drop his hardened expression and voice in an instant. Your husband lets go of his startled state, arms out as he walks towards you. “Dios mío- ¿mi amor? What’s with that look on your face?”

“You went after Miles?!”

The boom in your voice causes the trio to cringe back. Behind his intelligent mind that oversaw the Spider society, you were right beside him in every step. It was a large part of both of your lives, with highs and lows and plenty of difficulties. But it was for the greater good, for a connection of people who’ve been the victims of circumstances. You’d defend your fellow heroines with your heart, including from the wrath of your husband’s stubbornness. Miguel goes up the small step with a sigh. “I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for good reason.”

“Good reason? Right, go ahead. Tell me.”

“It was for protecting you! Protecting everyone!”

“At the cost of some of someone so young?!” Your tone shifts. “¡Vas a lastimar a alguien! O tú mismo!”

Miles’s wide eyes shit to the floor. Your switch reminded of his mom, going into Spanish on the phone to let others around her know that their conversation was not for them. You were more charged than her in these circumstances.

He feels eyes on him, and turns to see Peter B. and Gwen spare him a glance from their awkward stance. Peter B. motions with his head towards the couple, eyes darting back and forth with an muffled cough. Miles eventually gives in and sighs. “…they’re saying that he could have gotten someone hurt, or himself.”

“¡No, no lo estoy! El destino del-” Miguel implores.

You groan. “I swear to God if you mention-”

“-the fate of the universe-“ The three spider people behind him join you in unison.

“-one more time-”

The two of you drone on for a bit, with Miles trying his best to whisper translations to Gwen and Peter B.

“This is serious stuff, [name]. And I mean that with my body and soul.” Miguel grabs both your hands at his emphasis, holding them gently despite your heated discussion. “Eres mi vida, él lo puso en riesgo.”

Miles’s eyes go down to the floor, eyes saddened along with his voice. “He said I put them at risk.”

Peter B. and Gwen soften, eyes going back to you both. You look at your hands together. Gold bands shined in the various blues and reds of the room, the diamond on your ring leaving fluorescent reflection on skin. He watched as your lips press together. You look up to him, “He wouldn’t do it on purpose.”

“You don’t know that-we didn’t know that-“

You shake your head, snatching your hands away to point a finger in his face. “No zip it, Miguel!”

He leans back with his eyes wide. The others react in shock as well as you fall back into Spanish to speak to your husband. Peter B. didn’t need a translator to know the man was being reprimanded, cringing back when your emphasis got aggressive. Gwen looks to him, then to Miles— too speechless to keep translating. Peter B. looks to Miguel, slowly squinting at his demeanor. The longer you spoke, the shock dissipated into something else. His eyes were softer, arms holding one another as he leaned further to listen. You didn’t take notice, still chewing him out.

“-esto es ridículo, Miguel! Eres un hombre maduro, no tienes que actuar así. ¿No crees que puede haber un malentendido?”

When you ask him the tantalizing question, he’s in a moment of pause. The man takes a step further to you. You look at him with unwavering eyes, expecting another long speech about your protection that you were all too familiar with. Instead, his fingers curl to brush under your chin, voice dropping to speak to you. “Eres guapa cuando estás enfadada.”

You’re beautiful when you’re angry. Your eyes widen, heat creeping up your back. Was he even listening to a word you said? You know he wouldn’t just ignore you or your opinions. It only took you a minute to realize that distant look on his face the whole time was to focus on your lips as you spoke. Your brows furrow, muttering to him in attempts to hold on to your reprimand. “…No cambies de tema.”

Don’t change the subject. He gives you a slight smile. With a tilt of his head, Miguel brushes his fingers under your chin again, stepping closer. “¿Por qué, no cuando cada uno de mis pensamientos gira en torno a ti?”

You give him a look, though your shoulders loose their tension. “Cabrón descarado…”Despite your words, the ends of your lips quirk up without thinking. His smirk only widens at the sight. “Y todo el tuyo también.”

Peter B. looks between you both with an expression of confusion. Weren’t you just- fighting? He takes his attention to the way you both look at each other. His brows loosen, raising to the sky when the realization hits. Turning to Miles and Gwen, he grabs both their shoulders and turn them around. The pair are forced to walk towards the entrance, eyes in a perpetually widened state.

“Alright!” The father explains. “Time to go, yep, let’s just-”

“But what about-”

Peter hunches down to aggressively whisper to them. “Guys. This is a free get out of jail card.” His head drops for a moment before looking back up. “A scarring one but nonetheless.”

Miguel thought them as out of sight and out of mind, eyes attentive to your frustrated look. How could he pays attention anything else with the way you got? The determination in your eyes and voice, how you would step to him knowing that many rarely could. You were passionate and he’d fall for it every time. The man wouldn’t have anyone else with him. He understood your words, took them in, but god did your lips too good not to take.

Your lips were captured in a plush embrace, eyes fluttering shut when he does so. The fingers under your chin turn to cup your cheek. Your hand goes to his side to invite him to come closer. Tension in your body left in an instant. Your husband lets out a soft sigh, mind enthralled in your presence. He pulls away with a slow blink of his eyes. Your eyes open, your smile now soft.

“Esto no ha terminado.” You mutter with a hand on top of his, thumb brushing over the back of it.

He chuckles darkly, caressing your cheek with a look in his eye. “Cuento con eso.”

translations: “¡vas a lastimar a alguien! o tú mismo!” (you could have gotten someone hurt! or yourself!)

“¡no, no lo estoy! el destino del-” (no i’m not! the fate of the-)

“eres mi vida, él lo puso en riesgo.” (you are my life, he put that at risk.)

“-esto es ridículo, Miguel! Eres un hombre maduro, no tienes que actuar así. ¿No crees que puede haber un malentendido?” (this is ridiculous, Miguel! you are a grown ass man, you don’t have to act like this. don’t you think there may be a misunderstanding?)

“¿por qué, no cuando cada uno de mis pensamientos gira en torno a ti?” (why not when each of my thoughts revolve around you?)

“cabrón descarado…” (cheeky bastard...), “y todo el tuyo también.” (and all yours too.)

“esto no ha terminado.” (this isn’t over), “cuento con eso.” (i’m counting on that)

taglist: @manchuria @mezzke @rea-zxv @vvitcxen @pooiooi @jowtaro @coleseyebrows @deputy-videogamer @vegas-writing-den @m150-50up

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Imagine…Meeting Dean In Prison

Pairing: Prisoner!Dean x guard!reader

______

“Hi,” said prisoner 83907. You paid him no attention, the man with the cocky smiling offering a wink in your direction. You knew his type. A bastard behind his smirk. “Hello guard…52119608. That’s too long. How about sweetheart instead?”

“How about silence is golden, prisoner. The warden will be here soon.”

“I didn’t know they had women guards in a mens prison.”

“I work in the offices hence why I’m watching you. If you’d prefer one of the men to come in, be my guest. They might kick your ass after I’m finished but let’s go get one of you-“

“No. No, I’ll be on my best behavior.” He sat back in the chair, holding his cuffed hands in his lap. “You think the warden’s gonna throw me in solitary?”

“Depends on what you did. Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?”

“Yeah but I might not have the chance to talk to anyone for awhile so I might as well while I can.” You sighed, the man shrugging. “I decked a guard.”

“Yeah, you’re getting solitary.”

“I had a good reason.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“He was feeling up some chick. Red head.” You instantly thought of Kelly in HR. She’d gone home sick all of a sudden, pretty shaken up. You looked at the door and figured you had some time alone still. 

“Tell me everything that happened. Now.”

Two Days Later

“Mr. Winchester,” you said. He lifted his head up from where he sat in the interview room. “Or do you prefer Dean?”

“Dean is good. What’s going on, sweetheart? I went from solitary to being told I’m out on early parole this afternoon.”

“We were able to verify the story you relayed to me. The parole board was already reviewing your case and your selflessness in protecting one of our staff swayed them into releasing you early.”

“Someone must have been in my corner. Not often a prisoner’s word is listened to,” he said. You leaned against the door frame, Dean’s smile soft now. “I wonder who vouched for me.”

“Kelly’s my friend. And that particular guard is an ass. So thank you.”

“You looked up my wrap sheet, didn’t you.”

“You stole a car to get your injured little brother to a hospital. You’re not exactly evil incarnate, Dean.”

“Yeah but I’m known to steal a heart or two. Might have to lock me up for that,” he said. You rolled your eyes and he offered you a coy smirk. “What do I owe you?”

“Stay out of trouble for me Dean.”

“Only the bad kind,” he said. “Scout’s honor.”

Six Months Later

“Get off! Jerk!” you shouted, turning and punching the man trying to steal your purse from behind you. You kneed him in the groin and he dropped, giving you enough time to get behind him and pin his wrists together. He reared his head and threw you off but a quick punch from someone else put him back on the ground.

“You okay?” said a familiar voice. Your head snapped up, the man shaking out his wrist, staring blankly. “My prison guardian angel?”

“Name’s Y/N,” you said, righting yourself, the man groaning on the ground. “Move and I’ll shoot you.”

Dean flagged down a cop car that drove past, the man quickly gone and leaving the two of you on the sidewalk. 

“Isn’t getting drunk a violation of your parole?” you asked. He smirked and held up his chin.

“I was pardoned two months ago by the state. Funny considering I never submitted an application.”

“You must be lucky,” you said with a nod. “You look good. Got a job?”

“Bar tend under the table right over there. Going to school right now. I probably shouldn’t have told you about the under the table thing.”

“Eh. I like you Winchester. You’re good,” you teased. He grinned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What?”

“You’re not a prison guard anymore are you.”

“What gave it away?”

“You have flour in your hair.” You threw your head back and groaned. “You work in one of the restaurants around here?”

“Maybe,” you said, taking a step past him. “You want to buy me a drink?”

“Told you I’m good at stealing hearts sweetheart.” He grinned and you walked past him, heading for the bar. 

“It’s one drink. It’s a ‘you owe me’ drink in fact. No stolen hearts here,” you said. He caught up with you at the door and leaned in close, nearly brushing his lips over yours.

“No stolen heart. Yet.”

__________

[belokhvostikova]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mentions of drugs/drug dealing, alcohol consumption, and explicit sexual content: mentions of sexual favors.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

Eddie Munson always liked talking about you.

When in situations as such—slumped into the worn couch with his legs spread wide, and an arm over the back to accommodate the red solo cup filled with the bourbon liquid in hand—pointing you out to whichever friend of his was closest, so his buddy could get a view of what he got to lavish in a couple times a week. And they didn't.

Because you'd never do that to him. No matter the lack thereof label, you'd never betray him. And Eddie Munson really liked that.

On the humid spring night, Reefer Rick had just escaped his four year conviction of Indiana's statute of limitation on drug possession. Defying the advice of his parole officer, a party had been sought out in the crowded woods of Lover's Lake to welcome his newfound freedom.

Being the tightest of buddies, you knew Eddie would be in attendance. And he knew you knew he'd be there. It was your coyness of avoiding his presence that made you that much more alluring, pissing him off in the best way possible; lip-bitingly enticing.

So when you were in the kitchen, speaking to some nobody, Eddie and his friend would watch. His buddy's eyes following the curve of your body, as Eddie detailed just how much you were willing to do for a free exchange of weed, but only for him. Eddie would pick up on how his friend's breath would hitch, as he spoke about the innocence of it starting out with a kiss to you hungrily bouncing on him until the night bled dark. "God, she's my special little customer." He'd groan in his friend ear, because nothing spurred him on more than the fact that he got to revel in what all the other guys wanted.

Because he had you, and you had him.

And what was his friend's name again? Oh, yeah... Steve Harrington. The notorious king known to have women wrapped around his finger. So maybe that's why talking to Steve turned him on a bit more than usual. Sure the man was undeniably pretty (that'd be a discussion for another day), but seeing Steve salivate for you was quite incredible when you'd want nothing to do with the ladies man, because standing in front of you was Eddie Munson, your something.

Despite the filled cup in hand, Eddie slapped Steve's chest to derail his attention away from you. "Come on, need a drink." It was very obvious that that was never the agenda, when Eddie steps had fallen straight to your path. "Havin' an awful lotta fun, aren't you?" You heard his baritone voice speak to you, as he perched himself against the kitchen counter next to you.

As if on cue, your friend knew to leave you be. And, of course, you beamed at him, nodding your head as you took a sip of your drink, letting your eyes cast upon him. "Havin' fun ignorin' me?" He smugly looked down on you.

Your head leaned seductively. "I'm not ignoring you." While taking him in, your eyes landed behind him, falling on the looming figure of Steve Harrington, where you watched his eyes rake you down before meeting you.

Eddie watched from his peripheral, grinning with a smile on his face as he restrained himself from hurting his friend. His jealously evident in his sudden bluntness. "You like Harrington?" Steve, of course, smirked.

Your attention fell back on Eddie, and it irked him just how easily you caught on to his possessiveness. "No." And there it was. The big, fat ego boost that made his cock twitch.

Men were really weird. The insult had, for whatever reason, Steve Harrington smiling down at you. "Well, that's just not fair." He ticked. "You guys can't have fun, if I can't."

"There're lots of other pretty girls around here." You offered. Eddie chuckled, slamming a rough hand to Steve's shoulder. "Lots of other pretty girls." He patronized with a shit-eating grin.

