#my face is so burned it could be used as a flashlight to light the darkest of caves

[josecariohca]

.

[joelmillerisapunk]

Dirty Daddy

Dbf/daddy!Joel x f!reader

Masterlist

Wordcount: 2,489

Summary: Congratulations, you've just earned yourself a daddy, albeit not for being a good girl.

Warnings: 18+, unprotected p in v, light consensual choking, light slapping, oral receiving m!&f!, fingering, implied age gap, mentions of the names 'slut, brat, babygirl, sweetheart, good girl, and daddy', Joel's all greasy and sweaty.

Notes: it was this picture that inspired this along with part of a request I received that I'm writing a different daddy!fic for. Tysm @saradika-graphics for the divider

Joel groans as he tightens a bolt on his truck, sweat drips down his forehead and mixes with the dirt and grease that cover his face and hands. He's been working on this truck for hours, ever since it broke down on him during a job, his last job of the day. He could be home relaxing. Instead, he's here. Luckily for him, his buddy, your dad offered him the use of his garage to work on it, and Joel gladly accepted. It wasn't often that he got the chance to work on his baby, and he wasn't going to let a little thing like a broken engine get in his way.

But as he stands up and stretches his aching back, he can't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It isn't just the truck that’s been giving him trouble - it’s you, who's been teasing him mercilessly since he arrived. Wearing those skimpy clothes, that short fucking skirt, that leaves little to the imagination, bending over in front of him and "accidentally" brushing up against him as you walk by. Joel's been trying to ignore you, but it's getting harder and harder to do so.

As if on cue, you walk into the garage with a smirk on your face. "Hey Joel, need any help?" You ask, leaning over the open hood, letting your cleavage do most of the talking.

Joel grits his teeth as he looks up straight at your breasts and then quickly back down to the engine. "No, I got it.” he says as he looks up once more only to see you pouting, but Joel can see the spark in your eye. You're enjoying this, you fucking minx.

"Come on, Joel. I'm just trying to help." You reach up to adjust yourself on the hood of the truck, giving him a clearer view of your breasts that are now pretty much popping out of your top. You catch his gaze and smirk, knowing exactly what you're doing to him. You hop down and start touching his arm, “cmon, I can help, I'll hold the flashlight or something.”

Joel snaps, dropping the tool he's holding, and pushes you roughly against the nearest free wall. His grip is tight around your arms despite being all greased up from his truck. "I know what you're doin'," he growls, "And it ain't gonna work."

You can see the fire in his eyes, and you know you've pushed him too far. But instead of backing down, you challenge him. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Joel's eyes narrow, and you can see the tension building in his muscles. "I'm warnin’ you," he says, his voice gets deeper and quieter. "Stop, or you're gonna get a lot more than you bargained for."

"Is that a promise?" you ask.

Joel's eyes go dark, and he grabs your face roughly, his dirty fingers grasping into the hollows of your cheeks, pulling you close, leaving his musky, grimy scent on you. "You have no idea what you're gettin’ yourself into, do ya?” Joel's grip on your face tightens as he leans in closer, his breath hot on your face. "You think you're being clever, huh? Lemme tell ya something, sweetheart. You're playin with fire, and you're gonna get burned."

You can feel the heat radiating off of Joel's body, and you know he's serious. But instead of being afraid, you're turned on. You've never seen this side of Joel before, and you can't help but feel yourself getting wet.

Without warning, Joel grabs you by the waist and pins you harder against the wall as he grinds himself against you, his hardness pressing into your core. "This whatcha want babygirl?" His lips brush against your ear. "You've been teasin' me all day, I think it's my turn to have a little fun now."

You moan as Joel's hands roam over your body, roughly groping your breasts and ass, leaving dark stains across your clothes. You can feel his cock straining against his pants, and you can't wait to feel him inside of you.

"Please," you whimper, "I need it."

Joel smirks as he pulls away from you. "Beggin already?" He says, 'That ain’t like you."

He reaches down and unzips his pants, pulling out his long, hard cock and starts to stroke it. "On your knees," he commands.

You don't hesitate, sinking to your knees in front of him. You take his cock in your hand, stroking it gently as you look up at him with wide, pleading eyes. Joel's eyes darken as he grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling your head towards his cock. "Open wide, and don't fuckin’ bite."

You comply, opening your mouth wide as Joel slides his cock inside. You moan as you feel him hit the back of your throat, your tongue swirling around his shaft as you suck him off.

Joel groans as he fucks your mouth, his hips thrusting forward as he pounds into the very back of your throat. You can feel his cock swelling inside of you, every vein hitting your tongue.

"Such a good little slut, suckin my cock like a pro."

You moan around his cock, your pussy getting wetter with every thrust.

"M’gonna come baby, and you're gonna swallow every last drop."

You nod eagerly, your mouth still wrapped around his cock. Joel groans as he explodes inside of you, his hot seed filling your mouth as you swallow every last drop just like he said. He pulls out, his cock still hard as he looks down at you with a satisfied smirk. "Good girl, you earned that."

Joel takes a moment to catch his breath before he walks over and starts to clear off the workbench. He pushes aside tools and spare parts, making enough space for you. Once he's satisfied, he turns to you with a stern look in his eyes. "Get up here," he commands, patting the now-clear space on the workbench.

You don't hesitate, hopping up onto the bench and spreading your legs wide for him. Joel steps between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips as he pulls you closer to the edge. "You've been a brat all day, teasin' me and temptin me," his fingers dig into your skin.

Joel's gaze is intense as he looks at you. His eyes are filled with desire and a hint of something darker. He leans in closer, his breath is hot on your skin as he starts to kiss a trail down your body, his lips leave a burning sensation in their wake.

His hands roam over your body, roughly groping anything he can as he continues to kiss and nip at your skin. You can feel his facial hair scratching against your sensitive flesh, and it sends shivers down your spine.

When he reaches your thighs, Joel smirks and spreads your legs wider, exposing your wet and aching core to his gaze and no panties - you drive him crazy. "You've been teasin' me all day, s’only fair. I get to taste what I've been missin.” He looks up at you, his eyes filled with lust as he leans in closer, his breath hot on your pussy. Without warning, Joel starts to lick and suck at your clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves as he teases you. You moan loudly, your hips bucking up towards his mouth as you try to get closer to him.

Joel's fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as his tongue delves deeper, exploring every inch of your pussy, sucking and licks at your wetness. Lapping it up like a thirsty dog. He continues to feast on your pussy, his tongue exploring every inch of your wetness as you moan and writhe beneath him. Just as you feel yourself getting close to the edge, Joel pulls away, leaving you wanting and needy.

"Uh-uh I ain't done with ya."

You whimper in frustration, and your hips buck up towards him as you try to get him to continue. But Joel is in control, and he's not going to let you come that easily. He stands up and looks down at you. You can see the hardness of his cock that's been tucked back into his jeans, and you know he's just as turned on as you are.

Joel reaches down and helps you off the workbench, his grip on you is firm as he leads you towards the door of the garage. "We're gonna finish this in your bedroom.”

Your body is still tingling with desire as you follow him out of the garage and towards your house.

As you reach the door of your house, Joel turns to you with a serious look in his eyes. "We gotta be quiet, go make sure the coast is clear.”

You quickly and quietly make your way through the house, checking each room to make sure no one is around. When you reach your father's office, you see that he's deeply engrossed in his work, completely unaware of what's happening just a few feet away.

You give Joel a quick nod, signaling that the coast is clear. Joel grabs your hand and leads you up the stairs to your bedroom, his grip firm, and reassuring. When you reach your bedroom, Joel pushes you inside and closes the door behind you, locking it to ensure that no one will interrupt you.

Joel looks around your bedroom, his eyes taking in the familiar surroundings. He turns to you, "Take off your clothes," he commands.

You hesitate for a moment, your hands hovering over your shirt. But the look in Joel's eyes tells you that he's not in the mood for games. As you slip out of your shirt, Joel's eyes rake over your body, taking in the lacy bra that barely covers your breasts.

"Keep goin,"

As you slip out of your jeans, Joel's eyes follow the movement, taking in the curve of your hips and the softness of your thighs.

"Take it all off baby," he commands.

You comply, slipping out of your bra and panties, leaving you completely naked in front of him.

Joel undresses himself, his movements quick and efficient. He pulls off his shirt, revealing the hard muscles of his chest and arms. His jeans follow, revealing the long and hard cock that's been tucked away, waiting so patiently for you.

You can't help but stare as Joel undresses, your eyes taking in the dirt and grease that cover his body. He's been working on his truck all day, and the evidence is clear on his skin.

"Like whatcha see, babygirl?"

You nod, unable to speak as you take in the sight of him. Joel steps closer to you, his hands reaching out to touch your body. His fingers leave dark stains across your skin, the evidence of his work still present.

He lays you down on the bed, and his body hovers over yours. His hands roam over your body. His touch is rough, but there's a tenderness to it that drives you crazy.

He leans down to kiss you, his lips rough against yours. His tongue delves into your mouth, exploring every inch as he tastes you. You can taste yourself on his lips, a reminder of what he's done to you.

Joel's hand moves between your legs, his fingers exploring your throbbing clit. He teases you, his fingers circling your clit but never quite touching it. You moan into his mouth, your hips bucking up towards his hand.

"Please, Joel," you beg, "I need to come."

But Joel is relentless, continuing to tease you just like you did to him, as he watches you squirm beneath him. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your orgasm building deep inside of you.

“Joel,” you whine, “don't be an asshole, let me come.”

Joel chuckles and gives you a light but sobering smack to the cheek. “You don't get to be a little brat and get your way - Beg for it.”

"Fuck you-," you whimper, your voice trembling with need. "Please daddy.”

Joel's eyes blaze as he hears you call him Daddy. He increases the pressure on your clit, his fingers moving faster and harder as he brings you closer to the edge again, he can feel it. "You like that, babygirl?" his breath is hot as he leans close to your ear. "You like it when Daddy teases you?”

“Mmm, yes daddy yes. Feels s-so good.”

Joel can't hold back any longer. He positions himself between your legs, his cock pressing against your wet and aching core. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with lust and something darker. He growls as he thrusts his hips forward, burying himself deep inside of you.

You moan loudly as you feel him fill you up, your pussy stretching to accommodate his ever growing, ever hardening size. Joel starts to move, his hips thrusting forward as he pounds into you. Each thrust is harder than the last, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

Joel's hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he fucks you. His fingers dig into your skin. You can feel his cock swelling inside of you, every vein hitting your sensitive flesh.