Steve scoffed, playfully flipping him the bird as an unspoken "you win" to the man who got to have you, before leaving you two to be. Eddie's arms managed to cage you against the counter, before his lips met your ear. "I really don't like you ignorin' me, sweetheart." He scolded you.

You whined with jutted lips. "I wasn't." A lie to entice him. Eddie looked you in the eye. "I don't like guys lookin' at you, either." You rolled your own, peering behind you to the crowd of people invading Reefer Rick's house.

"No one is-"

"Oh, but they are, baby." He was quick to coo at you. "See, you're just this pretty, little thing, you don't know how filthy guys think. But believe me, baby," his forehead leaned against yours, "I do."

You quieted your voice. "And... what do you think?"

"What do I think? Well, I think I got this pretty girl in front of me, who I kiss, and, y'know... touch," he huffed his breath against your lips, "and I think that I don't like the idea of some other fucking guy gettin' to do the same." He spat sternly. "So what the fuck does that make you?"

Your breath heaved. "Um, y-you're girlfriend?"

"My girlfriend, yeah, that's right." He nodded.

"Are you asking me?" You questioned him. His lips crashed down before you could think, letting his taste of the alcohol he abandoned just to speak to you, invade your mouth. A connection so deep, his work had you moaning against him, as his hand indented the back of your neck to keep you from leaving him.

Eddie Munson was eating you alive. "No. I'm telling you."

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | When has a situationship ever ended nicely? Never. So here you go, happiness.

[fluentmoviequoter]

With You, Even When I'm Not

Requested Here by the amazing @newobsessionweekly!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: When one of Tim Bradford's enemies is released from prison, he sets out to hurt Tim by hurting you. You trust that Tim will save you, but time is not on your side.

Warnings: angst, car accident, torture (injuries to r), based on 2x11 but this isn't a rewrite (for once lol), crying, fluff and comfort

Word Count: 5.5k+ words

A/N: I didn't include a scene with Tim threatening someone like he does in 2x11 and I kinda regret it because it was hot, but I also really like how this turned out...

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“The almighty Tim Bradford isn’t coming to save you. You know why? Because you’re already dead.”

You force your eyes open and ignore the pain and fear to say, “So are you.”

Less than eight hours ago, you sat beside Tim in roll call. You force yourself to remember that rather than consider what Ferguson plans to do to you.

- 8 Hours Ago - 

Your day starts like any other: you wake up, get ready, go to the station, and take your seat beside Tim for roll call. The sun is bright, the sky clear, and Los Angeles is event-free for once. So, it has the makings for a good day.

“What is up with you?” Tim asks quietly.

“What do you mean?” you counter.

“You’re all smiley and happy. Someone puked in my shop yesterday and you’re acting like this is the best job in the world.”

“It is!” You chuckle at his look before explaining, “It’s going to be a good day. Just let me enjoy this one for every hundred bad ones I’ve dealt with.”

“Sure.”

Wade enters, and you give him your full attention, though you never forget about Tim. He’s a constant in your life, and you wish you could have him by your side every moment, not just during roll call.

“Nolan, Harper is back so you can return to your TO,” Wade says.

“That’s why you’re so happy,” Tim muses. “You got rid of Nolan.”

You shake your head and smile before you stand. You’re patrolling in one of the nicest Los Angeles neighborhoods today, so you probably won’t see or hear Tim much today.

“Have a good one,” you tell him.

“Be careful,” he replies.

You exit the room, and Tim watches you go. Lucy walks to his side and stops, aware of what he’s looking at and longing for.

“Let’s go, boot, don’t just stand there,” Tim demands.

“Bradford,” Wade calls. “A word? Chen can stay.”

Tim nods and follows Lucy to the front of the room.

“Ferguson was released on parole this morning,” Wade says. “Sorry to tell you like this, but I thought you should know.”

“He had fifteen years left; how did this happen?” Tim asks.

“Who’s Ferguson?” Lucy inquires.

“Someone I arrested,” Tim answers. “He threatened to kill me when he got out.”

“Oh. Uh, should we-“

“That is up to Officer Bradford,” Wade interjects. “If you want to sit today out, I’ll understand.”

“No. I’m not letting him ruin my life, too. We can handle Ferguson if he’s stupid enough to show his face.”

“The parole board seems convinced he’s reformed, but we both know he’s a good liar and a better manipulator. Keep your eyes open, Tim, and don’t hesitate to call in anything you think is a threat.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s go, boot.”

Tim leads Lucy to the shop, and he's quieter than usual. Lucy hasn’t been a cop as long as him, but she knows what it’s like to have a criminal blame you for the consequences of their actions. She won’t push Tim, not about this, but she has questions about everything she heard.

“Pull up Roscoe Ferguson,” Tim says as he turns onto the road. “Get familiar with his face. If you see him, I want you to know it’s him.”

“You really think he’ll do something?” Lucy asks as she turns the dashboard computer toward her.

“I’m counting on it.”

“Dispatch, this is 7-Adam-9, are there any alerts in my area?” you ask into the radio.

“Negative, 7-Adam-9.”

You nod to yourself and place the radio back in the console. The morning has been quiet and slow. You know you shouldn’t complain; a sunny drive in the hills is rarely a bad thing, but you’re a cop, and you’re getting bored.

“7-Adam-9, switch to channel 4 for Sergeant Grey,” dispatch instructs.

You turn the channel dial and let Wade know you’re there. He doesn’t answer, and you slow at a stop sign as you bounce the radio against your thigh.

“You’re in the hills, right?” Wade asks suddenly.

He doesn't use your name or call number, only asks a rushed question. It concerns you, but you remain professional.

“Yes, sir,” you answer. “Do you need me to come back?”

“No, stay up there. Just wanted to double-check.”

“What’s going on?”

Wade goes silent again, and you repeat the question.

“Nothing, I hope. Just trying to keep everyone connected to Bradford out of the heart of LA today.”

“Why?”

“Ferguson was released.”

“He has 15 years left on his sentence!” you exclaim into your empty car.

“I know. I’m trying to get everything figured out and petition for it to be reversed, but for now, just keep working.”

“Yes, sir.”

You turn the channel back and set the radio down. Roscoe Ferguson hates Tim and would do anything to get to him. Tim knows you're here for him, so you focus on your assignment. The Hollywood hills are quiet this morning, but you know better than to let your guard down.

As you turn onto Tahoe Drive, you notice a black truck in your rearview. He gets close to the tail of your shop but slows suddenly and turns onto Tahoe Place. You roll your eyes; the people who live in the Hills drive like they own the hills. They probably do, but it doesn’t excuse unsafe vehicle operation.

You round the bend where Tahoe Drive turns into Lake Hollywood Drive, and the Hollywood Reservoir comes into view. When you glance up, you see the black truck speeding toward you again. You hit the lights and leave them on for a few seconds as a warning, but the driver doesn’t slow. If they pass you, you’ll stop them and issue a ticket, you decide.

There’s a point on Lake Hollywood Drive where there’s less than 200 feet of terrain between the road and the reservoir. It’s covered in sparse foliage, but it would be easy enough to get to the water or hide in the trees. You realize too late that the truck isn’t slowing down or moving to pass you as you near that point. It rams into you from behind, and you lurch forward before the seatbelt catches and snatches you backward. Steering is pointless as the shop slides into a small patch of dirt. The truck is still driving, pushing your car forward. The driver stops just before you collide with a tree, and you reach for the radio.

It's fallen from the console, and the seatbelt holds you uncomfortably tight to your seat. As you wrestle to free yourself and get the radio, you don’t see the man exit the truck or approach your window. He hits it with an illegal tool used for breaking into cars, and you turn your face away as glass showers over you.

“Hi,” he greets. “7-Adam-9, right?”

“And you’re Roscoe Ferguson,” you answer.

“Bradford, get back to the station,” Wade radios, “Now.”

“What’s going on?” Tim asks as he makes a U-turn.

“Ferguson stole a truck. We don’t know where he went after or what he’s planning to do.”

“We should find him,” Lucy says.

“And don’t say you should go look for him,” Wade adds. “You’re too close to this.”

“He’s not going to kill me, Grey,” Tim argues. “Let me help. I caught him once; I can do it again.”

“Get back to the station. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tim sighs as he continues driving toward the station. The last time he worried about Roscoe Ferguson, you were sitting beside him. Though you’ll never take the credit, Tim thinks you’re the main reason he finally got Ferguson in cuffs. 

“What now?” Lucy asks.

“We find a way to help find Ferguson,” Tim replies.

“Get out,” Ferguson demands. 

He pushes the gun closer to your face, and you raise your hands slowly. Your left shoulder aches from the impact of the seatbelt, and as you reach through the broken window to open your door, you feel the tiny scratches littering your face and neck sting. Ferguson pulls you away from the shop and pushes you toward the reservoir.

“What’s your plan here, Roscoe?” you ask.

He taps the gun against your back to make you keep walking. With your back to him, you slide your hand into your pocket and remove the laminated piece of paper you keep in it. It falls to the ground, and you hope it’s enough to help Tim find you and Roscoe. 

“Kill me to get to Tim? Hurt him without touching him because you know he won’t let you get the chance?”

“Shut up!” Ferguson yells. “Walk!”

Taunting him may not be your brightest decision, but making him mad will make him careless. When you reach the water, he grabs your belt and pulls you backward. Your breath rushes out as your back hits the ground, but you smile through the pain.

“You will never beat him,” you say.

“Tim Bradford took everything from me. Let’s see how he likes the feeling,” Ferguson responds.

He raises the gun to your face and pushes the barrel against your forehead. You keep your eyes on him, unwilling to flinch in the face of death. He changes his mind, however, and brings the butt of the handle down against your temple instead, and everything goes dark as the water blows in the wind.

Tim and Lucy have been relegated to desk duty. With Ferguson on the run and numerous threats against Tim’s life, Wade decided it would be best for him to stay here. Wade watches them from his office and shakes his head when Lucy begins twirling her handcuffs around her finger. His phone rings and Wade steps away from the glass door to answer it.

“Sergeant Grey,” he answers.

He listens silently before lowering the receiver and stepping out into the station. Tim looks up, and his expression drops immediately.

“What happened?” Tim asks as he stands.

“They found the stolen truck. It was involved in an accident near the reservoir. He, uh… Ferguson ran a cop off the road, and they’re both missing.”

“Who?” Tim asks, urgency and panic lacing the syllable.

Before Wade can answer, dispatch reads your badge number in a missing officer alert, and Tim’s blood runs cold. He freezes, staring at Wade as he realizes what has happened and that it’s his fault. Tim never anticipated Ferguson going for the people Tim cares about – loves – and he should have.

“Let me go out there,” Tim demands lowly. “I can find her.”

“I shouldn’t,” Wade answers. He looks to Lucy and adds, “But I will. Don’t try to do this alone, Bradford. Take help where you can get it.”

“I don’t want the credit; I want her back,” Tim snaps.

“Then get to the reservoir and do what you do best, Tim.”

Lucy nods at Wade, an unspoken promise that she’ll do her best to help him and keep him from spiraling. They both know that it’s easier said than done.

“Tim,” you call out when you wake.

“Nope, just me,” Ferguson says.

He’s sitting across from you as he carves a piece of wood into a chipmunk. Your arms are tied tightly behind you, and one of your ankles is secured to a metal pole with your handcuffs. Whatever he’s planning to do to you will hurt you, but it will hurt Tim much worse.

“I hope you’re asking for a lot of ransom,” you mumble.

“You and I both know this isn’t about money. It’s about that little partner of yours and what he did to me.”

“Making you pay for your crimes? Yeah, he’s a terrible person.”

Ferguson moves forward quickly. The half-finished wood carving falls to the floor as he presses the knife under your jaw.

“These whittling knives are small, but I can cut an artery before you can call out to him again,” he threatens.

You swallow, causing the knife to bob in his hand. He presses harder and turns to the left before standing. Warm blood trickles down your neck, and you wonder what he plans to do to you before he kills you. If you didn’t have so much faith in Tim, you’d be tempted to anger Ferguson and trick him into killing you early. It’s a terrible thing to think, but at the end of the day, you’re a cop, and you know when your chances aren’t good enough. Right now, they are.

“When he gets here, he will put a bullet in you this time,” you tell Ferguson.

“You stopped him last time,” he answers.

He’s planning to use you as a human shield; let Tim be the one to finish you off in the darkness. Perhaps that’s why you’re underground. The only light you see is from a small lamp; when it goes off, you will be plunged into complete darkness.

“Stop talking,” Ferguson demands as he retrieves his chipmunk. “We don’t have much air in here.”

You try not to let your shock show, but as you look around and fail to see a single air vent, you worry that Tim won’t make it in time. Forcing yourself to take a steady breath, you close your eyes.

“No, no, no,” Ferguson chides. “No napping. We have to stay awake for the pre-game, and the final score.”

He tips your head back, and your eyes open instinctually. When he sees that, he tightens his grip on your jaw and circles you. Looking at him upside-down, you tug against your restraints. He raises a foot and places it on your bound hands before stepping down hard and fast. Your shoulders pull backward at a painful angle with no room that makes you yell in pain. Ferguson’s laugh drowns out your scream, and he keeps his hand on your jaw as he lays a rope over the back of your neck to hang over your shoulders.

“He’s going to kill you,” you say between pants when Ferguson releases your face.

He hinges at his hip, invading your personal space as he smiles and says, “You too.”

“Bradford, there’s blood,” an officer alerts.

Tim steps to your open shop door and sees a few small, oblong blood drops on your seat. Based on the shape, you were in motion when they fell, and it wasn’t enough blood to kill you.

“Probably from the glass,” he decides. “Let’s move toward the reservoir. We can’t tell footprints apart but watch where you’re stepping!”

“Tim!” Lucy yells from just past the tree line.

He jogs to her side and looks down. She found a small, laminated piece of paper, and Tim recognizes it immediately. Your self-proclaimed “perfect fortune” from one of your first dinners together as P2s rather than rookies. He picks it up and looks toward the water. He’s looking in the right place, you made sure to tell him that, but he feels like he’s missing something else.

“Please,” you whimper, even though you know he can’t hear you.

“How many more times do I have to tell you?” Ferguson asks. “He’s not here.”

The only thing on your mind is Tim because if you stop thinking about him you’ll only know the unbearable pain and the man inflicting it. Ferguson places his foot between your legs, pushing against the chair slowly. It tips back, and you close your eyes and imagine Tim catching you. It doesn’t stop the initial pain of your leg being held in one place by the handcuffs as the rest of your body moves back or the scream you release as you hit the floor, but it does give you a reason to keep fighting. Ferguson pulls you up nearly as fast as he tipped you over, and the rope digs in against the side of your neck.

“This is the best workout I’ve ever had,” he says.

He wipes the sheen of sweat from his forehead, and you notice how hot and thick the air seems. Ferguson admitted that the air supply was limited, so if you start wasting it, maybe he will leave.

“If you call him…” you begin slowly. “Let me hear Tim Bradford’s voice one more time, and I will lure him here for you.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?” Ferguson asks.

You nod and immediately regret it when he pulls the rope and forces your head down toward your chest.

“I’m not letting you take control. This is my plan, and it ends beautifully.”

“I can’t do this!” Tim yells.

He runs his hands over the back of his head and down his face as he squats by the reservoir. There are no other hints about where Ferguson took you, nothing to guide Tim toward saving you, only dirt and broken promises. He told you that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you; Tim whispered the promise in the dead of night when you were asleep during an overnight patrol, yet he’s holding himself to keeping it like it will kill him if he doesn’t. Because it will.

“Tim don’t give up yet,” Lucy encourages. She lowers beside him and lays a hand on his back. “We can do this, but we have to work together. The paper means something right? Could it be more than an indication she was here?”

Tim wipes under his eye, and Lucy’s eyes widen as she realizes tears are streaming down his cheeks. He stops them quickly, but she pats his back to remind him he’s not fighting alone. You’re fighting, too, and Tim needs to remember that.

“Lucy, I lo-“ Tim stops suddenly, though Lucy is confident she knows where he was going. “I know what it means.”

He stands quickly, and Lucy follows him to the place where they found the fortune. The little strip of paper from a fortune cookie has been in your pocket since you read it, but not only for the encouraging message on the front.

“34831,” Tim says.

“Your badge number?” Lucy asks, tilting her head to the side. “What about it?”

“It was on the back of my fortune that night. Hers, though, didn’t have a number. So, we wrote one on it.”

“What’s the number?”

“2 25 12 9. I didn’t think she’d know what it meant.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s an alphabet cypher, but backward.”

“B, Y, L, I,” Tim rattles off. “If she had this, she may have left more clues at those points: 2, 25, 12, and 9.”

“This would have been about 2,” Lucy says, gesturing to the ground. “That’s what, 2 meters from the car?”

Tim furrows his brows at Lucy’s use of meters but nods anyway.

“We can’t walk 25 meters forward, we’d be in the water,” Lucy points out.

“Then we need to spread out in every direction we can go 25 meters… Unless I’m wrong.”

“Don’t question it.”

“No, she would’ve fought. He wouldn’t have been able to make her go anywhere if she wasn’t willing to. We should assume that she couldn’t leave a trail after this point.”

“Then we’re back where we started?”

“Exactly.”

“Tim, what does that even mean?”

“She’s still here. They both are.”

Tim turns and yells for someone to get satellite imaging of the area and the camera footage from your car. Your body cam and police uniform shirt were discarded by the water but the cameras could tell them what happened before and during the initial attack.

“We’ll find her, Tim,” Lucy promises again.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers.

Running footsteps echo over the top of the tin deathtrap you’re in. Someone yells, and Ferguson ducks his head as he moves out of your sight.

“Tim!” you yell.

Your voice cracks, and as you prepare to yell again, Ferguson pulls the rope around your neck. It digs into your skin and compresses your windpipe. Tears begin leaking from your eyes, and after the day you’ve had, you don’t care to stop them.

“Tim, please,” you whisper.

“Welcome to the final round,” Ferguson says into your ear. 

He loosens the rope and pushes your chair forward. His foot pulls down against your hands again, pulling your shoulder muscles cruelly as they stretch to accommodate the impossible movement. You scream in agony as Ferguson pushes you past the point he stopped at previously.

“Did you stop to ask yourself what he’s thinking? Wouldn’t he have found you sooner if he cared? I’ve been out long enough that he knew, yet he let you out by yourself,” Ferguson taunts.

“You won’t win,” you say between ragged breaths.

Ferguson pulls your head to the side to hold the whittling knife against your windpipe, and the cut he made earlier pulls open. Your white shirt is stained with blood and tears, and even as your blinks slow and breathing begins to feel impossible, you trust Tim.

“The almighty Tim Bradford isn’t coming to save you. You know why? Because you’re already dead,” Ferguson says.

You force your eyes open and ignore the pain and fear to say, “So are you.”

Throwing your head backward, you ignore the sting of his knife sliding across the tender skin of your neck. Your skull hits Ferguson’s nose, and he staggers backward with a hand holding his face. Suddenly, you can’t pull a full breath into your lungs. Time has run out, and Tim isn’t here yet. You hold your breath as Ferguson stumbles behind you. He drops, and you see his hand and face are covered in blood. His chest rises and falls slowly, but you’re safe until the rest of the oxygen is used up.

“Tim,” you whisper toward the metal sheet above you.

“Wait!” Lucy calls. “The ground is hollow here.”

Tim returns to Lucy’s side and hears his footsteps echo. It sounds like there’s a metal sheeting under the dirt beneath his boots. He raises a hand to call a few officers over before someone screams. It’s muffled by the metal and earth, but it’s a clear sign of pain. Better than that, it means someone is still alive.

“Find a way in,” Tim demands quietly.

As he searches the area around the hollow spot, he wishes to hear your voice again. Not another scream, but an acknowledgement that you survived whatever caused you such agony.

"Bradford!” Janssen calls.

He waves Tim over and points to a small opening. Together, they lift the heavy steel cover away from the round hole. Another barrier of cloth and metal sheets blocks the entrance, and as Tim digs through, he wonders how much air is getting through, if any. The moment he can see inside the fortified bunker, he pulls his weapon and drops silently into the metal housing.

What was likely meant to be a storm shelter has been converted into a survivalist’s nightmare. A small corridor leads to a wider opening, and a dim light is the only sign that anyone is inside. Tim raises his guns and stays ready to shoot as he nears the opening.

“Tim,” you whisper.

Tim hears your voice and doesn’t hesitate to step into the open room and swing his gun as he clears the small, square area. Ferguson lies unconscious in the corner, and Tim can only see your back, the restraints keeping you in place, and the rope loosely wrapped around your neck and shoulders.

Your shoulders shake as you exhale slowly. When you notice that you can breathe again, you take a deep breath before letting your head fall forward.

“Tim,” you repeat, trying not to think of anything else.

Tim says your name as he holsters his gun. You sit up straight and try to turn your head to the side but are stopped by the pull of the rope and the pain in your shoulders. You hiss in pain before returning to your previous position.

“You can’t trick me, Roscoe,” you mumble.

Tim steps toward Ferguson and handcuffs him. He repeats your name as he moves into your line of sight. His hands are raised to his shoulders, though his expression is pure concern. When he sees the blood, sweat, and dirt covering you and your clothes, he has to fight not to rush to your side.

“Tim,” you say again. Your voice is louder than before but still has an untrusting quality. “Tim.”

When you start crying and lean toward Tim, he kneels before you. He reaches down carefully to use his key and remove the handcuff from your ankle. Your head rests on his shoulder as he moves, and when he sees the damage done to your ankle, the swelling, deep bruising, and handcuff-induced gash, he looks back at Ferguson.

Tim sits up slowly and raises a hand toward your face. He pushes your hair back softly and waits until your eyes meet to speak.

“I need to go get backup,” he says.

“No, no! Please don’t leave me, Tim,” you plead through your slowing tears.

You lean forward and wince when your shoulder meets its new range of motion.

“I need to get Ferguson out of here,” Tim explains. “There’s a lot of people above us waiting for me to signal.”

“Tim, please.”

“Can I yell?”

You swallow as Tim moves closer to you. He stops an inch away from you, with your knees almost touching his ribs.

“I’m not going to yell unless you say I can,” he adds.

Tim waits for your nod, then leans away from you slightly to yell for Janssen and Lucy to come in.

“Help me,” you whisper when Tim’s eyes return to you.

He sits back on his heels as he unloops the rope from around you. It’s heavy, and he sees your shoulders drop once it’s away from you. They drop unevenly, though, and he knows you need more help than he can give you.

“I’m staying with you,” Tim promises, “but I have to untie your hands.”

You shake your head quickly, and Tim moves his hands to the sides of your thighs as he agrees not to leave. He asks Lucy to free your hands and keeps his hands on you as Lucy cuts the restraints.

“Thank you,” you say.

Tim doesn’t answer before you pull your arms forward. With them free, you don’t hesitate to raise them and wrap them around his shoulders. It hurts, and you sob as you fall forward and cling to Tim. He welcomes your touch and wraps his arms around your waist, but he doesn’t touch you, too mindful of how injured you are and where those unseen injuries are.

“I knew you’d come,” you say through your tears.

Tim looks over your shoulder as Janssen and a few other officers carry Ferguson to the opening. He should call an EMT to meet you here, but he can’t let you go yet. His grip tightens around your waist without thinking. When your only reaction is relaxing against him, Tim holds you as tightly as he needs to. Your tears are drying, and you turn your face toward Tim’s neck to speak.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t leave more clues,” you begin. “But I knew you didn’t need them.”

“The paper was smart,” Tim replies. “And I will always find you.”

“He wanted to lure you down here and trick you into killing me. Every time I called out for you he reminded me that we would both die.”

Tim exhales deeply, unsure how to tell you he knows you and he’d never make that mistake. He sits back, twisting you so that he’s holding you against his chest rather than letting you support your own weight.

“It hurts,” you say softly.

“Can you get out of here? Go up the ladder?” he asks.

“There’s a ladder?”

Tim’s brows furrow at your question. How did Ferguson get you down here if you weren’t conscious when you came in? He shakes his head; the detectives (and Tim) will look into the details of your abduction later. For now, your safety is the priority.

“Can you climb out?” Tim asks.

“Not without help,” you answer. “I don’t think I can walk.”

Tim looks at your ankle again, and his eyes catch on the fresh blood pooling against your collarbone. He leans closer to you to find the source. When he sees the cut across the front of your neck, he knows you need help sooner rather than later.

“Hold on,” he instructs you.

“I- I can’t move my shoulder.”

Tim lays you against the metal floor and looks at your left shoulder. It’s out of its socket, but Tim can’t risk pushing it back in without knowing if your muscles or ligaments are still intact.

“Please just get me out of here.”

Tim nods and turns around so your hips are beside his shoulders. He leans down and pulls your legs over his shoulder rather than your arms. With one hand pressing your shoulder to your side, Tim stands and pulls you up in a modified fireman’s carry. You stifle the yell that tries to escape, and Tim’s heart breaks when he hears it. He spent so much time fighting, desperate to find you, that he didn’t consider how different things would be when he did.

With the help of Janssen, Nolan, and Lucy, Tim gets you back above ground. He collapses to the ground but makes sure you’re set down with care. You reach out for him immediately, and Tim pulls your chest to his again. The paramedics are close, but until they arrive, Tim will hold you like he never has.

“I’m so sorry,” Tim whispers.

“You found me,” you reply. “You found me.”

Your right hand squeezes Tim’s shirt in your hand as you hold onto him. You didn’t doubt him for a second. Being in his arms gives you the safety and comfort you need to fall apart because you know he’ll hold you together.

“I know what it means,” you say. “Or I think I do. B-Y-L-I; it’s backwards, right?”

Tim nods against you, and you smile through your tears. The paramedics arrive, and you’re carefully removed from Tim’s grasp, though his hand stays in yours. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to let go, but Tim has already made a new promise, and he won’t leave your side until he’s forced to.

“Where’s Kojo?” you ask as Tim leads you into his house.

“He’s staying with Lucy tonight. He gets excited when he sees you and I didn’t want him to hurt you,” Tim answers.

He guides you to the couch and sits beside you after placing your things in his guest bedroom. Tim refused to let you return to your apartment alone after being discharged from the hospital, and you didn’t need much convincing to stay with him while you heal.

You lean your head against Tim’s shoulder, careful not to jostle your shoulder in its sling. He moves his arm to welcome you closer and tilts his head to rest beside yours.

“It’s I love you backward, right?”

Tim looks down at your hand, surprised to see your fortune in it. He takes it from you and flips it to see his handwriting. He nods and sits up straight. When you turn toward Tim, he wipes under your eyes as if he can still see the tears you cried when he saved you. Your skin is littered with scars and reminders of what Ferguson did to you, but Tim still seems to only see you underneath all of it.