"You like it when Daddy fucks ya like the dirty little brat you are?"

You moan in response, your hips buck up to meet his thrusts. You can feel your orgasm building deep inside of you. “Want you to choke me daddy, please.”

Joel doesn't hesitate, he pulls out of you and flips you onto your stomach. He grabs your hair, pulling your head back as he wraps his other hand around your throat, cutting off your airway just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

You moan as you feel his cock press against your entrance once again. He thrusts forward, filling you up completely. He starts to fuck you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your ass as he pounds into you.

You can feel your orgasm building once again, your body tensing up as you get closer and closer to the edge. "Not yet, babygirl, fuck - wanna come with ya.” Joel increases his pace. His thrusts become erratic as he feels your pussy clenching around his cock, your orgasm just on the edge.

"Come for me, baby," Joel commands.

Your moans are muffled and strained as you feel yourself fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. You can feel your pussy clenching around Joel's cock, milking him for all he's worth.

Joel groans as he feels you come, his hips thrusting forward as he empties himself inside of you. He collapses beside you, his body spent and satisfied.

As he catches his breath, Joel looks at you with a satisfied smirk. "Next time you pull that shit, babygirl, I ain't gonna letcha come."

[artiststarme]

It's No Secret... Anymore

Thank you to @mx-jinxous for the prompt! This took a really long time to write but it was so much fun playing with everyone's dynamics. I hope you guys like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

Steve felt like he was dreaming. It felt like he was looking through someone else’s eyes, dissociating far from his own body. He couldn’t feel the weight of Eddie’s slowly-fading body in his arms or the burning of the wounds in his sides. He wasn’t aware of where he was or if anyone was following him. He was purely relying on muscle memory and muscle memory alone. 

He didn’t see the speeding car in front of him that swerved into a nearby bush and fence post. He hardly noticed the hands pulling him backward and out of the road. He came back to himself though once he heard his brother’s voice. 

“Steve? Steve-O? Come on buddy, you’re worrying me here. Where have you been? I haven't seen your ass all week. Come on man, are you… are you fucking bleeding? Brother, answer me. We can’t be out here, there’s an earthquake going on. Come with me.”

Steve blinked just to come face to face with Phil. He was shining his flashlight on Eddie’s face against Steve’s shoulder but his eyes were focused directly on Steve’s.

“You with me, bro?” His mustache twitched unhappily and Steve rushed to answer. 

“Um, no. Not really. I think he’s dying and I kinda might be too. And I think my friends are missing? Where am I?” Steve couldn’t get his thoughts together cohesively. His mind was fractured, overcome with too much trauma in too little time. 

Phil just looked more concerned at his words with his face becoming vaguely panicked once he looked at Eddie. He looked quickly up at Steve, down at Eddie, then back at Steve. “Is this Eddie Munson? The murderer Eddie Munson? The Eddie Munson that has been on the run all week? Good golly Steve, I’m trying not to curse but what the fuck?”

Steve just looked at the pinched expression of pain that Eddie held and murmured, “he’s my friend.”

“Oh my god, Steve. Fine, we’ll deal with this later. Think you can walk to my squad car? I kinda damaged the front end but I’m sure it's semi-driveable. Powell’s tied up with the gates to hell opening up, I have plenty of time to take care of you.”

“Yeah, I can- I can walk,” and he could with the support of Phil. He felt his brother supporting both his and Eddie’s weight until they were deposited into the backseat of the patrol unit. 

“And uh, is the girl hiding in the bushes with you? She’s kinda been watching us for awhile. You might have a stalker, little bro.” He shined his flashlight over to the bush and saw a sandy bob duck behind the foliage. 

“Robin?” Steve muttered, still out of it and only on the verge of consciousness. 

“Buckley, is that you? Come on, you’re coming with us back to Steve’s place. Let’s go,” Phil waved the light between the two. He had both hands on his hips and stood like a disappointed middle-aged dad. “I don’t have time to be doing things willy-nilly. Let’s go!”

Robin poked her head out of the bushes and scooted gracelessly over to the car until she was able to bump elbows with Steve. They both relaxed a smidgen within the same space, the two brain cells reuniting after a stressful ten minutes apart.

Phil hopped in the driver’s seat and bumped his head against the steering wheel. What had this idiot gotten himself into now?

~*~*~*~

By the time Phil arrived at his house at the edge of the suburbs, all three kids were out cold in his backseat. He stood at the open back door for a moment before sighing and lugging first Robin, then Eddie, then Steve into his living room, huffing with exertion all the while. He would definitely have to cut back on the station donuts and start exercising again. Right after he dealt with the dying fugitive on his brother’s couch, the blood seeping through Steve’s shirt, and his brother’s unconscious best friend that was snoring atrociously. 

Jesus Christ. 

Well, he had plenty of practice with medical care from his EMT training so he got to work. He got the first aid kit out of the squad car and started with the murderous Munson. Phil didn’t know what had happened to these kids but it couldn’t be any good. Munson’s entire torso was torn apart like he’d been gnawed on by a wild animal. It wasn’t bleeding too bad but he was missing chunks of skin, so much so that Phil couldn’t sew him up with just sutures. Hell, this kid was going to need skin grafts. A lot of them. 

He put gauze on the worst of the wounds then cautiously stepped over to Steve. What he’d seen on Munson made him hesitant to look at the damage but surely it couldn’t be worse than that. Right? As soon as he lifted Steve’s shirt, he came immediately to two conclusions. 

1. Steve had a lot more chest hair than he did and that was totally unfair.

2. The wounds on Steve’s abdomen were deep, infected, and horrific. 

Just like with Munson, there was nothing to close. All he saw were missing chunks of skin and muscle that should have been in his sides. The marred remains were covered in grime and yellowish puss that made the entire room smell of infection. 

Fuck, he couldn’t help them here. He had to get them, all three of them because he wasn’t touching an unconscious girl for anything, to a hospital. But that begged the question; which hospital? Munson… Eddie was wanted all through the state of Indiana for at least three murders and an assault. If he took him to any nearby hospital, he would be arrested and surely there was more to the story if Steve was protecting him so much. He couldn’t let one of Steve’s only friends get arrested without hearing the story from the both of them. 

He had to take these three up to a hospital in Illinois. Chicago was roughly four hours away, he knew from his and Steve’s annual visits to their great aunt in Evanston. It was a risk, both for aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive as well as hoping he survived that long of a drive, but his gut told him to trust his brother on this one. So that’s what he did. He loaded the three teens back into his patrol car and mumbled swears under his breath when he passed the “Leaving Hawkins” sign. He hoped to all that was mighty that he was making a good call. 

~*~*~*~

Steve woke up to familiar voices; one hushed and one screeching. 

“You kidnapped them?! You’re a cop, I thought you would help them but instead you drove them all the way to goddamn Chicago like some middle-aged pervert loser?” Steve came around to a loud argument between what sounded like Dustin and Phil. It was weird though because he’d never introduced the two. 

“Hey, listen here shithead, words hurt. I am not middle-aged, I’m 28. And why would I kidnap my own brother? I can legally take him anywhere, it's practically my birthright. I don’t have to go through all the work of kidnapping him.” Phil shook his head at Dustin.

“Stop trying to trick me, I know Eddie is an only child!”

“Munson?! I’m Steve’s big brother, you little gremlin. Can’t you see the resemblance?” He gestured between where Steve was groggily looking up at him and then back at himself. 

“No, but I can’t see anything past your outrageous mustache.” Steve saw Phil’s jaw drop and knew that Dustin had crossed a line. 

“You short fucker, that is too far! I take a lot of pride in this ‘outrageous mustache’,” Phil put air quotes around the offending remake before pointing an aggressive finger in Dustin’s direction. “I will absolutely take you off the visitation list, toothless. Do not test me.” 

“Don’t threaten me, I’ll report you to the authorities!” Dustin countered. 

“I am the authorities!” Phil dropped all decorum and screamed at practically the top of his lungs. 

Sensing enough was enough, Steve tried to push himself up to a sitting position before a burning in his sides caused him to fall back down. Both men (or one man and Dustin) stopped their squabbling and rushed to his sides.

“Steve, you’re hurt so don’t try to get up. Shit kid, let me get a nurse or something. You weren’t doing too hot.” With that Phil sprinted out of the room, presumably to the nurse’s station and Steve was left with Dustin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin. 

He looked blearily at all of them before asking the most important question, “where’s Eddie?”

They all parted to reveal Eddie lying in the bed next to him. His neck and chest were covered with bandages but his face looked peaceful. There were no cuffs on his wrists as Steve assumed there would be. He laid back again and let out a sigh. Everything was as it should be, he could finally relax.

“Um so Steve, don’t be mad but your brother can be really persuasive when he wants to be and you never introduced him as your brother so I just kind of assumed that we were getting captured by the police and that it was going to be so much worse than the Russians because I always thought Officer Callahan was kind of psycho. But then I woke up here and he bought me Cheetos so everything is fine. Except it's kind of not because you and Eddie have been out for a couple of days and I told Big Not-Harrington about the Upside Down and now he’s really worried. Why did you have to stay asleep so long, dingus? I missed you!”

Steve honestly zoned out when he heard “Cheetos” and only tuned back in when Robin, the usual physical affection-hater, threw herself on top of him in a hug. He withheld the grunt of pain and held her back just as hard. 

“What the hell just happened, bro? Like that was a lot of words, little bird lady. Woah.”

Steve didn’t know if he was hallucinating the long-haired surfer in a Hawaiian outfit or if Vecna had somehow managed to melt his mind after all but he had never been more confused in his life to see the new visitor make themselves known. 

“Who the fuck is that?” He muttered in absolute bafflement. 

Dustin sighed as he too wrestled a hug from Steve, “that’s Argyle. Come on, Steve. Keep up.”

“Like the sock pattern? How many drugs am I on right now?!”

~*~*~*~

“... and that’s kind of why I didn’t tell you about the Upside Down,” Steve finished from his seat beside Eddie, their hands tangled together as they both sat across from Phil. 

He looked at both of them with a completely deadpan stare. “Again, but the truth this time.”

Eddie huffed in annoyance. “We are telling you the truth, man! An evil wizard guy named Vecna-”

“Slash Henry, slash One,” Steve and Robin interjected in unison.