“It’s I love you, Bradford,” he answers. “Whether you wanted that to mean ‘from Bradford’ or something else.”

“I begged for you to save me while I was down there with him.”

“I’m-“

“Don’t apologize. I just- I need you to know I trust you that much because I know you love me. I’ve known for a long time. But I also knew that even if you didn’t find me in time, I would die loving you. And life was worth living because you were in it.”

Tim’s hands rise out of his lap before freezing. He looks down at your neck and back to your eyes before smiling. His eyes look misty, but you know yours are, too, so you decide not to tease him about it this one time.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to put my hands to kiss you,” he mumbles.

You hold his shoulder as you lean in and kiss him. His hands raise to your waist without thought, and other than the soreness of using your obliques to search for Tim while tied in place, it’s a painless touch. Tim moves slowly and intentionally as he kisses you, reminding you of everything he said and did, even what you weren’t present for.

“I love you, Tim Bradford,” you say against his lips.

“I love you. I will always love you, and I will never lose you again.”

Tim slides the fortune into your pocket as he kisses you again, and every pain and fear you faced disappears because you know Tim will always find you and make you whole.

[lostintransist]

Fallen Angel | Job Offer

“Are you aware that your dishwasher is on parole?”

Simon is sitting in a chair pointed at the TV. You lounged on the couch, taking up two cushions while John took up the last one. John looks at you, his expectant captain face on.

“I am aware. Did you have a question?” You avoid looking at either of them, mindlessly scrolling.

John jumps in now. “I do. Why hire a felon?”

Looking at the two of them over your phone you make a decision.

“I will answer your questions for a foot rub.”

They wouldn’t do it. Or they would and you would get at least a bad foot rub out of this interrogation.

John and Simon lock eyes and come to an agreement.

“Give ‘em here.”

Grateful you were still wearing socks you plopped your feet into John’s lap. Starting at your arch he pressed his thumbs into the resistance he found there.

“Why did you hire him?” John starts.

You lay your phone on your chest, watching Simon watch John.

“Well since I didn’t want to ruin his life for the thirty dollars in my drawer, I offered him a job and an advance.”

“What?”

Simon’s voice cracks out like a whip.

Giving him a droll face you wait to see if he is finished.

“Have you ever been desperate to the point of thievery? Where one more singular day without a change in your situation will land you dead or worse?”

He stares at you, eyes locked as he tried to keep himself from thinking of a time. John switches from one foot to the other.

He puffs a breath of air through his nose and looks away. Not quite an admission of defeat but more an acceptance of the point.

“Go on, why the job offer?” John prompts.

“Why not the job offer? If he accepted I got someone who once he knew how to run things and felt I would be true to my word would work harder than most. If he didn’t show up the next night at least I did what I could to help him.” You shrug. “Was it scary when he had a gun on me? Yes. I have never seen one in real life before that moment. But he accepted the job, the advance and has been working for me ever since. I call and yell at his parole officer once a month to either let Quinn go to his job or get his sorry ass out of bed to drive the man. The officer has stopped accepting my calls. When he really pisses me off I call his boss instead now.”

Both men stare as you shrug, tip your phone back up and continue scrolling. After John stops rubbing your feet you pull them away gently and tuck them under his thigh. Might as well steal his warmth if he shared the couch with you.

Fallen Angel Masterlist | Masterlist

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER FOUR — HOT SKIN and a HALL PASS

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: rules, you've recently learned, are for breaking– sanity is also, apparently, relative. after making a statement in the cafeteria, you play hooky with eddie in main street vinyl. content warnings: MINORS DNI tension you would need a chainsaw to cut through, farm-to-table snarking, do they even know they're yearning, nancy wheeler i'm sorry i shittalked you again (it will get better i swear) word count: 4k

Dear reader, do you ever feel like you’re completely losing your grasp on reality? 

You’ve cruised through life almost seamlessly up to this point. Yours is a well-oiled machine, one you painstakingly built yourself. But do you ever feel like you’ve spent so much time constructing something so carefully that it doesn’t make sense to you anymore? 

Like you can’t see the forest for the trees, or the treason for the thrill. 

Do you ever want to light your whole life up in flames, just to see what’s really fireproof?

“So, which is it?” 

You’re standing at your locker, making a bad job of touching up your now-flaking under-eye concealer when a voice rings out from the other end of the hall. It bounces off the cool metal of the lockers, the tack of the linoleum. It makes your shoulderblades go tense. 

“Has little Lacy been hiding a pair of brass balls this whole time, or is she on a suicide mission?”

You’d roll your eyes, but your face is aching. 

“Showing up with me this morning would have been one thing, but sitting yourself at my little table of outcasts? At lunch? The most important social event of the day?” 

Munson lets out a low whistle from where he leans, a couple of lockers up from yours. 

The hallway is deserted save for the both of you; you, out on a forged hall pass and him, probably just ditching to ditch. You peer at him from behind your locker door. He’s standing slanted in a long, lithe line made bold and jangly by his carefully curated metalhead armor. 

You, and this comes with a hefty dose of begrudgery, have to hand it to him– he leans great. 

“Talk about blowing up your reputation beyond repair.” 

You know he’s making fun of you– he’s not exactly subtle about it, nor is he about anything. It’s all in the lilt of his tone, how ridiculous he thinks the interwoven politics of the cafeteria are, how dumb he thinks you are for considering that in the least bit important. 

Munson’s idea of survival in high school is attacking conformity with a nuclear bomb, whereas yours is a little more artful. 

“I know this might be hard for you to comprehend, Munson,” you sigh, and the sound rattles through your ribcage– you are tired, tired of him, “given that your understanding of object permanence has clearly been stunted at an infantile level, but the world does not revolve around you."

"No?!" he croons, sarcasm slicking out of him.

"I was catching up with Ronnie.”

“Right, because you guys have been such good gal pals up to this point,” Munson scoffs. 

His face, framed by those wild waves, materializes in the reflection of your locker’s mirror, peering over your shoulder. You slam the door and pivot to face him properly, impact ringing out like a gunshot. 

He does a little jump, a shadow of his shock at you on Harrington’s porch. 

That reaction is like a shot of espresso straight to the veins.

Good. Be afraid. Asshole.

You're sure as fuck awake now!

“Lab partner love never dies,” you say, leveling his stare. “You’d know that if you showed up for Biology once in a while.” 

“Maybe I need a tutor. I could use someone to help me brush up on anatomy.” 

“Sorry. I don’t teach remedial.” 

“Maybe you should start. Rehabilitate your image.” 

“Again, who died and made you my parole officer?”

His expression cracks; a gasp of a laugh. “Oh, so you remember all that?”

“My hippocampus is alive and kicking.”

“Your hip– what?”

Your lips purse, and just as you’re about to throw another verbal dart at him, the voice of Ms O’Donnell cuts through the both of you. 

“I hope you two have a damn good excuse for loitering in this hallway– because if not, Mr Munson, I believe you’re less than one detention away from suspension.” 

Munson’s got this terminal disease where he’s more smarm than charm, despite his warped perception of himself. There’s no way he’s going to handle this with the grace that’s necessary, because O’Donnell hates him anyway. 

He keens his head in the teacher’s direction, ready to roll out some useless excuse. 

Before he’s even got the chance to speak, you cut him off. 

“Hall pass, Ms O’Donnell.” You flash the fake yellow slip at her, careful to obscure the names– you’ve usually got one of these forgeries to hand, just in case you need it, and teachers generally trust you enough not to check them out. It comes with the whole work-life balance you’ve been treading for the entirety of your high school career; you’re well-liked and you’re maintaining an impressive grade point average. They don’t give a shit what you do other than that. 

“The Weekly Streak has run into a printer snag and Nancy Wheeler’s car is on the fritz. Eddie,” his first name, which you never ever use, feels weird and heavy on your tongue, “offered me a ride to the printers to make sure it gets worked out– it’s a big issue. What with the game this weekend and everything.” 

O’Donnell’s eyes narrow. You nudge Munson right in his funny bone– hard enough for him to wince. 

“Right?”

“Right! That big game. Front page news, Ms O’D. Gooooo Tigers.”

The teacher clicks her tongue against her teeth, her rock hard stare challenging the delinquent beside you– it’s entirely likely that Munson could have blown it for himself just by virtue of being alive and in O’Donnells sight line, but you know she’s got no reason not to believe you. 

See, your reputation at the school newspaper precedes you; it’s just about the only thing that really holds your interest within the monotonous structure of Hawkins High. With your finger on the pulse of Hawkins’ student body, it only makes sense that you serve as a fierce and unforgiving editor of the Streak’s society pages– funnily enough, that hardline professionalism included never giving Munson’s infamously lame Dungeons and Dragons club a single mention in them. 

Vetoed, you’d drawled at one of the more well-mannered members that had shyly approached you about writing a piece. Not Ronnie– she knew better than that.

How come? they’d whined, as their fearsome leader glowered near the lockers just like he was doing now. 

On grounds of irrelevance. I’m not wasting valuable inches on a make believe board game club. 

This activated Munson. Lacy, you wouldn’t know valuable inches if they rammed you in the–

“Make it fast,” O’Donnell decrees, and you feel her watch you as you take off down the hallway. With a snappy quirk of your painted fingers, you gesture for Munson to follow your lead. And you better believe he does, almost tripping over his ratty Reeboks trying to keep in step with you. 

You both heave open the double doors, squinting against the unseasonable late autumn sunshine. Heels of your ankle boots clicking against the concrete, you make an unconscious beeline for the parking lot– for Munson’s van. 

“So– what now?” he asks, dur-dur dumb as all hell. 

“What now is I just got you a free pass to play hooky,” you say, little miss cactus flower, prickly with annoyance. You shield your eyes against the blazing light. “Weren’t you ditching anyway?”

“Yeeaaah,” Munson hums, scratching the back of his head, “But… the plan kind of was to smoke a joint and go to the record store.” 

“Doesn’t sound like a complete waste of time,” you hear yourself saying before you realize it, yanking at the van’s passenger door. You pause, raising an expectant eyebrow at Munson. Isn’t this your cue? 

Baffled, bewildered, but grinning despite himself, he extends that silver ringed hand and helps you haul your ass into his beat up chariot. 

Completely losing your grip on reality.

–

It’s a fugue state. It’s an out of body experience– you’re watching yourself from outside your corporeal form and you have no logical control over what you’re doing. 

That’s the only way to explain why you’re standing in Main Street Vinyl, elbow to elbow with Eddie Munson. 

But that might also be the weed talking. 

You don’t know where the hell he gets this stuff, but it’s strong– way stronger than the shit he’s sold to your friends ever since he started dealing. Well, you guess it makes sense that he’d keep the good shit for himself. You’d do that too, if you were him. 

What if I was him, you idly wonder, peering up at him as he flicks through letters R through T in the metal section. His tongue peeks out of his mouth as his ringed fingers work though the vinyl, carefully considering each one. 

This is what you mean by obvious– you, for one, would have the good conscience not to look so stoned while you’re so stoned. 

You definitely don’t look stoned right now. 

No one can even tell that you’re looking at him, up from underneath those thick lashes of yours. 

He’s got thick lashes too, come to think of it. 

Munson is actually not completely unfortunate looking– but again, if you were him, there’s no way you’d wear your hair like that. You’d keep it long-ish, though, you think. He’s got a point there; a nice curl pattern. Maybe to your ears. And the clothes obviously have to go– that denim vest is a patchwork disaster. Did he sew all those patches on himself? 

A vision of him hunched over the thing with a needle and thread in hand flits through your brain, pricking himself more than he can pick up a stitch. He’s gone out of his way to make himself look like this– kind of similar to the way you pick up your skirts so they’re always impeccably just short enough. 

Now, the leather jacket you could forgive if at least the collar was different. Maybe one of those Brando-style biker jackets, you could rock that. Or a brown leather number, to bring out your eyes– which are his eyes, of course, his crazy dark empty universes of eyes. 

The kind of eyes with the kind of stare that nails you in place and makes you want to do crazy shit like ditch class and get loaded and stand dumbly in a record store. Those eyes.

That are staring at you. He’s staring at you. Right back at you. 

“I can read your mind,” Munson monotones, unblinking. 

You go flush, heat crawling all the way up to your ears. “Wh–what?”

Then he nudges you and snorts, breaking the spell. 

“You have gotta stop thinking such dirty thoughts about me, ice princess. You’re gonna melt.” 

You scoff, shaking your head– but the cartoonish move is more to ground you in reality than a reaction to him and his idiocy. You’re Wile E Coyote after blunt force impact with an Acme anvil, shaking the circling birds away. 

“They don’t even have what I’m looking for here.” 

Stalking around the stacks of records, with no clear direction in mind, you feel Munson’s laser stare follow you. “Yeah, they don’t usually file Madonna next to Motörhead, Lacy.” 

They’re both filed under M, aren’t they? is what you want to say. “I don’t listen to Madonna,” you protest instead, all quietly miffed and earnest with a crinkle in your brow. 

“Mm, don’t think that’s true,” Munson smirks, rounding on you around the rack. “You gave me a pretty spot on rendition of Like a Virgin– or does your hippocrampus not recall?”