“-possessed four teenagers to end the world or something and broke their bodies apart with his mind. Then the angry mob thought it was me but I would never kill anyone, especially not Chrissy. She was always really nice to me and remembered my band from the talent show in middle school. And then we got stuck in Hell where evil demon bats ate our flesh and tentacles ripped through the earth. Then we saved Nancy from the evil mind melt powers by playing her favorite song. After that, we made a plan and she shot Vecna and killed him while Dustin and I were decoys where I was attacked.”

“Then I went back for Eddie and carried him out where you almost ran us over. The end,” Steve emphasized the finale with a deliberate nod of his still-aching head. 

Phil looked at them with the most exasperation Steve had ever seen in his life. He let out a pitying chuckle, his poor brother didn’t sign up for this. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

Phil's eyes rolled so hard that Steve could tell he saw stars. He could almost see the scream being prepared in his throat and couldn't gather enough strength to escape it.

"STEVEN MICHAEL HARRINGTON, WHAT THE MOTHERLOVING FUCK?!"

"Look Philly, I'll say it one more time then I'm done, okay? It first started way back when Will Byers went missing in 1983..."

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[menlove]

can you direct me to any good fics set in the hamburg days or just anything pre-beatlemania?

oooh yeah ! i loooove hamburg & early days fics so certainly :) i didn't include any paris fics in this even though it technically fits the bill of pre-beatlemania just bc that's a totally different vibe & genre of fics tbh

hamburg:

I Need My Love to Be Here

explicit. 8k. After John gets his first panic attack in Hamburg, he starts to realize that Paul might be the only person who can bring him back to himself.

Put My Heart Around the Bend

explicit. 60k. He nodded and they sat across from each other on the window sill, the clammy air from outside kissing their cheeks. John watched Paul as he lit their cigarettes, as he had done so many times before. They held eye contact, and John just knew Paul could hear how hard his heart was beating. But he wouldn't say anything. Neither of them ever said anything.

Like Love, The Archers Are Blind

explicit. 22k. He wants to push Stuart out of the way, not even with a violent yank of his collar like he sometimes imagines. Just to melt into his place like butter sliding in a pan. Have it be an effortless breath of fresh air when John looks up at him and sees it all reflected back in his eyes. It’s you. Hamburg, 1960.

Running with Scissors

explicit. bluewater9: Hannah, a smutlet idea… So just what happened AFTER John cut the clothes off that girl in Hamburg? What a conversation and, ahem, J/P consequence that must have been!

No More Situations

explicit. 14k. Set during the Hamburg years. John gets jealous of a German guy who likes Paul.

Everything's Different in Germany

explicit. 4.5k. It all feels upside down, like the door to that shop was an entrance to some parallel universe or Wonderland-like rabbit hole. He isn’t hiding under the covers with a flashlight in one hand, his throbbing cock in the other, and some meticulously-posed bird’s chest spilling over the pages and onto his lap. Instead he’s in some Hamburg back alley, the concrete chilly beneath his bum and his best mate warm by his side, while he gazes over naked men and pretends not to feel the unexpected interest in his trousers.

ageless children, animal sweat

mature. 5k.

Paul is sitting close enough to see properly, one elbow on the bartop, hand tucked beneath his chin. His eyes are beetle black and his long spidery eyelashes are twitching under the harsh club lights. It makes John sort of sick to look at him. Pale face in stark chiaroscuro, gleaming with animal sweat, Paul looks otherworldly, like something neither man nor woman. Hamburg, 1960. John and Paul go to a gay bar after a late show.

general early days:

Above Us Only Sky

teen. 1k. Nowhere to go but up.

Some Girls Will Make You Shiver

explicit. 4k. “How d’you suppose,” John said, in his normal John-voice, “how’d you think two girls go at it?”

On The Way To Work

explicit. 14k. How could Paul have so many dreams and one of them not come true? Paul and John, Hamburg and Liverpool, December 1960.

two of us (burning matches)

explicit. 6k. It won't stop raining. Paul doesn't know what his feelings are doing. John's practising his right swing. Somewhere along the way, they fuse together.

The Drainies

mature. 11k. Written for the prompt: John bullies Paul into wearing tight drainies and the result awakens something in both of them (Can also include some John vs Jim stuff since Jim didn’t approve of Paul wearing tight clothes).

Boy, You've Been A Naughty Girl

explicit. 49k. John makes Paul a bet. Paul takes him up on it. Crossdressing shenanigans and angst ensue, and ~feelings come out in the wash. 1961.

now and then (there's a fool such as i)

mature. 30k. users only. John and Paul on their trip to Caversham, Berkshire. April, 1960.

christmas lights (keep shinin' on)

mature. 12k. (prompt: paul takes john to the family christmas party in 1958) "I'd have you," Paul said, eventually, and John felt the air being knocked out of him. "If it was different. If we were different."

Come And Go With Me

mature. 94k. When two oblivious teenage boys meet for the very first time in the summer of 1957, a transcending bond to be passed on through decades to come makes its initial formation; a sanctuary, a home, a secret, a storm, a song, and a love to surpass the regular circumstances of time itself; it all starts in a city called Liverpool - but where will it take them from there?

also not to be that person but i WILL also whore out the first part of the series i'm writing w @forthlin here that's early days/getting together: i want you (every time that you're near)

[airbendertendou]

lonely heart ♡ danny johnson

soulmate au where the first time you have skin to skin contact, your body glows & is stamped w their handprint - it looks like a birthmark.

cw ; typical dbd warnings [blood n gore] ; reader offers ghostie a nude pic in exchange for freedom ; might b ooc but idc <3 ; how danny looks is up to you!

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

——♡——

The heat of the campfire brushes against your face, warming your skin just enough to forget the biting wind. Nancy is beside you, falling asleep where she sits, nodding her head forward before she snaps out of it. Across the fire, Feng is chatting idly with Dwight and Steve, Leon chiming in when he felt like it. 

The bench-like-log you’re sitting on shifts as Nea takes a seat, letting out a huff as she settles. “It’s been quiet recently,” she says, “too quiet if you ask me.”

“I’m a little wary,” you agree. Your eyes scope the woods surrounding the survivors as if someone is going to pop out any second. They wouldn’t, though — the killers kept away from the light of the fire and never wandered any closer than they were allowed. “I wonder if something’s happened.”

Nea rolls her eyes, “we wouldn’t be so lucky.” 

You grin at her pessimism, shoving her lightly with your left shoulder. Nea snickers as Nancy jumps awake once more, jolting in her sleep before yawning. A faded, gray fog settles over the camp and with it, five more survivors make their way around the campfire. You know what that means — a new trial is bound to start at any second.

Readying yourself, your muscles tense and your heart rate picks up, preparing to sprint when the time comes. A darkened, indigo-tinted fog wraps around you — it’s cold and loud as it grasps you from the campfire. You blink and then you’re in Haddonfield. 

Taking in a deep breath, you shuffle quickly to the nearest generator. Feng smiles as she passes by you stealthily, clicking her flashlight at you a few times. The area is terrifyingly quiet — it must mean your killer this round is a watcher. You puff up your cheeks as you mis-wire something, moving away from the generator that’s popped.

A scream echoes in the distance — it sounds too close, so you take off.

Momentarily, you hide in a dusty bedroom. You peek from the walls, not spotting anyone other than the back of Leon’s bulletproof vest. Another look from the room — another scream hits the air. 

Finding another generator was easy enough, but trying to stay hidden was a little more difficult. Your fingers curl and tug on wires, the smell of oil and burning wires hitting you the more you twiddle with them. Claudette hovers beside you, checking to see if you need any healing. Deeming you healthy, she flops to the other side of the generator.

“It’s Ghostface,” she breathes. Looking over her shoulder warily, she gulps as she looks back to you. “Already got Feng and Dwight. Only one gen’s done ; I’ve been hooked.”

You pause your wiring, confusion building up in you. “I haven’t even seen him yet.”

Claudette pauses too, looking over you with a furrowed eyebrow. “If we don’t make it, then win for us. Yeah?”

The generator pops with completion, lighting up for a second and exposing your location. You take off in the opposite direction Claudette did, hopping through a window and out through the backdoor. A flash of black catches your eye — your killer has finally shown himself.

You decide to buy everyone else some time. Hopefully, with a little distraction, a few more generator’s could be fixed.

Sneaking behind him, you let out a small “psst!” and wait for his attention to fall on you. He whips around, white mask greeting you. Walking towards a closet, you point to it a few times. Ghostface looks from the closet, to you, and back again. You wiggle your hand, insisting, “someone’s in there!”

Curiously, the closet door creaks open and Ghostface sees it’s empty. He turns to face you slowly and you’re already holding back giggles. A chase is pursued — something you struggle to do with all of your laughter. He swings his knife haphazardly, not really aiming at you, but not allowing you to get away with your joke either.

“Heheh—ah!” After a successful swing, a cut slashes across your arm. Blood seeps from it as you fall to the ground, laughter still spilling from your lips as you roll around. Ghostface shakes his head down at you — as if he’s disappointed in your joke — before he saunters off to find his next victim. You frown as your laughter comes to a stop, “well, now what?”

Another generator pops and you think this is it. We’re so close to going home — well, what you call home now. Letting out a sigh, you sit up and wrap your new cut with a bandage. You hear a squeal, then a scream. Seems our Ghostie is agitated now ; ready to get the trial over with. 

Chills flow up your spine, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead as the feeling of being watched overpowers you. That can’t be good. You stiffen, looking through the corner of your eyes without turning your head. Hopefully, you’ll see him with your peripheral vision if he’s near. Otherwise— you didn’t want to think of the other option.

Sneakily, you tip-toe into a nearby house, hoping to wait out the feeling. But, you know you won’t. One thing about Ghostface is once his eyes are set on you, you’re not escaping. A noise catches your attention in the silence — the sound of a latch unlocking. 

The hatch — you must be the only one left. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you creep along the street, keeping an eye out for the hatch. You see it — it’s right in your sights and your heart rate picks up. Shaky breaths escape your parted lips as you glance around the empty street. Coast is clear — time to make a run for it.

Until a white mask phases in out of nowhere, directly on the other side of the hatch.

“Oh, come on,” you whine. Ghostface tilts his head at you, waving his knife teasingly. Your arm stings with the shine of it, bandage now being colored a deep red. “I’m so close to ending this!” He continues to stare your way silently. “Don’t you think this is a little unfair?”

“That’s the game, doll.” You’ve never heard him speak before now. A static-y, modulated voice isn’t what you expect to hear. He creeps closer, no longer directly across from you. “That’s what makes this fun.”

You purse your lips, fingers knotting together at the edge of your edge. “Okay, how about this? You let me take hatch, and I’ll let you take a shirtless picture of me. My face isn’t allowed to be in it, though!”

Ghostface bounced where he stood, an excited giggle echoing in his mask as he immediately agreed. Puffing up your cheeks, you let out a breath before nodding to yourself in encouragement. A polaroid camera has replaced the blood-soaked knife in his hand — even with the weapon gone from sight, dread flushes through you.

“Okay,” you say to yourself, “this is no big deal.”

Without another thought, your fingers clench the end of your shirt and raise it to cover your face. Your skin prickles with the wind, goosebumps raising at the new sensation. With bated breath, you wait to hear the shutter go off — a click, another giggle, the hatch closing ; anything. All that’s there is silence.

And then a leather glove is wrapped around your wrist.

Jumping at the sudden touch, your shirt falls back into place as you take a step back. Only a sliver of skin is free from the glove — just enough for his skin to brush against yours.

A golden sheen takes over you, settling where your bodies meet. In a panic induced state, you’re pushed to the ground as Ghostface hovers over top of you. Shaky, shallow breaths hit his mask as his camera is settled to the right of your head. Slowly, he peels a glove off and reaches for you.

Where his now bare hand meets, a light follows. Right on your wrist, the shape of his fingers is imprinted forever, as if it were a birthmark you were born with. It was supposed to be a myth — a tale shared between hopeless romantic’s. Soulmates weren’t supposed to actually exist.

Except, yours apparently did. In a realm you couldn’t escape ; killing you and your fellow survivors on a continuous loop. You were stuck there — stuck with a murderer as your soulmate until forevermore. 

Ruffled hair is exposed to the wind as Ghostface unmasks himself, his pupils practically hearts as he stares down at you. His eyes search your face, never settling on one particular spot as he drinks you in entirely. You feel as he lets out a breath ; feel his shoulders sag with some kind of relief as he grabs one of your hands. He leads it to his face and lets out another sigh when his skin glows, the shape of your hand left on the left side of his face.

“Mine,” his voice is soft. You can’t stop looking at him — can’t stop staring at your hand that’s been imprinted onto his cheek. “You’re all mine. Made just for me.”

You can’t tell if the feeling swelling inside of you is dread or excitement. But, you let him pull you closer anyways ; allow him to hug you as he pleases. This could come in handy, after all. Maybe.

——♡—— lets ignore that valentines day is over already teehee <3 i hope my version of ghostie is okay, idk how well i write him </3 airbendertendou © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the same name.

[lex-the-flex]

In Front of You

Leon S. Kennedy x reader

Summary: Caught in the middle of the crossfire, you are ready to do anything for your team – especially for the man who cares for you the most.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s): MEGA FLUFF, (make-out session) descriptions of injuries, talks of virus and needles, sensations of pain, cursing, action and violence, and character death.

A/N: I can’t believe I haven’t written anything for Leon since Death Island came out! I ADORED that movie and everyone in it!

Tip-toeing through the dark and damp hallways, you could practically hear the pounding rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears. Guiding your flashlight along the isolated cell blocks, everything seems still and quiet. Preparing to turn the corner, the panicked sounds of your team – your friends fill the empty halls, and you sprint like your life depended on it.

Catching up to Jill and Leon, you find them crouched in front of a set of dimly lit cells where both Claire and Chris Redfield are being held.

"Leon? Jill!" You call out, shining your light toward them.

Joining your team members at the cells, you grip the thick iron bars, and gaze at the sudden withered state of the siblings.

"Oh my God, you guys are so pale." Jill says, shifting her gaze from Chris to Claire.

Reaching through the bars, you work quickly to feel Chris' forehead, only to discover that he, like Claire is significantly hotter than a sunburn.

"And you're burning up so fast." You state, rushing to Claire's side in the separate cell.

"Hurry, get us out of here!" A third man shouts in the dark. begging for one of you to open the door.

Realizing that this man isn't infected, Leon clocks in on who he is within seconds.

"Son of a bitch, Antonio Taylor." He announces with a hint of annoyance.

"What are you talking about?" Claire questions in between staggered breaths, trying to remain calm.

"This scumbag's wanted for leaking national secrets to the enemies of the U.S. of A. Y/N and I were supposed to bring him in for questioning." Leon explains, glancing down at you as you tend to Claire.

Suddenly, the prison lights come on, and both Leon and Jill aim their guns in any direction they can. Removing your pistol from your holster, you sink back over to Chris to re-check his temperature.

"Welcome to Alcatraz. It's an honor to have you all here, together. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dylan Blake." The mad man known as Dylan begins explaining from an upper row of cells joined by none other than Maria Gómez.

Standing from your position on the floor, you aim for Maria, as the feeling of some unresolved revenge starts to creep up your spine.

"I bet you're how people are being infected without being bitten. The answer is simple: my prototype bio-drones." Dylan finishes, crossing his arms.

From the corner of your eye, the faintest buzzing noise whips past your face, and heads straight for Leon. Acting on your feet, you shove Leon out of the way, and a sharp, stinging pain erupts on the side of your neck, and you drop your pistol.

Landing on your side, the flashlights beam illuminates the shiny style of Maria's slick greyish and purple jumpsuit just as she jumps down from the upper cell block.

"Well, that was... unexpected. It's very brave of you, Miss L/N to put your life on the line for someone you love." Dylan mocks you, leaning forward on his cane.

Leaning over your shivering physique, a cruel smirk fills Maria's dark lips as you writhe on the cement floor. Aiming your pistol at the woman, Maria kicks you into the bars, causing you to scream. Silently wincing, both Chris and Claire feel your pain with you while they listen to your gasping for air.

“Y/N, don't. Save your strength!” Chris weakly calls out, forcing himself to sit up from his spot on the wall.

Groaning in pain, even your teeth ache as you lean against the bars, hoping for any kind of relief.

"I get it now. All this tech, even the virus, you got it all from Arias. That's why she's here, isn't it?" Leon asks, turning to Maria.

"Of course, Mr. Kennedy. I thought that after you murdered poor Maria’s father, that I’d settle the score. For both of us. It’s rather fitting, don’t you think? To see the woman you love be torn apart in front of your eyes, just as she once witnessed with you.” Dylan interprets, hinting at his own years of research.

“Fuck you, Blake! You don’t get to decide the course of our lives!” You shout in retaliation to no avail.

Leaving Jill with a warning, Dylan leaves the vast hallways of cell blocks, allowing Maria to finally get her hands dirty. Moving to protect you, Leon throws a flash bang, allowing Jill to make her quick escape to the armory.

*****

"Why'd you do that Y/N? That drone was meant for me, sweetheart." Leon asks, crouching down to your level.

Taking your face in his hands, a faint laugh leaves your chapped lips.

"I told you I'd owe you one. You took the Plaga for me, remember? So I did what I thought was right; finally paying off the debt." You explain through a series of whimpers.

"Oh, honey. That was eleven years ago. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you." Leon replies, gently stroking your cheek.

"He's right, Y/N. Then the Graham's wouldn't be safe. You and Leon could've died if it wasn't for your actions. You were fast, and both of you kept Ashley safe." Chris explains, making the long weight rise off of your chest.

"Yeah, we did our job. It may not be the best life, but our life. All of our lives." Leon announces, looking around to his friends and Taylor.

Taking your hand in his, you sit up against the bars, and sweat starts to pool on your forehead.

"I love you." Leon whispers before you, and a single tear drips from your e/c orb.

Shortly after his declaration, Rebecca arrives with a case of fresh vaccines. Injecting you with the medicine, Leon helps you to your feet, where the two of you prepare to face a bigger threat.

*****

Making your way to the control room, you and Leon observe the water starting to rise in the armory.

"Why's he letting all the water in?" Leon asks.

"I don't know. Maybe for the drones?" You reply, leaning against the monitors.

"You okay?" He asks, hovering his hand above your shoulder.

"Yeah, this stuff works wonders. You should try it." You joke with a smile.

"I'll take your word for it." Leon responds with a smirk.

Glancing behind his shoulder, your miniscule peaceful moment is interrupted by the sound of heels entering the room.

"I'm glad the virus didn't kill you both. I wanted to be the one to do it." Maria announces, standing firm on the stairs below.

"You don't always get what you want. Trust me." Leon projects, turning to face Maria.

Smirking, Maria kicks a computer screen from a pillar, and Leon dodges the fast moving object. Jumping for him, Maria punches Leon without any effort, and smashes him against the slanted single row of desks.

"This is for my father!!" Maria yells, lowering a jagged piece of a metal pipe towards Leon's face.

"He was Arias's guard dog. You were his bitch!" Leon retaliates, moving the pipe away from his face.

Feeling your strength return, you throw yourself into Maria's body, catching her with both of your arms. Colliding with her into a glass drawing board, your legs hit the small stair rail, forcing you to roll into your landing.

Struggling to your feet, Leon equips his Sentinel 9 and fires a few rounds at Maria, to which she dodges with a fierce kick to a desk chair. Launching herself towards Leon, Maria wraps her body around his bulletproof suit, and tries anything to disarm him.

Slamming Leon to the ground, Maria holds him in a headlock, desperate to take her revenge, but not before you finally shoot her in the left shoulder. Releasing Leon from her grip, she turns to face you with nothing but rage filling her eyes.

"You've been nothing but a thorn in my side! I've thought about nothing else but snapping that pretty neck of yours for over a year!" Maria shouts, pacing towards you.

"Yeah well, you're gonna have to try a lot harder than that!" You protest, shooting at Maria once more.

Working together, you and Leon quickly overpower Maria whilst as your stamina returns to your form. Taking a few more punches, Leon decides that enough is enough, and he kicks Maria out of sight. Crawling to you, Leon offers his reassuring touch to your back, until a worried expression fills your face.

Witnessing the sight of Maria being impaled by one of the glass board stands, she slowly walks from the metal stand, freeing herself. Standing to protect you, Leon pumps his arms one final time, but instead of making one last move, Maria falls to the ground; dead.

Standing in the room, a series of gasps and pants leave your lips, as the two of you try to cool down from the whole encounter. However, Leon rushes towards you and clasps his hands around your face. Frantically pressing his pink lips on yours, he moves at an ungodly pace, capturing your taste in his mouth.

A low growl escapes his chest as he backs up into an unbroken pillar and he moves his lips down to your neck, preparing to leave a mark, reminding everyone who you belonged to.

re taglist ~

@dreamliners

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[sorrowsofsilence]

Burning Out • III

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x Fem!Reader

I was lost, but now I'm found Under the lights and in the sounds So let us sing and sing it loud That we're not perfect, but we're proud of who we are.