“Hippocampus,” you breathe out, but it’s lost in the din of Main Street Vinyl’s quiet, carpeted atmosphere, “I don’t listen to her, like, recreationally. I can’t help if that song’s an earworm.” A beat. “I also can’t help if you’re a particularly serenadable virgin.” 

“She’s gonna touch me for the very first tii-iime…”

“That was a threat.” 

You make an active attempt toward tunnel vision as you slowly tread through the store, feeling the high starting to turn on you– this was the part smoking weed that you hated, the few times that you’d imbibed in it. That lack of control over the way you were coming across. For a girl trained in the art of saying all the right things, this was dangerous. Your tongue felt both loose and heavy in your mouth, like it could come out with anything and you couldn’t stop it, it’d just roll on out. 

The malevolent presence of Munson and your pathological need to one up him wasn’t helping matters. 

Ever since the parking lot at school, you’ve been stalking around like there’s a target on your back. Evidently, you’re not the kind of girl that chills out when you smoke, which is equal parts a relief and a disappointment to Eddie. He wonders what you’d look like, mellowed out and floating. Your eyebrow unarched and your lips not poised for attack.

He’s also acutely aware that he wouldn’t know what the hell to do with you then, either. 

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you, a hyperfocus that he’s assuming is a symptom of his own buzz. Every little twitch and jump you do– it’s like it’s begging him to pay attention. Like if he looks away for even a second, he might miss something. 

“What are you looking for?” he asks, eyes trained on you while you thumb through the records. 

As much as you love music, and you do, you have a tough time describing exactly what you want to listen to. The notes in the songs that you revisit again and again read more like physical feelings, sparking off in your nerve endings. For example, listening to River by Joni Mitchell feels like something heavy is sitting on your chest. Listening to Hong Kong Garden by Siouxsie and the Banshees feels like you have fairy lights at the end of your fingertips. 

“I want something that sounds…” you say, noticing the distinct feeling of cottonmouth setting in, “Ticklish.”

“Ticklish,” Munson deadpans back at you. 

“Something that sounds like someone’s running a xylophone mallet down my spine.” 

He regards you for what feels like an excruciatingly long timewith this terrible, awful look on his face– brows ticked up over his glassy bloodshot eyes, pink mouth peeling into a grin, and this look, this look of wonderment. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re saying shit like this to him. 

Join the club. 

“... You don’t get stoned a lot, do you?”

“Ugh!” you groan, a little louder than you mean to– the cashier shoots you a glare as you stalk past Munson, stalk past him, cheeks flaring pink. “I know what I’m talking about. I know it when I hear it– I heard a record just like that earlier this year! It’s like, some band from Scotland or something? Totally incomprehensible lyrics, yeah, but that’s what it felt like. It was like… bone deep.”

You hear Munson emit the teeniest hehe! and you just about snarl at him over your shoulder.

Rounding on the alternative section, limited as it is, you feel a welcome sense of familiarity. You haunt this corner when you can, when you’re out of sight from prying eyes. There’s only one other regular purveyor of this little corner of Main Street Vinyl that you know of. You trace a thumb over the spines of the cassette cases–it’s mostly tapes, rarely ever records because tapes are easier to import and harder to damage, and it’s always haphazardly organized–and then you spot it. 

Victoriously, you thrust it in Munson’s face, which is right over your shoulder. He’s frequenting that spot a lot recently. “Ha!”

“Oh!” he chirps, sounding almost pleasantly surprised and plucks the tape from your fingers. “... Cocteau Twins?”

You falter, eyelashes flickering as you look up at him. Dammit. He even pronounced it right. 

“You know them?” You hate how high your voice sounds.

He runs a thumb over the plastic casing, edging a little closer to you. That came outta left field. 

“This shit… sounds like what a haunted music box would sound like.” 

Aaand we’re back in the room.

“Okay…?”

“This is creepy, cursed doll music.” 

And the room is filled with assholes.

“Alright.”

“This is what you hear right before you’re about to get possessed by the ghost of Tiny Tim. The whiniest little bitch ghost of all time.” 

And all the assholes are named Eddie Munson. 

“I get it.”

“You better be careful with this stuff, Lacy-Wacy,” he teases, mocking that fraudulent concern ripped straight from an episode of Donahue. He taps the cassette case against your forehead. “Music like this is a gateway drug. A gateway drug to hanging out with, like, Jonathan Byers.”

You reach out and grab his wrist, tugging his hand and that damn tape away from your face. You’re shocked to find that the skin under your fingers is blazing hot–same as you felt through his shirt when he helped you to the door in your drunken stupor. 

Does he always run this warm? you wonder. Is it all that Satanic poseur poison coursing through his stupid veins?

“Well, it’s a little late for that,” you tell him, and you’re not quite sure why. Probably because every secret you swore would die with you is slowly but surely punching its gnarly hand from the grave, like fucking Carrie from fucking Carrie.

Munson doesn’t even express any overt shock, like he’s learning to roll with the punches of you revealing bits and pieces of yourself through sheer annoyance with him. He just cocks his head, challenging you with a silent, Really?

This chick. This blink-and-you’ll-miss-it chick.

“I ran into him in this corner a lot,” you explain breezily, tilting a shoulder up like it doesn’t bother you, like it’s never bothered you. “We’d always be standing next to each other at the listening booths, and I’d be listening to stuff I couldn’t take home and he’d be listening to stuff he couldn’t afford to buy and… We like a lot of the same music. We went out on like, one date if you could even call it that, and it didn’t work out.”

“Because he’s a creepazoid?”

“Because he was hip deep in it for Nancy Wheeler,” you supply, a green monster gurgling in the pit of your stomach. “Like every other respectable member of the male species.” 

It was the summer before junior year, a punishingly hot one even by Hawkins standards. You’ve never been good in the heat and that summer made your entire body feel ill-equipped, your skin ill-fitting. Main Street Vinyl had those big, big box fans right near the cash desk which was right near the listening booths, so you would spend the majority of your time there when you weren’t being forced to the lake or Skull Rock with your friends. 

Jonathan would look at you with alarm at first, like you were trespassing. Then he’d spy what you were listening to and sneak these small, shy smiles at you that you indulged in– at first, because you weren’t copping a lot of male attention from anyone else that summer. Eventually, it was because his shadowy eyes were always ringed with this tenderness, with knowing. Like you two were sharing a secret. It made you be able to look past the greasy hair and crippling social awkwardness. 

You know you rocked his world the day you breezed past him at the listening booth, leaned in and whispered, I love Linda Thompson's voice, don't you?

But still, the Love’s Baby Soft scented specter of Nancy Wheeler loomed large. You picked what you thought was a secluded spot in the park for your ‘date’, which included a conversation that was almost entirely cruise directed by you. Said conversation completely flatlined when you both spotted Nancy Wheeler cresting a hill, walking her family dog.

At this point, you and Nancy were most familiar with each other from the school newspaper– she, the peachy-cheeked junior, the rising star that was sure to make editor and you, the girl who knew where the parties were happening and where the bodies were buried. 

The picture of coquettishness, she offered you and Jonathan an awkward, stilted wave. Jonathan spoke a grand total of three words after she left, zeroing in on the spot where she appeared like a man possessed. 

You didn’t acknowledge his existence after that.

It’s not that you were particularly hung up on Jonathan Byers, but you didn’t expect someone like him to be able to elicit that cold sinking feeling you were used to experiencing at the hands of other boys and their ignorance. Maybe it hurt more because you thought you had something in common– something real, something that wasn’t shotgunning a can of Busch. Whatever it was, it made you sure of two things. 

You hated Nancy Wheeler, and she wasn’t going anywhere. 

You wished you didn’t hate her. But you also wished she’d dissolve into a fine mist.  

“Wheeler’s a priss,” Munson pulls you out of memory lane in a harsh left turn, face contorting into a half-grimace. It’s the general consensus on Wheeler– the shoes are too goody for everyone to be falling head-over-heels with her, if you want Eddie’s honest opinion. There’s no there there, not like with–

“I’m a priss.” It sounds like you’re defending her. In some weird way, you might be. 

I know what guys like you think of me.

“No, you’re a bitch.” 

His weight on the word bitch makes your knees feel unsteady. The way he says it. It’s not enunciated like an insult. It’s a dagger cloaked in velvet. It’s warm, like he is. It’s almost filthy. It makes you look at his mouth. 

“You’re a stone cold killer bitch,” Eddie’s voice hums low in his chest. His heartbeat is picking up, and he wonders if you can feel it where your freezing fingertips are squeezing his pulse point, “and I think–”

“You two truant assholes gonna buy anything today or am I gonna have to call the goddamn dog warden on y’all?” 

Heaved back into reality by the clerk at the cash desk. A trickle of cold sweat runs from the nape of your neck into the collar of your sweater. Heaved back into reality to see you’re still clutching Eddie Munson by the wrist, and he’s looking at you like you’re the last Popsicle. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day.

It gets so hot here in summer.

“I think,” you breathe as you unstick your fingers from him, suddenly aware that you’re parched and starving and your face hurts, “it’s time for me to go home.” 

“I– yeah,” Munson stumbles, also perturbed by the interruption. His red-ringed eyes gain a little more clarity. He’s seeing something you’re not seeing. He shouldn't be letting himself see that. “Let’s go.”

Let’s go back to the van. Let me make you look at me like that again. Let me see if you’re cold all over. I can fix that.

“No, I gotta…” Your head pounding, your thoughts swimming– the sharp and stupid realness of this whole afternoon coming into perfect view. What are you doing? “I need to walk it off.” 

He inhales sharply, a strangled chuckle– oof. That other shoe, that buckled heel of yours, clattering to the floor. He should have expected that, right? There’s no way you’d wanna… Because you’re you and he’s…

Eddie retreats back into himself a step or two; it looks like he’s gone all bashful, a little color dropping out of his cheeks. His hands clasping behind his back. His heart is in his big intestine. 

“That’s the second time you’ve turned me down today, sweetheart. Keep it up, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”

Munson, get the fuck out of here before I ban you again! and Jerry, can’t you see me talking to somebody right now! explode in a cacophony, the boy and the keeper of the keys to the record store hollering at each other. You take this moment of interruption to nudge the door open with your shoulder. But you don’t start into the street without giving him one more look. 

“Lacy.” He’s grinning this dumb grin, eyes gone soft at the corners.

He’s giving this one last nudge.

Your heart thumps. A reminder– this is really happening. Shit. Fuck.

“That’s the thing, though,” you say, attempting to smooth your expression out with a frosty smile. “I don’t like you, Eddie.”

author's notes: of course, my eternal eternal ETERNAL THANKS for all the love you have shown this story and the anons you've sent!!! writing is crazy so thank you for caring about mine. onto the fun stuff because you know i love a reference: - he leans great. a shameless my so-called life drop but eddie to me is a kind of stunning midpoint between catalano (left back twice) and krakow (would go down on you for days) - someone in the tags said ronnie and lacy should hold hands and i don't disagree. lab partner love never dies! - there's never a bad time to listen to ace of spades by motörhead - there's also never a bad time to listen to treasure by cocteau twins, which is the album lacy is referencing - i always fee like the zombie hand reaching out of the ground motif is unfairly accredited to the living dead franchises or something like that, but of course the most iconic instance to me is from carrie (1976) because women own horror - god, we really need to bring back listening booths in record stores! like we really need to bring them back lest romance die forever. - richard and linda thompson, also forever!!!!! my headcanon for this re: jonathan byers is this particular record is a joyce byers influenced choice. joyce and lonnie loved this record (when they were happy... lol) and played it all the time when jonathan was a baby. their original copy got lost (or destroyed) and sometimes jonathan will play it in the main street listening booth but he won't bring it home because he knows it's painful for his mom. - all my stone cold killer bitches in the house make some noise - jerry from main street vinyl you will always be rob from high fidelity in MY HEART (eddie is barry even though he doesn't work there lmao) - ok my hellcats! that's all the cultural education for this chapter!! thanks again for reading, reblog and scream at me in the asks because i so appreciate (and need) the support and i'd also love y'all to send me prompts! don't be shy! i love an in-universe blurb!

[captainmalewriter]

Jailbreak

A bell attached to the liquor store entrance chimed as Alfonso De La Torre walked in with heavy feet. The tattooed young man kept his head down, only raising his head once to give the clerk an acknowledging nod of the head. Alfonso walked straight to the back of the store where all the various beers were displayed behind a glass door. 

Alfonso opened the door and plucked out an ice cold can of Modelo. He then walked to the clerk with the beer in one hand and a $5 dollar bill in the other. Alfonso placed the bill on the counter and slid it under the safety glass to the clerk. 

“Keep the change, I won’t need it,” Alfonso said. The clerk merely nodded his head as he rang him up. He had known Alfonso since he first moved into town a decade ago. The clerk knew that when it came to a guy like Alfonso, it was better to just smile and nod than to ask questions. The less he knew, the less likely he’d get called to the witness stand one day. 

Alfonso opened the can as he walked out the liquor store, leaving the sounds of the can opening and the door bell chimes ringing behind him as he left. He then found a spot along the wall to lean against while he enjoyed his cold beer. It was a cool night with clear skies that night, perfect for a cold one. Alfonso took a long swig of Modelo. The bubbles rushed up the can as he chugged it. He then let out a satisfied ahhh, knowing full well that that can was likely going to be the last beer he’d enjoy in a while. 

As he stood there savoring every last drop of alcohol, Alfonso could hear sirens blaring off somewhere not too far. They were getting closer with each passing second, and Alfonso only smirked as he saw the signature blues and reds of LAPD light up the street. Within a minute, two police cars pulled up into the parking lot. They parked right in front of the liquor store. Then out came three police officers with their guns and tazers points at Alfonso.

“Freeze! We have you surrounded!” one of the police officers shouted. Alfonso chuckled in response. 

“Bro chilllll,” Alfonso took another drink of Modelo. “No need for all that... I just wanted one last beer before y’all take me in. Is that too much to ask? Or y’all finna shoot if I keep drinking?” 

"Put your hands up behind your back!!" the lead officer barked. Alfonso sighed.

"Shit man... Tough crowd."

Alfonso finished his beer in one final chug then threw the empty can to the trash. He then walked towards the police with his hands raised up behind his head. Despite his cooperation, the police were still rough in handcuffing him. They shoved him into the backseat of one of the patrol cars. As they drove away, Alfonso looked out the window and took in the nighttime ambience of his city with a grin on his face.

The rest of the night went according to the usual protocol. The police took Alfonso to the precinct, processed him into the system, then put him in a holding cell for the night. Once the next morning came, Alfonso was transferred to another detention facility where he'd stay until his court date. Alfonso kept a bored expression on his face throughout the entire process, only smiling when he had a smart ass comment ready to piss off the officers. It wasn’t his first time going through the motions, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be his last either. However, although Alfonso was able to get off on bail or on parole the last couple times, the consequences of his latest arrest would prove to be more severe...

It was sometime in the late afternoon when Alfonso found himself bored and sitting in a nearly empty room. There was only a table and two chairs in the dull room. It was a drag, but Alfonso was grateful to get away from his weird cellmate Edwin. Edwin was arrested for breaking and entering into a private lake house. He wanted to catch some fish so he could harvest their organs. Something about needing fresh materials for his rituals. Alfonso never really bothered to learn the details, all he knew was that he needed to keep the weirdo happy or he might try something. Getting some time away from him was like a breath of fresh air for Alfonso, though now he found himself with new stress. The guard explained that it was time for him to meet with his lawyer (or more accurately, the public defender assigned to him). Despite their enthusiasm to help him, Alfonso kept turning them away. None of them matched the vibe he was looking for. He needed someone who would help him get off scot free, not just reduce the severity of his sentence. Until he found just the right lawyer, Alfonso kept holding out.

Alfonso leaned back against the chair, fingers tapping a rhythm against the stainless steel table. Through the small pane of glass on the door, he noticed one of the guards walk past with a man in a long sleeve dress shirt. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight of the well dressed man.

"Great, here comes the next bitchass..."

Alfonso watched as the man spoke with the guard, then walked into the holding room with him. Alfonso started mentally picking out all his finer details. His white shirt had no discernible wrinkles, likely from being ironed. His black slacks fit him just right, leading Alfonso to believe they were custom tailored to his exact size. The man sat across from Alfonso, placing a file on the table as he did so. Alfonso spotted a gold ring on his wedding finger with a matching wristwatch to boot. With everything Alfonso picked up about the man, he already decided he didn’t like him.

“Good evening, Mr. De La Torre, my name is Jackson. How are-”

“Get out. Get me another lawyer.” Alfonso interrupted the man. Jackson was visibly thrown off by this, but did not give up. Instead he adjusted himself in the seat and put on a stern face to show he meant business.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re just gonna have to settle for having me as a lawyer.”

“Fuck that! Just get me another lawyer!”

“No can do-”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve already turned away three other lawyers. You can’t just shop around for lawyers, there’s only so many public defenders you know.”

“Thh, whatever. I’m not talking to you.”

Alfonso sat back in his chair. Jackson merely opened the file he brought and started reading some of the papers. 

“You’re my first assignment and I’m not gonna give on you. Just let me defend you in court and I promise we’ll get you out of this mess.” Jackson said while reading. Alfonso simply ignored him.

“You’re in deep shit, you know,” Jackson began. “Assaulting someone while on parole and you still wanna turn away a lawyer you couldn’t afford on your own? Gotta be really stupid to that.”

“What the fuck did you say?” Alfonso turned back to face him. “That motherfucker had it coming after he cheated on my little sister. You don’t know shit about me, don’t talk about me like you know me.”

“Aww, how noble of you! Unfortunately, the law doesn’t give a fuck about the situation behind the crime. A bloodied up man is in the hospital and his assailant took a little stroll to the nearby liquor store like it was just another Saturday night. Face it, man,” Jackson leaned in. “You need me to defend you in court or you’re done for.”

“Man, fuck you! You can’t defend me for shit!” Alfonso stood up and faced the door where a guard was on standby. “Ay, bailiff!! Get this bitch outta here and get me another lawyer! Get some raza to defend me, someone who’ll understand-”

“I am raza,” Jackson stood up too. Alfonso scoffed in response.

“Not with a fuckass name like Jackson you’re not!”

“My full name is Jackson Rivera Velazquez! Both of my parents immigrated here from Guatemala, I’m just as Latino as you are!”

“How many Rolex watches you got? How about that gold ring around your finger, how much that cost you? I bet you got AC in your house too, huh. Livin’ nice and comfortable como los güeros while the rest of us out here struggling to survive! You might be Latino but you ain’t raza!!”

“Hey!! Just cuz I got some money now doesn’t mean I don’t know struggle! My whole life is struggle! I came from nothing, living in family garages and food stamps. I had to work my ass to get to where I am! Now I’m a lawyer with a handsome partner and a nice home, but just because I’m comfortable now doesn’t mean I’m gonna forget where I came from! I came into this work so that I could help out others like...”

Alfonso started to tune out Jackson while he shared his life story. Something he said made Alfonso’s ears perk up. ‘Handsome partner.’ Alfonso wasn’t surprised to find out he was gay, but learning that information made him smirk inside. Suddenly Alfonso found himself plotting the perfect escape plan in his head. It was elaborate, it was risky, it was borderline insane too, but it might just work.

“Enough already damn!!” Alfonso shouted, interrupting Jackson’s rambling. It was time to kick his plan into action. “Look, I’m sorry man, okay. I’m just worried sick that I won’t get to see my family again. I don’t want to spend the next 10 fucking years of my life in here. Can you help me get out of here?”

Once again, Jackson was visibly thrown off guard by Alfonso. Except this time, instead of a scowl, he had a smile forming on his face.

“Alright, that’s what I wanted to hear!! I promise you, Mr. De La Torre, you won’t regret taking a chance on me!” Jackson stuck his hand.

“Yeah yeah, no problem, thanks for helping me out. Quit the formal shit though. Just call me Alfonso.”

The two men exchanged a firm handshake. Alfonso and Jackson sat back down at the table so Jackson could explain what will happen next. Jackson was going to take care of all the paperwork back at his office, then come back the very next day to get Alfonso’s full testimony on what happened the night of the assault. Jackson also explained that due to jurisdiction reasons, Alfonso was going to get transferred to another detention center again after they talked. He couldn’t do anything about it, but he assured Alfonso that he will still follow along as his lawyer. Once everything was set in stone, Alfonso was escorted back to his cell while Jackson went back to his office to get working. Despite his initial apprehension, Alfonso had full confidence that Jackson would follow through. He had to trust him, or else his escape plan would never work. 

Alfonso walked back into his cell to see Edwin fiddling around with something on the top bunk. He let him be and went to his bunk, taking a deep breath to calm down. Alfonso knew he couldn’t do much while he was detained, but regardless of that, he knew he had his share of work to get done. And with a time limit of 24 hours, he had to get shit done fast!

Once dinner hour came for the inmates, Alfonso took the opportunity to gather as many materials as he could hide from the cafeteria. While he had to be discreet about it, Alfonso made sure to keep a straight face and a cool air while he did it. 

He made it back to his cell with various things in tow. Alfonso set them all down in his bunk to get to work on making a potion. Alfonso had very limited knowledge about brujeria from his family, and the thing he was trying to brew wasn’t exactly a potion in the traditional sense either, but it would have to do for the time being. But just before he could start, Edwin peeked his head out from the top bunk.

“You’re planning something.”

“What? No I’m not,” Alfonso denied. Edwin hopped down and made eye contact with wide eyes.

“Yes you are. The fish hearts told me so. Are you trying to escape?”

Alfonso stayed quiet for a moment. That was the most interaction he had ever had with Edwin. Yet, he managed to read right through him like a book. He was amazed, if not a bit unnerved.

“Alright, ya got me. I’m trying to make something that’ll help me get the hell out of here. I don’t know much about brujeria, but I’m hoping this will get it done.” 

“That’s not gonna do anything worthwhile. Here, let me help.”

Edwin did not hesitate in taking over the potion making process. He took all of Alfonso’s materials and added a few of his own. Bell peppers, fish eyes, tap water, crushed black pepper, candle wax, marijuana leaves, and a few other things Alfonso couldn’t identify but decided against asking what they were for his own sanity. It took Edwin less than half an hour to get the concoction brewed and ready to go. He handed it to Alfonso in a plastic cup.

“When it’s time, drink this and it will perform a miracle for you. You might feel a little weird and you’ll have no idea what the miracle is, but you need to trust the process. While you’re busy doing whatever it is you’re doing, I’ll be busy staging an escape of my own.”

Edwin then climbed back up his bunk bed. Alfonso stared into the cup. The liquid inside resembled olive oil. He took a whiff of it and recoiled from how spicy it smelled.

“How the fuck am I supposed to drink this? And how will I know when ‘the miracle’ is gonna start?”

“Just trust the process, and leave the rest to God.”

There was silence in the cell again. After a beat, Alfonso asked Edwin another question.

“Hey bro, why are you helping me? You don’t even know me,”

“I want to see this world burn down, but before that happens, I want to have a little fun.”

Alfonso groaned in dismay. Despite Edwin helping him out with the potion, he was still impossible to talk to and understand. Alfonso decided to let it go and just go to bed without further questions. 

Once the next morning came around, Alfonso mentally prepared himself to execute the next phase of the plan. Then once the clock hit 12 PM, Alfonso downed the potion Edwin had made for him. The thick liquid was thoroughly laced with spice and made for a hard swallow. Alfonso gagged once he got it all done.

“Fucking awful...”

Alfonso crumpled up the cup and threw it at Edwin as he left the cell. He was then escorted to the same room as the day before, where Jackson was already waiting for him. Alfonso smirked when he saw him. The plan was going perfectly so far.

“Hey Alfonso, good to see you again.”

“Yeah man, good to see you too.” 

Jackson stood up to greet Alfonso with a handshake. As the two men sat down at the table, Jackson sniffed the air vigorously. It weirded out Alfonso, but he knew he had to see his plan through to the end.

“Are you wearing cologne?”

“Nah, just showered last night. They got us fresh soap bars,” Alfonso explained. Jackson kept smelling the scent, letting out satisfied exhales every time he got a whiff. 

“I’m sorry, you just smell really really good... Um, but anyway, shall we get started? We’ve got this room for an hour.”

Alfonso then began to share the story of what happened the night he jumped his little sister’s ex to Jackson. As he spoke, Alfonso kept finding any excuse possible to touch Jackson. Shuffling his feet and ‘accidentally’ brushing against Jackson’s leg, letting his fingers linger on Jackson’s hand while he handed him his pen, even demonstrating what he did that night with Jackson as a scene partner. Every time he touched Jackson, Alfonso noticed him trying his hardest to hide a smile. 

Eventually, after enough physical touch, Jackson was getting restless. He was breaking a sweat, and the way he kept readjusting how he was sitting made it obvious he was getting hard. Alfonso grinned. He had him right where he wanted him. It was time to go all in. 

“Hey, Jackson. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“You’ve been actin’ kinda sus today... You into me?” Alfonso smirked.

“What!? No, no of course not-” Jackson’s jaw dropped as he watched Alfonso take his shirt off. Despite his thin frame, Alfonso was pretty muscular with well defined shoulders and biceps. Coupled with his tattoos, Jackson couldn’t help but admire the view.

“You like what you see, Pa? Care to take a closer look?” Alfonso teased. Jackson gulped. A beam of sweat rolled down the side of his face. He wiped his brow then shook his head.

“No, I can’t, I’m married. See?” Jackson held up the hand with his wedding ring, careful to make sure he didn’t look back at Alfonso. Alfonso then reached over, slipped the ring off, and put it on the table. That caused Jackson to look back at him. 

“C’mon,” Alfonso lifted his arm behind his head, leaving his pit exposed. “Just a little, promise I won’t tell.”

Alfonso kept his arm up as he watched Jackson eye him up and down like he was a piece of meat. He could see the lust building up in Jackson’s eyes like a pressure cooker. Alfonso did not like men, especially men who cheated on their partners, but he knew he had to suck it up if he was going to get out there. 

Finally, Jackson stood up and walked over to Alfonso. He leaned in and took a quick yet deep whiff of his pit. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he delighted in a guilty pleasure.

“Holy fuck Papi... I love your musk!” Jackson cried out. He then stuck his face into Alfonso’s armpit.

Musk?

After Jackson said that, Alfonso couldn’t help but tilt his head in to get a whiff of his own pit. He showered that same morning, and just as expected, he smelled clean! Absolutely no musk!

Jackson was rubbing his nose into Alfonso’s pit, causing Alfonso to stumble back slightly as he had to balance himself. He could feel Jackson’s warm, bated breaths as he indulged on whatever it was he was smelling.

“Bro, hey... you good?” 