Noah Sebastian is lost. His crime-filled lifestyle is anything but perfect; but everything changes once he meets you.

Words: 5.4k

General fanfic Warnings: 18+, explicit language, smut, alcohol, drugs, violence, mentions murder/suicide, panic attacks/anxiety, nightmares

Authors note: Chapter Three - One of Us is Broken Glass (EDITED 09-03-24)

new? start from chapter one here

THIS IS A FANFICTION USING REAL PEOPLE IN A FICTIONAL SITUATION! I AM NOT IMPLYING THESE PEOPLE WOULD DO THE THINGS IN THE STORY OR ACT THE WAY THEY DO IN THE STORY, IN REAL LIFE! IT IS SIMPLY FICTION, AND JUST FOR FUN! THINK OF THEM AS ACTORS LOL.

+

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whispered-yelled, furrowing my brows at him in distaste.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded, kneeling in front of me again with an expression filled with fear and distress.

“Excuse me?” I now yelled a bit too loudly as the door below us rattled once more.

“LAPD! Open up!”

“I need you to kiss me, please,” Noah's intense gaze locked onto mine as he begged, “Just this once Y/N.”

I hesitated for a moment but ultimately gave in to Noah's desperate request. His hands gripped the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair as he pulled me towards him. With complete desperation, Noah kissed me intensely.

+++++

NOAH

My earbuds blasted music as I strolled along the sidewalk, glancing at the houses Y/N and I had passed by earlier. A few of them still had lights on despite the late hour, so I kept walking until I reached a cul de sac lined with townhouses. Putting on a ski mask and pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt, I adjusted my backpack straps and began scoping out each house, searching for a potential target. My eyes eventually landed on one with a dimly lit living room and the sound of a cat meowing at the door. Normally, I would avoid houses with lights on, but something about this one drew me in. Was it the cat? I've always been a sucker for felines.

As I approached the front door, I scanned for any security cameras while listening to the cat's cries from inside. When I confirmed that no one was home, and it was just the cat waiting for its owner, I knew I hit the jackpot.

Sighing to myself, I accepted that this was the house I had chosen for tonight's target. Maybe I could take a few minutes to pet the cat before the guilt sets in. Unzipping my backpack, I retrieved my metal tools and got to work on picking the lock. With my phone in hand, I timed myself to see how quickly I could do it; it was the only way to make this mundane task somewhat enjoyable.

Using a tension wrench and pick, I twisted and turned, feeling for the springs and listening for the pins to drop into place. It took some trial and error, but after twenty-eight seconds, the lock clicked open and I stepped inside.

The cat greeted me immediately with loud purring and winding itself between my legs. Kneeling down, I scratched behind its ears as I flipped through its collar with my covered fingers. The cat was large, with an orange-gray coat and white markings that swirled around its

As I stroked the orange cat, I couldn't help but smile at the name - Juice. The cat purred loudly, enjoying the attention. I stood up, knowing I had to get to work quickly. Grabbing my flashlight from my bag, I made my way into the living room. As I went to turn off the lamp to avoid drawing attention, my eyes wandered over the walls adorned with various band posters against the light green paint. My gaze stopped on the sleep token poster above the couch, bringing memories of Y/N's smiling face flooding back into my mind.

Well, I believe Somewhere in the past Something was between You and I, my dear

Shaking the lyrics out of my head, I took it for a coincidence, before looking through various drawers. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

I made my way through the first floor of the house, scanning each room for a bathroom, and searching for valuable medications that I could sell for a profit. The guest bathroom offered no luck, so I decided to head upstairs.

The stairs creaked under my weight as I ascended to the second floor, and once I reached the landing, I spotted another bathroom and eagerly opened its medicine cabinet. My heart raced with excitement as I saw various prescription bottles inside: Diazepam, Adderall, Zolpidem, and even cough syrup containing Dextromethorphan. This was my lucky day, but I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt.

Stuffing the bottles into my bag, I moved through the hallway towards the nearest bedroom. Juice followed me, meowing loudly at my every step. I tried to shush him, but he remained persistent in his demands for attention.

Pushing open the bedroom door, I was hit with a familiar scent of perfume. It took me a moment to place where I had smelled it before.

My eyebrows furrowed as I looked around, trying to figure out where to start searching; until my eyes landed on a collection of polaroids taped above the oak wooden bed. I walked closer, and my heart sank at the sight of a woman's smiling face in each photo.

It was her house - Y/N's house.

I couldn't believe it. Out of all the houses I could have broken into, it had to be hers. Whatever sick strings fate was trying to pull, it’s turned the one good thing that’s happened to me, into a twisted game.

Feeling guilty and scared of being caught, I quickly scanned her room for any valuables before turning to leave. But just as I was about to make my escape, I heard someone opening the front door. Panic surged through me as I fought to think of an escape plan, and my hand instinctively covered my mouth, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Juice?”

It was her. Fuck.

Looking around the room frantic, I debated where I was going to hide. Closet? Bathroom? Under the bed?

“Juju baby? Where are you?”

I heard Y/N's footsteps fade towards the kitchen and took this as my cue to make a move. Every step I took across the room was accompanied by a loud creaking sound, and I cursed myself for not being more stealthy. She must have heard me; there's no way I could make it to the bathroom now.

Juice watched me with curious eyes from the corner of the room, but it was too quiet downstairs, and I knew Y/N was listening. Suddenly, Juice's head snapped towards the door at the sound of Y/N's muffled footsteps coming up the stairs. My heart raced as he ran out of the room, leaving me alone and anxious. I quickly slid behind the closet door, peering between the cracks.

The hallway light flickered on and my breath caught in my throat. Y/N screamed before her laughter echoed through the house.

"Jesus Christ, cat! You scared the shit out of me!" she exclaimed.

Oh god, what am I going to do?

Juice came back into the room and landed on the bed, staring at the closet with wide eyes. As soon as Y/N entered, I knew I had to get out of there.

"What? Are you hungry? Your bowl is full," she said, shaking her head as she pulled off her sweater. This was my chance to escape.

I carefully slid out from behind the closet door while her back was turned. But just as I was about to pass by her, she threw her sweater into the hamper and turned around. In a moment of panic, I grabbed her from behind and covered her mouth with my hand to stop any screams.

She struggled against me but I held onto her tightly.

Why didn't I just run? Why did I think this was a good idea?

With a racing heart, I turned her around to face the mirror, hoping she would see that I meant no harm.

But tears fell from her eyes as she whimpered, looking back and forth between my masked face and the gun in my waistband.

Of course, she would be afraid.

I was a masked vigilante with a gun.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I said softly, my voice trembling. I knew I had to run as soon as I let go of her. She would never know it was me, and everything would be okay because I could just delete her number and never see her again...right?

Y/N's body trembled in my arms as I held her tightly. Even though I squeezed her for comfort, I knew she was far from being soothed.

"I'm going to leave, and you're going to let me. Got it?" I stated firmly, taking a deep breath before closing my eyes and preparing myself to leave this house forever.

"Please don't make a scene," I added, releasing my grip on her body slightly. As I began to step away, Y/N turned around and kicked me with all the strength she had.

"Fuck!" I cried out, doubling over in pain and protecting myself with my hands. As I tried to recover, Y/N fled the room. I knew I had to follow her; there was no way I could escape without her knowing what happened.

"You fucking creep! You followed me!" Y/N yelled, her voice dripping with anger as she pointed a knife at me when I finally exited the room. ""You're a lowlife piece of shit! Get out of my house or I'll call the cops on your sorry ass…Noah."

I locked eyes with her, feeling a wave of shame wash over me as she spoke my name with complete disdain. How did she know it was me? My clothes were different and none of my tattoos were visible.

My body shook with pain and I hunched over, leaning on her door for support.

"Please, Y/N, don't call the cops," I begged desperately.

"Why shouldn't I call the cops?" she screamed back at me, tears streaming down her face. She reached for her phone and began to dial 9-1-1, causing my stomach to drop even further in fear. I couldn't get caught - I had too much at stake.

I pleaded once more, but Y/N pressed the button and I could hear the faint ringing of the operator on the other end. Panic set in and my hand instinctively reached for the gun tucked into my waistband. Y/N's face went pale as she noticed the weapon, her lips trembling in terror. I had never seen anyone so afraid before - not even the woman from our job weeks ago.

"Hang up," I managed to whisper through dry lips. "Y/N, hang up please."

But it was too late - Y/N had already spiralled into a panic attack, gasping for air. We sat there in silence until we heard loud knocks on the front door.

"This is LAPD!"

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, frantically thinking of a plan. Usually, if you call 9-1-1 and then don't answer their call back, they send someone to check on your location to make sure you're okay. But I didn't expect them to come this quickly.

Y/N looked between me and the door, wiping away smeared lipstick from her face. Do I hide? Do I surrender?

My gaze landed on her lips and the smeared lipstick. If only we had been making out... Wait a minute. If we were passionately kissing and she accidentally called 9-1-1, it would explain everything. I quickly removed my sweater and tank top to make it look like we had been getting intimate.

Please play along Y/N, please.

+++++

Y/N

I pulled away from Noah, trying to catch my breath as I noticed the lipstick smudged on his lips. His request was so outrageous that I couldn't help but scoff at him.

"Come answer the door with me and pretend we were just making out," he pleaded, his doe-like eyes pleading with mine. "I'll tell you everything about myself if you do this for me."

I hesitated for a moment, before nodding quickly and allowing Noah to take my hand and lead me down the stairs. He held onto my belt loop as we approached the door, opening it to reveal a uniformed man standing there.

"Hi officer?" Noah said in a confused tone, panting heavily as if we had just been in the middle of a passionate make-out session.

"Evening," the man replied, his eyes darting between us in concern.

Noah pulled me closer and wrapped his arm around me, while I played along by giving the officer a puzzled look and placing my hand on Noah's chest with false admiration.

"We received a call from this location and wanted to check in to make sure everything is alright," the officer explained, eyeing us both suspiciously. Noah must have sensed it, because he pulled me even closer and I rested my head against his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat. Despite everything that had happened between us, our bodies seemed to fit together perfectly, an undeniable chemistry between us.

The officer scanned my lips before turning to study Noah's face, analyzing our deception.

"Oh really? That's odd," Noah furrowed his brows and looked down at me. I chimed in, reaching into my pockets for my phone.