Alfonso asked. Jackson kept sniffing his pit for a while longer. Only then did he raise his head to face Alfonso. That was when Alfonso got a good look at him. Jackson was red in the face after worshipping Alfonso’s armpit. He was also panting and drooling. Jackson had a tired, almost hypnotized look to his eyes that he didn’t have before. And not just that, Alfonso could also see his pupils visibly dilate. Alfonso felt as if Jackson was staring right into his soul with how lustful his gaze had become.

“Please Papi...” Jackson fell to his knees. “I need more... Please! Give me more...!”

Alfonso was shocked to see the once composed lawyer fall to his knees, begging him for his body. Whatever that potion was, its effects were clearly taking hold. After taking a moment to process the situation, Alfonso lifted his other arm.

“Knock yourself out, bro.”

Then, like a starving lion, Jackson pounced onto Alfonso. Alfonso stepped back to the wall behind him. It was the only way he could stay standing while Jackson nuzzled himself into his armpits. Jackson couldn’t get enough of his manly musk. The dank smell of Alfonso’s sweat combined with pheromones made him go crazy! He licked the folds of his pits as he kept sniffing away, tracing the thin lines of pit hair Alfonso had. All while Alfonso stood there, letting Jackson get his fill off his body.

Fuck man... This guy really loves his pits huh... Oh shit!!

Alfonso felt Jackson grab his dick through his shorts and start massaging his member. Jackson knew how to balance a firm grip with a tender touch as he rubbed him down. Alfonso had to suppress a moan as he felt himself start getting hard. 

Trust the process... Just trust the process...

Alfonso whispered Edwin’s words to himself. It took real willpower for him not to stop Jackson right there and tell him he’s not gay. Alfonso assured himself that he was undeniably straight, and that he was doing this so he could get out of jail. 

While Alfonso was in his thoughts, Jackson had moved on to Alfonso’s arm muscles. Jackson was making out with Jackson’s biceps, licking and sucking while still stroking Alfonso’s growing cock. That brought Alfonso back to the present moment, and he flexed his bicep to help further indulge Jackson. Jackson loved it.

It didn’t take long before both men were stripped naked of their clothes. Jackson moved on to Alfonso’s torso; cupping his firm pecs, sucking on his nipples, licking his abdominals, the works. Jackson was moaning like a madman while Alfonso was struggling to keep his pleasure hidden. His moans came out as groans and grunts instead. The longer they went at it, the harder it was for Alfonso to deny he was having a good time too. He couldn’t deny Jackson knew how to use his tongue incredibly well.

Trust the process... You’re not gay, you’re just doing this to get out of jail... Trust the- OHHHHH FUUUUCK!

Jackson had slipped Alfonso’s dickhead into his mouth while he was in his mind again, catching him off guard. Alfonso couldn’t hold back anymore. He threw his head back in pleasure and moaned as Jackson deep throated him. Alfonso sported a cool 7.5 inches yet Jackson had no problem sucking off his entire member. He was a pro at blowjobs; fondling his balls with his free hand, changing the rhythm and intensity of his sucking, and using his tongue to lick off any precum leaking out of Alfonso’s dickhead. 

“Argh... fuckk! You know how to suck good dick bro! Whewww!!”

Alfonso grabbed the back of Jackson’s head and held him in place as he started thrusting into his throat. His cum filled balls dangled back and forth as he face fucked the once professional lawyer. Jackson let out various moans and gargles while Alfonso had his way with him, but never once did he complain. He took it like a champion, practically begging for more. The scent of Alfonso’s body odor, ripe from sex sweat, kept him hungry for more. 

Eventually, after some more time spent on head, they took things to the next level. Alfonso nudged Jackson to get up from his knees, and once he did, he jumped onto Alfonso. Alfonso had no problem carrying the grown man. His fully erect cock bumped against Jackson’s ass as he carried him to the table, making his hungry hole pulsate. And Alfonso laid Jackson down on the table, Jackson slipped a finger into his ass to get ready for what was to come. Now it was Alfonso’s turn to service him.

Alfonso used a generous amount of spit to lube up his throbbing cock while Jackson lifted his legs, leaving his light brown hole exposed and ready for action. Alfonso smirked at the sight of Jackson’s hairy ass but with a clean shaven hole. It was as if he knew to tidy up for guests. Alfonso tapped his dick head against Jackson’s hole, making the cock hungry slut whimper with anticipation. Knowing just how badly Jackson wanted his dick only made Alfonso even hornier. He grinned, then slowly but surely slid his dick into Jackson. His cock disappeared into Jackson inch by inch. Jackson’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he felt his insides getting filled by the man he craved. Then, once Alfonso’s entire length, he started hitting strokes at a steady pace. 

With each hip thrust Alfonso was sliding his long, girthy cock deep inside Jackson’s ass. The sounds of their moans and groans along with Jackson’s ass cheeks getting clapped filled the room. Alfonso’s favorite move was taking his cock out temporarily, only to ram it back into Jackson’s stretched out hole. Jackson could feel his prostate getting fucked everytime Alfonso did it, causing waves of pain and pleasure to reverberate throughout his body. But Jackson wasn’t the only one having a great time, as Alfonso had also grown to love it despite his initial hesitation to just ‘play along.’ In the heat of fucking, he had even forgotten his mantra of ‘trust the process’ and kept going at it because he wanted to! Alfonso loved how soft and tight Jackson’s hole was. It was like his already sensitive cock was getting a warm hug from all angles. He threw his head back as he drilled Jackson like there was no tomorrow. Alfonso hated to admit it, but he was having the time of his life. Jackson’s ass was better than any pussy he had ever fucked before, and he knew it. 

Alfonso and Jackson had been going at it in missionary for a while. Condensation had even begun forming on the glass pane of the door. They were fucking like they were angry at each other, but that was just how they liked it. Rough, sweaty, smelly, and raw! While Alfonso had managed to keep it down to quietish groans, Jackson’s moans were only getting louder. Alfonso realized he couldn’t let Jackson make too much noise or else they’d get caught. He hesitated for a moment, in Alfonso’s mind, topping wasn’t gay as what he was about to do. But, out of fear of getting caught red-handed, he had no choice but to go all in. 

Alfonso slowed down his fucking pace and leaned into Jackson, planting a firm, wet kiss on his lips. The two men made a loud kissing sound each time their interlocked lips let go of each other, but it was much quieter than Jackson’s moans. Jackson pulled Alfonso closer into him by wrapping his arms around his neck and pulled him in. Their tongues were rolling off of each other as they fought for dominance. A bead of saliva connected their tongues as they separated momentarily, only to go back in for more intense French kissing. Jackson playfully bit onto Alfonso’s lip, causing him to let out a rare moan. Alfonso then leaned into Jackson’s neck and licked him up, down, left, and right. All while still continuing to pump his cock in and out of his tight, silky ass. 

“You like how Papi fucks you?” Alfonso whispered into Jackson’s ear with bated breath. 

“Si Papi Chulo... Yo soy tu puto sucio... Cogeme bien duro con tu verga gruesa....!”

“Nrgh! Fuckk!!” Alfonso was getting dangerously close to climaxing. He only had seconds before he cummed. But as he tried to pull out, Jackson wrapped his legs around his torso and yanked him into him; making sure he not only couldn’t pull out, but that he was deep inside his guts to unleash his load. 

“Lléname con tu lechita!”

“AAARGH FUCKKKKKK!!!” 

At the exact moment Alfonso started pumping out his loads deep inside Jackson, the miracle Edwin had promised had taken effect. It all happened within a matter of seconds. Due to how much force Jackson had pulled Alfonso into him, Alfonso nearly fall on top of him. However, because of the potion, instead of falling on top of him, Alfonso fell into him. His torso had phased straight into Jackson’s torso as if the two had merged. Alfonso barely managed to keep his head just above Jackson’s body, saving him from total body merging. However, Alfonso’s body was locked in pure sexual ecstasy as ropes of warm cum came rushing out of his throbbing member, leaving him unable to do anything about the paranormal situation.

Ohhh fuck... What the... Fuck... Someone... Help me...!

“More...! More...!! I want to feel you even deeper!”

Wait, stop-!

It was too late. In too much pleasure to realize what he just did, Jackson yanked Alfonso into him again. That final tug caused Alfonso to completely lose his balance. Alfonso’s head fell into Jackson’s head, lining the two up perfectly as they occupied the same space. Jackson could feel Alfonso’s cock go deeper than what was physically possible into his ass as the rest of Alfonso’s body phased into him. Suddenly, the pleasure of getting cummed in transformed into a strange, visceral sensation of surrendering his whole body to another man. Their bodies and souls aligned, and the last Jackson could remember before his mind went to sleep was the pleasure of his own loads rushing out of his cock. The miracle was done. Alfonso had taken over Jackson’s body.

Alfonso laid ass naked on the table as his mind struggled to process everything he had just experienced. Within seconds, he had gone from one perspective to another. He blinked as he adjusted, but once his mind caught up, his newly possessed body needed to adjust to its new owner. 

“......FUCKKKKKKK!!!!!!”

Alfonso shrieked out in Jackson’s voice as the pain started. He could feel his very soul start stretching and morphing to accommodate its changed vessel. But possession was a two-way street, his new body also needed to adjust. Alfonso could feel as Jackson’s body began physically changing. His body transformed to take on attributes from Alfonso’s original body by coping the soul. The once tattoo-less, pudgy Jackson had quickly transformed to resemble Alfonso. The body kept Jackson’s likeness, but grew Alfonso’s muscles and tattoos, creating a slightly different man that combined the two men into one.

Once the body takeover and transformation was finally finished, Alfonso took a moment to admire his new body. He was incredibly annoyed that the miracle was something as weird as a complete body takeover, but he quickly realized that stealing his lawyer's identity was a foolproof way of escape. Nobody would ever suspect that he possessed his lawyer's body.

Alfonso realized he was still dripping with sex fluids and cleaned up after himself. He discarded his old clothes into the nearby trash can and put on Jackson's clothes. Just as he was buttoning up the dress shirt, a guard walked into the room.

"Excuse me, Mr. Rivera, the hour is up. Is everything alright? I thought I heard screaming, but I wasn't too sure," the guard asked.

"Yeah, bro. Everything's just fine, don't trip. Another guard already took De La Torre back to his celly, I’mma head out soon too." Alfonso responded in a newly deep voice. The guard nodded, then left.

Alfonso grinned. Jackson's gay voice was gone, which Alfonso was glad about. He did not want to hear that voice come out of his own mouth. He also noticed the guard call him Mr. Rivera. That only served as confirmation that nobody would ever catch him in the act. He picked up the file Jackson had brought, then walked out the detention facility with a cool, confident beat to his step. Alfonso even whistled a tune as he drove away from the detention center. That was how relaxed he was. Once he was far away, he ripped off the professional attire and dressed something closer to his original style.

As he drove off, Alfonso noticed a particular smell. He sniffed the air, then lifted his arm and took a whiff. First it was a little sniff, then a deep inhale as he basked in his own musk.

"Ohhh fuck yeahh, that's some good ass shit! Fuck! Now I know what that queer was smelling!" Alfonso smiled as he helped himself to more of his pit scent. But then he realized what he was doing, and quickly lowered his arm back down.

"Fucking shit. That bitch made me gay, huh." Alfonso furrowed his eyebrows as he took a deep breath. "Whatever. At least I already got married with this new identity. Can't wait to tap that sweet, sweet husband ass when I get home!!"

Alfonso let out a fuck boy's chuckle, only to stop when he heard what he said. There were clearly a lot of changes he was going to have to get used to, whether he liked it or not.

...At the end of the next day, Alfonso found himself watching the nighttime news while his new husband cuddled up against him. His husband was sound asleep after Alfonso pounded his ass. His husband was surprised to see the transformed version of Jackson, but was too excited to get topped to question it. He slept peacefully after getting bred, not knowing there was an escaped convict possessing his husband.

"And now, for tonight's main headline, a group of detained men have escaped from San Juan Detention Center and are at large. The leader of the group is a young man by the name of Edwin Casarubios, who allegedly planned and staged the entire escape himself. Among the escaped inmates are the ringleader Edwin Casarubios, Alfonso De La Torre-"

Alfonso switched off the TV once the news reporter called out his original name. He then gently rolled his sleeping husband off of him and jumped out of bed. He then quietly celebrated the absolute success of his escape plan. Sure, taking over Jackson's body was never Plan A, but Alfonso grew fond of his new body and identity rather quickly when he realized just how much of a goldmine it was. He still had his old memories, but he was growing comfortable living as a gay man with his old LA raza blood coursing through his veins.

Once Alfonso finished celebrating his success, the gravity of the situation began to kick in. He might have successfully escaped, but he had become a man on the run. There was no turning back to his old life now. Alfonso needed to figure out his next steps, and his mind quickly came up with a few ideas.

He could run away to Mexico with Jackson's identity, then de-possess him and live out the rest of his life with his family over there. Or, he could just forget about the whole thing and continue living comfortably as Jackson. Or, he could put his newfound lawyer status to work and get some of his homies out of jail too. He'd get his whole family back together again. Or, he could hunt down Edwin and create an underground potion business with him. Edwin had the magical knowledge, and now Alfonso possessed the professionalism and legal knowledge to keep their business going strong. The possibilities were endless!

As Alfonso deliberated his options, he couldn't help but put on the same dress shirt Jackson had on when they first met. The same shirt that made Alfonso hate him was now a key component to his new identity. Feeling slightly nostalgic now, Alfonso poured himself an ice cold Modelo into an expensive wine glass, and celebrated a successful albeit slightly unorthodox jailbreak plan to himself.

[seat-safety-switch]

Like most of you, I was at the grocery store, tripping balls. I was wondering why the entire pancake mix aisle is now gluten-free. Yes, Julia Child, I could make my own, but I like how the binders work to seal the hole in my radiator. Plus, it smells great.

Why was there such a wide variety of pancake product available these days? I am cool with there being one kind of gluten-free pancake mix, and one kind of gluten-heavy pancake mix. Surely, there cannot be room in this market for twelve kinds of each, the shelves groaning beneath their weight, threatening to fall on someone who has very strong opinions about what kind of pancake they want to mix, exactly. Someone has gotta be putting this on the shelves and selling, like, zero fucking boxes. To get to the bottom of this, I decided that I would trick Netflix into giving me money to make a documentary.

Folks, that was what Wall Street would call a "forward-looking statement," because it was horseshit. Not only has Netflix beefed up their security since the release of Pointlessly Offensive Statements About Things People Care Way Too Much About IX, but they're also in, like, a whole different country. And my parole officer gets froggy whenever I tell him I'm going to cross international borders to commit something that sounds a whole lot like fraud. That's big government for you.

So I had to figure it out my own way, which involved staying up all night and intercepting a shipment of pancake mix to the local grocery store. It was there that I saw the horrible truth: all that pancake mix, all that distinctiveness? Came out of the same truck. They were competing against themselves. Once the driver spotted me, he realized I had figured it out. Picked up his little radio and called it in. I had to run, which was not particularly easy when you're wheezing through a single-barrel carburetor that had last been adjusted in the Carter administration. Flooring it, I jumped over several curbs, the decorative flower display in the garden centre, and made good (or at least well) my escape through the bank parking lot next door.

I thought I had gotten away scot free, until I opened the front door to my house the next morning and found a box of my favourite buttermilk pancake mix sitting on the porch, with a knife stuck in it. I love it when I get two bribes.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

nckdnsk howl you can't keep having these bombass headcanons while i'm still compiling stuff to write my fics (it's me, crowshipping anon) 😭 i'll probably share them when i'm done 🫣

jokes aside, since you want some two cents on killer and color being apart from each other...

cross takes the role of teaching killer about boundaries in relationships. he belatedly realizes that "wait, does killer have any hobbies or other friends apart from color?". and so it turns into a daily exercise of forcing killer (usually with violence sadly) to socialize with more people and find his own hobbies/activities not related to color. cross gets killer a secluded place to live (cross might have blackmailed ink into helping). cross makes killer decide on interior furniture, letting him have some choices in his living environment. baby steps, baby steps.

unlike color, of course cross is busy with his own stuff and responsibilities. i imagine he's on community service for what he did in the past. so cross is not just killer's only caretaker/parole officer. sometimes dream is there, sometimes blue, sometimes murder and/or horror (if they escape nightmare and once they're well-adjusted - i imagine they'd have an easier time than killer for... reasons), and there are other people as well. it's not a one-person task to rehabilitate a bad person - it's a community effort to reform them to be better!

(though i imagine for safety reasons, people usually take on shifts in groups. killer is still dangerous after all. i think murder, having previous beef with killer, will enjoy having legitimate reasons to fight killer and taunt him over his failures of controlling color and how he's not that dissimilar to nightmare. needs some tough love to get through killer's thick skull after all.)

after a while, cross thinks about getting killer some cats, though he is skeptical at first. it's not that he can't trust killer to take care of cats - he's just wary the caretaking duties and ownership might trigger killer's control issues again. so at first it's cat therapy sessions with ccino. killer has some alone times with the cats. maybe once ccino can reassure cross that killer can be a responsible cat owner, then it's time to GET KILLER SOME CATS!!! killer can adopt some hobbies, like crocheting so he can give his cats some fun accessories, or journaling so he can vent like crazy. oh yeah, and he needs a therapist too.

meanwhile, color is on his multiversal road trip with delta and epic. he feels excited and apprehensive at the same time. excited, because it's been a long time since he has time to spend with his old friends - he misses this so much. and apprehensive, because he can't help fretting over whether killer is okay or not - last time he saw killer, cross was dragging him away quite aggressively. epic is like "nah bro, cross won't kill him, don't worry. let's just relax"

so color is relearning how to be himself around people he love. sometimes color hurts delta/epic out of habit for not listening to him, and he's appalled by his actions. sometimes he begs them to let him see killer again, just a call, and epic and delta just have to flat out deny it for his own recovery. he can only hear updates through cross. sometimes he tries to sneak out to return to killer (yay portal powers!), but gets caught and coaxed into not doing anything reckless.

this is me assuming everything go swimmingly for both of them, though for killer it'll be much harder. imagine something goes wrong. like killer finally weasels one of his caretakers into bringing him to color, or color successfully sneaks out to see killer. imagine killer says to color that everyone is out to get them, to separate them. let's just leave everything and run away together. killer knows just a universe that nightmare has destroyed where no one can suspect. imagine color is reluctant at first, but then killer pulls out his guilt-tripping card again. he was miserable the whole time color wasn't there, so is color okay with leaving him? killer knows color knows killer is a terrible person, and yet color still tries to connect with him, not to fix him but to show him a better way to live. and isn't killer content with being with color, just the two of them against the world? whatever color decides to do, killer will agree. but, as killer proposes, if they stay, killer will not be happy, and will color live with that?

Grr yess thank you I Am eating this up more please 🙏 🙏 (crowshipping anon may I please be able to read your fics when you’re done with them???)

I am conflicted because I am like yes killer get worse you fucking vile creature and in the next I want to snap his fucking neck. I wonder if ink shares my emotions on this (characters in a story after all)

I can’t imagine what killers fucking journal would be like. probably alternating between literally everything about color and then just violently wanting to rip cross and dream and fucking dust to shreds because how dare they

it is probably the equivalent of that one post that goes “*writing in my journal with a glitter pen* I am losing touch with my humanity”

I know his bitch ass immediately zeroed in on his past victims—blue, murder, horror—and started tearing into them. probably knew cross would prevent him from physically doing so hes gonna do it verbally. hows fucking papyrus doing huh? hows that eye treating you baby blue? trick your brother into eating anymore meat horror? does he hate you now?

his ass would immediately use his knowledge and experience with/about nightmare to fuck with dream too. you can’t even save your own brother what makes you think you could save me?

he would most definitely attempt to sabotage cross’, murder’s, and horror’s “redemption arcs.”

theyre all gonna fucking hate him in these moments and its gonna take a whole lotta patience and understanding to not immediately murder him. (maybe thats what a part of him is hoping for) (looking at you stage 1, even tho you havent likely made a appearance yet)

his ass would definitely fake cry and pretend to be getting better only to just clock whoever is watching him out and attempt to escape (goes nowhere because he wasnt even allowed to know where color is)

but imagine the relief for a moment if color did sneak out to see him. before his guilt tripping bullshit.

like. like. cause I know his codependent ass was on the edge on a perpetual breakdown even when he tried to hide it and suppress it under his apathy and dissociate. his experienced mind is conjuring up images every horrible fucking thing that could happening to color, and stage 1’s anxiety is causing fucking constant nightmares and flashbacks and it makes it worse because I know he tries very often and frequently to shove stage 1 all the way down. (Nightmares still out there he hates color colors not safe)

no. no. he would just ruin everything, hed try to kill them—he wouldnt understand what killer is doing. killer cant die, color still needs him. stage 1 would be stupid enough to buy into cross’ bullshit.

i can just imagine the relief that almost sends him to his knees when he finally sees color. eyes looking him over everywhere—wheres the scars? wheres the bruises?—shaky hands (uncharacteristic) roaming over colors form. maybe even does something as dramatic as slams color against a wall with his body just for the drama of it all.

He’s real. He’s real he’s real—solid underneath his hands. Colors real. maybe so relieved there’s even some cheek nuzzles and maybe even some kisses from colors cheek to his throat.

and. and. and killer failed him. he failed. he failed to protect him.

he needs to be punished. he knows. color probably doesnt know but its okay he’ll teach him later.

and then there’s comes the exhausted but content full body sigh before killer melts against color and then here comes the apologies. for failing.

theres some reassurance from color—no don’t apologize its not your fault im okay epic and delta would never hurt me/let me be hurt—then it loops around to the fucking guilt tripping. killer im gonna snap your neck you prick.

oh boy imagine being killers therapist during this. hes gonna make your job miserable and like pulling teeth. hes gonna observe you and start using what hes noticed against you—the kids dont call anymore therapist person? oh your husband is dead..im sure its your fault.

and i can imagine back with delta and epic and color that if anyone tries to talk about killer he immediately starts defending him. like no it wasnt okay what killer did but come on he doesnt know any better (color knows logically that its killers responsibility to learn better anyhow)

id imagine that the experience with killer and the subsequent effects of instinctively hurting delta and/or epic mustve led color to those “hurting my loved ones” nightmares that delta is quite familiar with. and delta hates killer for this. he hates that he made color afraid of himself, that he did all that to someone he claims to care about more than anything.

“care about” his ass. this isnt love. this isnt what you do to those you love.

anyway i need color and epic and delta to cuddle up all nice warm and theyre there to comfort color when he wakes up screaming/crying. often times color just wants killer (the devotion when he looks at color is as comforting as it is terrifying), so at most epic and delta settle for something that could remind him of killer. a photo? killers jacket?

delta should get to punch killer in the mouth for this yes siree. epic gives him the immediate “yes” to the signaled question. (murder gets to beef with killer and also talks shit about killer out loud to papyrus & although killer doesn’t know it reaper and grimm know all the juicy details (murder talks shit while at their altars lmao) and are judging him harshly) (theyre like ‘damn bitch you live like this???’)

[pumpkinsy0]

Curly and Ponyboy as camp counselors!

Curly groaning about how boring this is going to be (and hating that his parole officer suggested the idea as a way to "help curly understand the meaning of responsibility.") but he locks eyes with Baby Curtis who's just as surprised as he is to be there. Pony informs him Darry signed him up because 1.) it was fee and 2.) it looks good on the state record so no social services breathing down their neck.

Ponyboy singing songs for the kids on the bus but Curly adding naughty lyrics to it.

Ponyboy wanting to be the responsible camp councelor and asks the kids if they know their medications or allergies meanwhile Curly is hooking up with the fat kid promising a single cigarette for two Twinkies a day.

Curly smirking and Ponyboy groaning. They have to share a cabin, which is fine but-----there's only one bed.

Ponyboy in a crop top and shorts? Curly hid his nose bleed, lying that he fell in the shower. (Pony doesn't recall a thunk)

The camp has a lake. Cool. Not all the kids can swim or are as excited. Ponyboy trying to get the kids to gently walk into the lake. Curly throws them kicking and screaming.

Lunch time rolls around and everyone pigs out. Curly likes the BBQ little weenies and Pony wolfed down those hot ham sandwiches. They have an activity hour. Curly likes to play on the jet skis (cause hey he's poor as hell and these rich people know how to have fun) Ponyboy likes to go to the art rooms. Yeah he can draw and paint at home, but there are so many supplies here and he likes the hour of peace and quiet.

Purly camping out? Lord help them. Yeah they bicker over how their tent is set up and to be honest, it looks like crap when they're done. The kids all have their tents set up and they scavenger hunt, roast marshmallows, and Curly told the most terrifying story of the Haitian equlivant of The Boogeyman and a couple kids cried.

Que Ponyboy glaring at Curly for the next hour and a half after lights out because so many campers are scared.

Because their tent is poorly built, they make a hammock and sleep under the stars snuggled under a big quilt.

"Hey, Curtis."

"What?"

"Brats are sleeping and there's a lake not too far away. Dare you skinny dip."

"No."

"C'mon, I'll do it too."

"No!"

(Pony made it up to Curly by making him a bracelet in arts and crafts that Curly snorted at but didn't take off the rest of the summer and wore it till it broke off in the spring of next year)

i remember talking about them being camp counselors like a good while ago, this gave me such a whiplash😭😭

one of the lyrics for the song pony was singing was “banged her-“ but she couldnt even finish his sentence before curly said “banged her🤔🤔i hardly know her🗣️”

and curlys that counselor that like, NEVER follows the rules but the kids still love him and get excited when they have him as their group leader

they like pony too but pony follows the rules more and theyre like “why cant u b more like curly” and ik curly rubs that in his face but pony does NOT care, hes not gonna b the reason y theres gonna b a real life equivalence of jason voorhees

also their groups r always together, like the whole point is for them to have separate groups but pony and curly just merged and formed one fucking gigantic one

ALSO CURLY ON THE JET SKIS REMINDS ME OF THAT TIME DJ KHALID GOT LOST RIDING ONE OF THEM, PLEASE GO LOOK THAT UP THATS SO CURLY FOR THIS AU LMAOOOO

BUT THE KIDS LOVE WATCHING PONY DRAW, they constantly ask him to draw something for them

curly scaring the kids w haitian monster stories??? so real,,, he told them about the lougawou and for the rest of the time there, the kids were just terrified of any dog like thing they saw snooping around near camp😭

btw funny of u to assume they would even have that conversation, ik their asses was having trouble even getting in the hammock let alone setting it up, they got some bruises and scrapes i just know it