"I didn't call anyone," I said,"I must have butt-dialled while you were...pushing me against the wall," I whispered through gritted teeth, loud enough for the officer to hear.

Noah's lips curled into a sly smile and he even winked at the officer. "I was away on a trip for two weeks, you know how it is."

The officer coughed awkwardly and began to look away, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "Alright well, stay safe you two. Have a good night."

"We will," Noah gave him a breathy laugh.

I apologized to the officer as I pulled Noah away from the door and closed it behind us. Noah let out a breath of relief, his tense muscles relaxing.

I took a few steps back, still wary of him.

"Okay, now get your shit and go," I demanded, glaring at him. "I never want to see you again." I wiped my lips, trying to forget the feeling of his hands on me just minutes ago, his mark staining my body.

"Please, let me explain," Noah pleaded, holding out his hands and taking a step closer to me. I could see the genuine concern in his eyes and it made my walls start to crumble. But I couldn't let myself trust him again so easily, so I took another step back.

"Fine," I conceded with a sigh. "You have five minutes. And put your shirt on, it's weird that you're standing here half-naked."

I led the way into the living room and plopped down on the couch, motioning for him to join me when he came back down the stairs.

Noah sat as far away from me as possible, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath. We sat in silence, both feeling a sense of deja vu after our earlier encounter in the park; this time was different though.

"So," Noah began, looking at the carpet.

"So," I echoed, watching him cautiously, "you didn’t strike me as a professional criminal."

"That's what makes me good at it, I suppose." A small laugh escaped Noah's lips before he stifled it. I rolled my eyes at him.

"I know you don't believe me, but I didn't follow you," Noah said, covering his face with his hands. "The odds are astronomical, Y/N. I genuinely have no idea how I ended up at your house instead of any other one in the neighbourhood."

"Then why did you choose this house?" I asked, raising an accusative eyebrow.

Noah shrugged, "I don't know. There's no method to it. I saw your light on and heard your cat, and chose it. That's all."

"Sure," I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest, "maybe one day you'll admit that you're actually a stalker."

"No," Noah shook his head, "are you even listening to me?"

He sat up straight and leaned over his knees, staring intensely at me. "I swear on anything- God, Satan, whoever you want- that I had no idea this was your house.

“Even over the dead bodies of my parents."

His eyes bore into mine as he spoke and I felt a lump form in my throat. The pain in his expression made my heart ache.

"You have dead parents too?" I asked quietly, the tension in the room dissipated, filling with a sense of knowing.

Noah licked his lips and furrowed his eyebrows. He snapped his gaze away from me and slumped back over his knees, staring at the floor.

"My mom died of cancer," he began, "and my dad couldn't handle it so he killed himself. I was only twelve years old, but luckily my best friends took me in. They're like brothers to me."

My mouth felt dry as I listened to him. It suddenly made sense why he didn't say sorry when I told him about my own parents' death in the park. He knew that apologies wouldn't change anything and sympathy would just feel like pity, especially in this situation.

"So why were you in my house in the first place?"

Noah avoided my gaze, clearly ashamed of his actions. "Stealing, larceny, thievery - whatever you want to call it. It's one of the easiest ways to make money on the streets besides dealing drugs."

"So you're a burglar," I said, nodding and forcing a smile. "You really know how to pick 'em, Y/N," I mumbled under my breath, finding some humour in the situation.

"I wouldn't be doing this if we didn't have to," Noah replied, sinking back into the couch with his tattooed neck on display. "We owe a lot of money to a dangerous man, and this is our only way to keep up with his demands."

"Who?" I asked, my curiosity piqued despite my attempt not to stare at the intricate snake design on his neck.

Noah closed his eyes. "I can't tell you for your safety."

I let out a dry laugh. "My safety was gone as soon as I offered you to sit on my couch."

"Touché," Noah chuckled. "But that's one thing I won't disclose."

"How long have you been...doing this?" I watched him closely as he turned his head.

"Long enough," he answered cryptically.

"How long, Noah? If that's even your real name."

He raised an eyebrow. "It is. Noah Sebastian, if you want to be specific. My friend Jolly always referred to it as "the grand fuck up," and it all started when I was fourteen. Since then, we've been paying off our debt every month.”

"And what exactly is 'the grand fuck up'?" I asked, noticing the letters on Noah's knuckles for the first time as he ran his thumb over them.

"It was my first job, and Jolly said I needed to do it to become a man and join the pact," Noah explained, his eyes fixated on the letters. "I stole an expensive car without knowing it had something valuable in it. The car belonged to a notorious criminal who caught us, giving us two choices: death or working for him. We chose to work off our debt and be free once it's paid off."

"Who is included in 'we'?" I inquired.

"My three friends and me," Noah replied with guilt evident in his voice. "I screwed us all over, and it's been seven years of nothing changing."

Noah closed his eyes, trying to hold back tears and the guilt that consumed him. My heart softened, wanting to comfort him and take away his pain.

"What does your tattoo say?" I asked, shifting the topic.

Noah looked at his fingers again, blinking rapidly. "Bad omens."

"Bad omens?" I repeated.

He moved closer to me and held out his hands for me to see. Without thinking, I took his hands in mine and studied the words etched onto his skin.

"An omen is a sign of things to come," Noah explained, watching my fingers trace over the letters. "But everything that comes our way seems to be bad."

"That's no way to live," I shook my head, turning sideways on the couch to face him.

"I've always lived that way," Noah shrugged, giving a small smile.

My heart ached at his words, reminding me of my former self stuck in a cycle of hopelessness and despair. A year ago, I would have said the same thing if someone had talked to me about possibilities and starting fresh. But I had worked hard to leave that behind and create a new life for myself. It was possible, but Noah was still trapped in his never-ending cycle, unable to see any glimmer of hope or change.

“I don’t even feel real anymore unless I’m in pain,” He confided, the agony evident in his voice catching me off guard. “It's not like I enjoy this cycle of suffering, but it's become my norm. I don't know how to function without it.”

Noah scoffed and looked away, trying to distract from his words. “Sometimes I wish I could just give up. Maybe then I'll see my dad again.”

My chest clenched at his words and I sat up on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. “What keeps you going?” I prodded, intrigued by this mysterious man.

“My brothers. I have to fix things for them and make up for what I've done.”

“And after that? What then?” I pressed, completely invested in his enigmatic words.

Noah fell silent, his gaze fixed on the ground, lost in his thoughts. I wanted to know what was going through his mind, but we sat in silence once again, the only sound coming from the soft ticking of the living room clock. Juice had emerged from hiding and cautiously made his way into the living room. He let out a small meow and jumped onto the couch next to Noah. After sniffing him, he rubbed his head against Noah's sleeve.

“I don't know,” he finally whispered in a despondent tone, raising his hand to gently pet Juice's fur. The hair on my arms stood up as I watched Juice melt into Noah's touch - immediately accepting him and showing him love.

“You look like you could use a hug,” I surprised myself with the offer, standing up and opening my arms to invite Noah into my personal space.

He looked at me with surprise, asking "Huh?"

"Come here," I motioned for him to stand up, and after a moment of hesitation, he did.

Noah’s lanky figure approached me, and I wrapped my arms around him, pulling his body towards mine in a protective embrace. I stood on my tiptoes to place my head in the crook of his neck, squeezing his body against my chest. Noah’s breath hitched in his throat as he held himself stiffly before easing his body into our entwined limbs. His arms held me close, his head resting against my own. As his chest shook through his complacency, I breathed deeply, sighing into our hug. Noah joined me in a deep exhale, listening to our breaths as we held onto each other, exchanging memories through our hold.

I’m sorry you lost your parents. I’m sorry you’re stuck. I’m listening.

“You don’t have to carry it all yourself. Humans aren’t made to be solitary creatures.” Boldly, I held my hand against Noah’s head, capturing him and all of his wounds. As I ran my fingers through his hair, Noah’s shoulders began to shake.

Can one of us be saved?

I can't forgive you, but I can't look away I have to tell myself it's better, better this way It's killing me

Soft sobs left his lips, his body vibrating through his tears.

Don't wait for the light Just fall asleep, embrace the night

The man crumbling before me was not a terrible person. He was merely a lost soul, fastened to routine and never-ending affliction.

Perhaps, I can be another step to helping him find himself. He reminded me so much of my past; I couldn’t leave him.

Even if I got hurt in the process.

+++++

NOAH

Y/N's arms were a haven, comforting me with her gentle embrace. Her fingers ran through my hair, unearthing deep-seated memories as she held onto me.

It was hard to believe that just an hour ago, everything had been a chaotic mess. Yet here I was, crying in this woman's arms. I didn't deserve such kindness, especially after invading her privacy and trust like I did.

I hadn't opened up to anyone in a long time. My only family were Ruffilo, Folio, and Jolly; they were the only ones who saw my pain. But Y/N's touch had broken down all of my walls, causing me to completely shatter. It was baffling how someone I had only met less than 24 hours ago could have such power over me. Yet here I was, vulnerable and exposed in her embrace.

How could she be so kind and selfless? She listened and understood. Her parents were gone too. She knew the feelings of abandonment.

Keep telling myself that I was the victim You were the one that pulled away I've got a cold heart, this is the sad part I don't think I can change

But the difference was that I was corrupt. I was not the good guy; my presence was tainting her.

Can one of us be saved? I feel like I'm better, better in a grave Better in a grave Better in a grave

“What’s the next step from acquaintances?” she tried to lighten the mood, giving me a small laugh.

I pulled away, my body already infected with the remembrance of her touch against my limbs. I wiped my eyes, face reddening at the embarrassment. I can’t believe I just cried on some girl’s shoulder. She was no longer just some girl.

“I mean, I don’t know if we should even be considered friends. I broke into your house.” I scoffed, wiping my nose with my hoodie sleeve as I sniffed.

“What about acquaintance-squared?” Y/N said, “I think now that I know you’re not just Noah, we’ve upgraded.”

I laughed, “Level two friendly strangers?”

Y/N joined me, the sound that left her body angelic. Part of me wanted to listen to her melody forever.

I knew then that I was fucked. Her hooks snagged me this morning, but now they were embedded, scars bound to be permanent. There was no way I could just leave her as a forgotten memory as I had thought earlier.

She knew too much.

“Sit down. I’m going to make you something to eat.” Y/N said, smiling kindly. My phone began buzzing in my pocket; I knew it had to be one of the boys.

I immediately shook my head in protest, “No Y/N, I should go.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I don’t deserve your hospitality.” I pulled my phone out and checked the caller ID. It was Ruffilo. 32 missed texts.

Jolly: You alright?

Jolly: Almost done?

Jolly: It’s been almost two hours since I’ve heard anything.

Jolly: You should’ve been done within the first hour.

Jolly: Your location says you’re still there; where are you?

Jolly: Noah answer your fucking phone.

My anxiety must have been visible on my face when I saw the messages because Y/N noticed and asked, "Where do you live? Can I at least give you a ride home?"

I shook my head, "It's fine, I can walk."

But when Y/N checked the time and saw that it was three in the morning, she insisted, "Noah, it's not safe for you to walk alone at this hour."

I almost scoffed at her concern, but instead placed a hand on her shoulder and reassured her, "Y/N, I'll be okay."

She made a frustrated face and pouted her lips, which for some reason sent my heart racing.

"Noah," she marched towards the front door and grabbed her keys while slipping on cow-shaped slippers. I couldn't help but laugh at the sight.

"Let's go pretty boy."

"I'll walk," I said firmly, putting my phone back in my pocket.

Y/N furrowed her brows again and glared at me, causing butterflies to stir in my stomach. What is happening to me?

"You look cute when you're angry."

Y/N opened the door and pointed outside. "You think I'm cute when I'm angry? Then I'll be fucking gorgeous if you're not in my car in two seconds," she seethed.

I raised my hands in surrender and chuckled, "Okay, okay, I'm coming."

We squeezed into her small silver Chevy Spark and I joked about its size. "Could you have gotten a smaller car?"

She turned up the heat before fiddling with the music, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I must say I didn't expect to have an over 6-foot-tall thief in my passenger seat."

I rolled my eyes, knowing she had a valid point. The guilt gnawed at me once again. Y/N pressed play and the song blared through the small speakers. She turned to me and asked for the address.

"If you know where the Marlborough Motel is, that's where we're headed."

Y/N's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she looked at me. "Wait, you actually live near there?" Her expression crumpled in sympathy when I nodded. But I refused to accept her pity. We lived in that rundown motel, but it was still better than nothing.

She drove out of the driveway and towards our destination while one of us listened to the song blasting through the car speakers, its lyrics piercing my ears.

You played the cards, you know I wanted to see Behind the curtain, always pulling the strings in my head

But now I think it's time to cut the ends I won't make the same mistake again

Once she dropped me off, I would leave her behind forever. I had to, for my sanity, and hers.

“I mean, housekeeping must be a blessing?” Y/N said gently, giving me a quaint smile.

“Yes, I enjoy the smell of cheap laundry detergent and a stranger filtering through my stuff.”

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I gazed out the car window, taking in the rows of illuminated houses and streetlights as they passed by. Exhaustion weighed down my body, but I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes. Jolly was going to have a fit when I got home - especially now that I had dragged someone else into this mess and failed a job. Just another checkmark on the list of my screw-ups. And to top it off, I had nothing to show for all the trouble I went through.

But then my mind snapped back to reality as I remembered my backpack - the one with the gun inside. The one I had carelessly left behind at Y/N's house. Panic set in as I realized she would find it, along with all her prescription medications neatly stored inside. My heart raced at the thought of her finding those bottles.

My throat felt tight at the realization, but I swallowed the nerves, reminding myself that I’d never see her again after today. I’ll forget about her, and this. I won’t need to see her disappointment.

You got what you deserved And that was me You saw me at my worst You saw the worst in me

We arrived at the motel and I sighed, realizing the light was still on. No doubt the boys were still up waiting for me. Y/N and I sat quietly for a moment before she turned to look at me.

“Well, level two friendly stranger.” Y/N coughed, breaking the awkward silence in the cramped vehicle. I looked at her and forced a smile. She smiled back, but my heart ached with the realization that this would be our goodbye. I studied every inch of her face, trying to imprint her features into my memory. I knew I couldn't face her again after this.

"Thanks for this wild adventure," she chuckled. "It was definitely a confusing situation, but I'm glad you were my first criminal experience."

Unsure of how to respond, I attempted to make a joke. "And thank you for being my favourite victim."

My own words stung as they reminded me of my past felonies, but I supposed she truly was my favourite victim. If it wasn't too messed up to say something like that.

"Will I see you for your usual coffee?" She asked, hope seeping through her eyes. How could she want to see me again?

"Yeah," I replied with a forced laugh, lying through each breath. "See you then."

I stepped out of the car and turned to wave before opening the door to the motel room. My heart ached as Y/N drove away.

Goodbye.

Tell me that I'm wrong Tell me that I'm wrong

Chapter four

Tags:@crimson-calligraphyx @lma1986 @spicywhenspeaking @sammyjoeee @shilohrosechicken

@princessmarshmallowx @laurpartyprogram @cookiesupplier @nojoyontheburn @lacktoesandtoddlerant

@veronicaphoenix @er3nslovergirl @cncohshit @scrumptiousfestivalpost @melcchs

@flowery-mess @mentallynot-here @judging-from-afar @darkmxgician @badomensls

@hoe-for-daddywise @philomenie @xxkittenkissesxx @venturethroughtheveil @thefallennightmare

@blend-in-with-the-madness @reyadawn @deathblacksmoke @Anameunmusical @sitkowski

@anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @amelia-acero @rumoured-whispers @artificialbreezy

[pricegouge]

Access Road 46

part two of my horrtober collection | on ao3 | taglist

Synopsis: Reader gets lost on a snowshoeing trip. Eldritch!Gaz tries to help

Cw: dubcon masturbation. monsterfucking but make it no contact. (reader kinda gets like electroshocked rhythmically until it does something for them). reader has a pussy but no genered language is used. READER DEATH. drowning. depression and suicidal ideation. please let me know if i've missed anything. MDNI

A/N at nearly 11k, this one is a monster to be posting all at once. if it's easier for you, i have broken it down into five parts over on AO3

Divider by @/cafekitsune

The cabin is a dingy, desolate place but for how cold and lost and helpless you'd been, it may as well be the Waldorf.

When you'd first spotted the low slump of its roof rising above the snowdrifts around it, you'd thought you were hallucinating, some perverse inverse of a mirage brought on here by exhaustion and borderline hypothermia. You didn't believe it until your gangly snowshoes were tripping up the stoop steps, the cheap, peeling door solid under your fist. You could tell even at a glance that no one was home, likely hadn't been for some time, but the instinct to be polite and civil even in the face of what would certainly be your death wouldn't be ignored. The last thing you needed right now was some pissed off hillbilly hunting you down for trespassing, after all. It's locked up for the season - for its slow death, maybe - but your ski pole crashes through a bedroom window easily enough. You take your jacket off and lay it over the broken glass in the sill, shivering and shuddering as your cramped muscles pull you up and through. Your snowshoes catch in the frame (stupid, should've taken them off) and your hand catches your weight before you can roll onto the glass, a small shard sticking into your palm. You hiss as you reach back and unclasp your boot, let it take your weight so you can relieve your hand and get your other foot sorted. When the snowshoe thunks into the drift outside, you collect your coat and give it a good shake, clearing it of glass before putting it back on, grimacing when the exposed windbreaker material brushes against you. 

You're the coldest you've ever been in your life but it won't do you any good to huddle up if the window's left open so you force yourself into motion again, tearing the sheets of the bed and hanging them in the curtain rod. You tie them off there and then push the bed to trap the bottom against the wall, hopefully preventing it from billowing in the wind that is slowly picking up outside. You stumble through the cabin in search of duct tape, or nails and shut the door behind you. Without power, you stumble through dark corners and cabinets aimlessly, unwilling to give yourself enough time to assess the small kernel of fear building in your stomach each time you open a door and find shadows lurking in every corner. Thankfully the kitchen junk drawer yields a flashlight, dull and cheap but serviceable, and after that supplies come quickly to hand.

It takes about an hour to get the window good and insulated, a pile of trash bags taped to the frame to keep the worst of the winds out followed by two layers of heavy blankets for insulation. It's not good enough to keep the room warm but you're unwilling to sacrifice more blankets and with the door to the room kept closed, you're hoping you won't need to anyway.

The living room houses a wood stove which you determine is safe enough to use after shining your flashlight up the flue. A dining room chair and a cheap paperback is sacrificed for fuel and tinder, the long ignition matches thankfully kept right next to the stove. The chair lights quickly but burns cold and despite the exhaustion that weighs heavily upon you, you know better than to sit and warm yourself just yet, peeking through every window until you find a dilapidated woodshed not too far from the back door. You miss your snowshoes, but with the sun rapidly setting you're not about to waste time going to find them, instead beelining it to the she and wading through drifts which climb to your hips. It's cold enough to radiate through your layers but you don't stop until you're at the door, groaning in frustration when you find it padlocked. You'd cry, but know your tears would only freeze to your face. Instead you channel your frustrations out by kicking through the cheap, boarded door, ripping panels out until you can squeeze through. 

Inside, frost clings to cloudy windows like the dust that settles within. Your eyes move quickly over tools and supplies, settling first on a tarp which you lay outside and weigh down with the planks you'd ripped from the door. As suspected, the tarp was keeping a wood pile dry and you collect as many split logs as you can manage, cringing when you find them cold even through your glove. They'll have to work, though you're not sure how.

You drag your makeshift sleigh back to the cabin weighed down with wood and a shovel, a small maul you're not sure you'll even be able to wield but feel stupid leaving. It's too heavy in the snow, sinks to the ground and plows a wake behind you, gets you grunting and sweating by the time you reach the porch. Panting, you turn to inspect your handiwork and ready it for the haul up the steps and stop, breathless, when you catch sight of the broad, black sheet of glass beyond the treeline.

Past the far side of the lawn, down a small ravine, a lake glints under the moonlight. It is black as coal and striped with snow drifts that slither and slide, pick up their skirts and tip toe across the frozen surface in delicate little leaps as if it is too cold even for their frigid toes. The south shore creeps in across the way, its boundaries blurred by the dark. You scan the long line of it for any trace of human activity but if there are more cabins over there, you sigh in defeat when you realize they must be vacant for the winter.

A sharp wind cuts through the snow drifts on the lake. You watch as they morph into something solid, a wall of cold, before it cuts up harshly and heads north. The snow stings sharply when the current reaches you and you get the message, bundling up your loot and heaving it up the steps.

***

"Your destination is on the left."

You startled out of your reverie and stopped the truck, assessing. On your left, a swamp sprawled out about 300 feet; same as it did 100 feet back, same as it did 100 feet forward. It made for a pretty sight, dotted as it was with little islands, peat moss hanging down onto the frozen water from under the blankets of snow that covered them. A pretty sight, yes, but a serviceable nature trail it was not. You'd been driving four hours into increasingly desolate back woods and at least twice now you'd wondered why you were even bothering when you didn't particularly even want to be doing this. But your mom had made you promise you'd try to get out more, kick the winter blues, and she'd even gone to all the trouble of finding local trails you could explore, gushing the whole time about how you used to love to snowshoe.

There were a lot of things you used to love to do.

Sighing, you fumbled with your phone as you tried to find the pinned location in relation to your current one. It chirped about having arrived at your destination and you scrubbed a hand down your face, frustration mounting. On screen, your notifications revealed a missed text from your sister and two calls from your mother. You swiped them both away and huff when the GPS had the audacity to ask how you would rate your trip. You had no service. You considered driving into the icy marsh and calling it a day.

There was a gas station a ways back, you recalled, retracing your route back through the convoluted network of rambling back roads you'd taken to get this far. You thought it was only three - maybe four - turn offs since the last time you'd seen another car, but you couldn't quite remember if the station was before or after the main drag. It would probably take you a half hour or so to make it back, just to be told you'd been in the right area the whole time. Or more likely, to have the minimum wage employee behind the counter not know how to help you find Access Road #47.

Your eyes hurt, weary from the long drive and the snow blindness which had been plaguing you in flashes between pine groves ever since the sun had started its lazy ascent an hour ago.You opened the GPS and pulled the trip you'd just 'successfully' completed back up, trying to remember if the road it says your on is even the road you'd actually pulled onto. But street names became less important on back roads like this where 'take the next left' meant 'take the only left' and you definitely weren't paying close enough attention.

Still, the odds of you having made a wrong turn were pretty much nil when the grid was so wide and rambling and you decided to press on for now, hoping for the best. Flicking on your blinker, you checked your mirrors out of habit before crawling back onto the road. Of course, no headlights followed this far out.

It had worked out in the end, the sign for Access Road #4 - hanging limp and broken off a tree at the next turn off. You'd driven until you'd found the snowmobile crossing, just as the reviews had said you would, and then parked as close to the ditch as you dared, complaining the whole while about the road having not been plowed recently. In retrospect, this really should've been the first sign that something was amiss, but you'd plowed up the trail stubbornly, desperate to get your trip over with so you could call your mother and tell her you'd done as she'd asked and gotten out of the house.But what had started off as a necessary outing quickly turned pleasant, the mid winter sun shining pale and tepid on the unblemished path which unfolded before you. It was a clear day, a rare occurrence for January, and by noon the sun was warm enough to have you sweating lightly under your layers. You'd taken off your coat and wrapped it around your waist, luxuriating in the freedom of being able to walk outside in nothing but your base layer for the first time in months. Winters were long this far north and by January, you're usually convinced the sun was just some mass psychogenic hallucination humanity had cooked up once to give themselves hope, so you have to begrudgingly admit that indeed you had needed this. 

When the clouds began rolling in, you hadn't thought much about it beyond a general disappointment that they'd taken away your paltry warmth. But it was still a relatively nice day and you were having fun so instead of turning around, you carried on, trudging along in search of the switchback you'd been led to believe would eventually fold you back onto the start of the path and grinned in satisfaction when you found the fork in the road, the one path veering wildly backward on your left. 

You're not sure how long you'd walked it, but by the time you'd realized the path had leveled out and you were indeed walking perpendicular to your original course, the sun had already passed its zenith. Panic wormed its way into your belly, a slow simmer at first which you refused to assess too closely as you turned to follow your scraping prints back up the path. You sought your phone out, upset but not entirely surprised to find you had no service. It wasn't the end of the world, though - you knew exactly which access road you were on and your tracks were easy to follow, so if needed, you could call emergency services and be picked up within an hour. But it was early yet and you didn't want to upset your mom by needing to be extracted from an excursion she'd encouraged you to go on, so you ignored the slowly building pit in your stomach and carried on, only beginning to panic in truth when the wind and the clouds picked up so bad you knew you were about to get dumped on. Swallowing your pride, you took your phone out of your pocket again and cursed a blue streak when you found the cold had drained your battery.

Fear made you stupid, made you branch off from the path you're on in an attempt to cut the corner and stumble back onto your original path sooner. You could feel that you weren't maintaining a straight enough line, but you consoled yourself to know that, so long as you didn't manage to turn completely around and follow parallel to the path you'd just abandoned, you would have to intersect with either the access road or the snowmobile trail eventually, hemmed in on either side as you were.

But you must have turned completely around, and as the sun began to disappear behind the western ridge, it began to get cold.

***

You end up sacrificing more chairs before you can get the logs thawed out enough they'll catch, drying out at a glacial pace from their perch on the stove top. Sleep calls for you in yawning rolls every time your adrenaline cycles low, but each time you stand and ready yourself or the house in another way because you can't fall asleep with only kindling burning you will die.

Instead, you busy yourself by blocking off the large archway into the kitchen and shoving the bookcase in front of the hallway. It lessens the space needing to be warmed, stems the sap of heat - but it also makes you more claustrophobic, sitting as you are in a stranger's home. You've no doubt they won't return until spring, but that doesn't stop the irrational fear in you, jumping every time the wind knocks a branch against the siding. You've no idea what you'll do if anyone comes knocking now, no way to guarantee they won't shoot first and ask questions later. Briefly, you consider finding the gun cabinet you're sure is here somewhere, but even if it was unlocked, being an armed intruder would only make you more threatening. So you wander meekly, mapping the house and jumping at shadows. It's filled with the chintzy old furniture typical of hunting camps, a pea green recliner and a mismatched blue couch in the living room.They sit across from the woodstove and a CRT TV respectively, a cute little circle you struggled to picture a group of grown men sitting around, decked out in camo and gear. Behind the couch was the bookshelf, before you'd moved it, full of second hand hunting books and Tom Clancy novels for spice. There are trinkets and found treasures dotting the shelves: robin's eggshells, scraps of velvet sheddings. You silently promise the owners you won't use them for kindling. Overhead, a loft saps your heat but there's not much you can do to stem it. The living room opens to the kitchen, a small thing with a cramped island and an attached nook, a stacked washing machine/dryer combo, a rickety table and a single remaining chair under a window that looks out toward the lake. 

Before blocking the hallway, you followed it back to find the bathroom and the bedroom you'd broken in through, raiding all the blankets and pillows and towels you could find. It's a decent haul - an old woven hospital thermal, a wool blanket, and one of those funky-colored afghan throws everyone’s grannies were crocheting back in the 80’s - but you were still happy to find the linen closet after and nab some flannel sheets, too.

In the kitchen, you take inventory of the cupboards, relieved to find about a year's worth of canned veggies and soups, and you shovel a cold can of beef ravioli into your mouth like an animal at the sink, the pangs in your stomach having gone unnoticed before that moment. Even when you're done you keep scraping the cheap sauce from the can in a subconscious effort to get more while you think about your predicament, spoon pulling across the grooved tin with a sound like a güiro. It's obnoxious, but it keeps you awake and alert while you weigh options and mull over just exactly how fucked you are, fluctuating wildly between hopelessness and determination as you consider the snow collecting on the windowpane and the fact that your mom will definitely be worried by now. It's strange to know you're probably fairly well set until spring here, stranger still to think about whether it's safer to stay than to try navigating the trails where your tracks have most assuredly been covered. You're resolute when you tell yourself it won't come to either, your mom likely having already called in your missing status because sometimes it pays to be paranoid. In the morning, mounties will come trekking out to the trails and they'll find your truck exactly where it was supposed to be and they'll canvas for you, even if your tracks have been covered. You're not too far from the trail, all told, and you can't be too far from civilization if there's a lake within a stone's throw - humans have always huddled around waterways and now you're no different, clinging to it like a lifeline while you wait out the storm and search and rescue alike. Maybe, if they don't find you tomorrow, you can go down to the lake and write an S.O.S. on the ice, provided it's thick enough. Any helicopters out searching for signs would see that easily enough. Sighing, you toss your empty can and dirty fork in the sink though you know the main is either shut off or frozen. You'll melt snow in the morning, be a proper little houseguest and clean up after yourself.

Feeling better about your predicament, you return to the living room and refashion the tarp over the archway. Finding the logs dry enough to burn, you throw one in and replace it with the next soggy block on the stove. In the dim light from the port, you begin assembling your nest, happy now that your belly is full and you're slowly warming enough you can risk taking your coat and bibs off. You'd removed your boots a while back, replaced by a thick pair of wool socks you'd found in the dresser of the bedroom. They're thawing out next to the couch now, on a mud mat you'd found by the door. There's nowhere to hang your outerwear by the stove though, so you drape them from the curtain rods, telling yourself it's just one more layer of insulation between you and the thin window pane. If it also serves the purpose of hiding the mounting drifts from you, you don't mind.

***

You wear silt like gossamer, fine and thin and dancing over your skin in a gentle sway. It's not enough to be a proper current, no source for one either. The ground simply shifts beneath you - heavy, steady, even - and takes everything with it, a low roll of debris pulling over you before returning on the exhale. Detritus catches in your hair, twigs and leaves scraping your skin gently. You feel soft and water-logged and when you open your eyes, your skin is pallid and bloated. 

It is cold here, too cold. Something at the back of your mind tugs at that, worried, but you can't bother to be troubled when you feel so at peace, studying the way pale moonlight refracts through the thin sheet of ice which covers you. You feel like a faerie tale - ophelia, or the slumbering princess awaiting her kiss. You are quieted, there is no pain, so you're understandably upset when your hand raises from its watery bed of its own accord and reaches up, eclipsing the moon, and delicately taps on the sheet above you, the thin coat breaking apart easily as spun sugar. Water floods the branching cracks, overwhelming the delicate shelf. Your hand spreads beneath the surface, trying to catch a piece of it in your palm, but suddenly the moon is changing, pale light turning thin and gold. Life teems in your basin, the slow breaths of the depths bubbling to the surface where algae blooms, feasting on the rot of winter. Minnows hatch and grow, their smooth scales glinting faintly under a sun which grows warmer with each second. They nip at your pruney skin irritatingly, get you swatting and rolling, kicking up debris from the bed. It clouds the surface, vague dark shapes which close around you from either side.

Your breath heaves when you sit up, hair plastered to your skin as murky water slips down the valleys of your body in lines which leave dirt caked to your skin. It stinks, gaseous byproduct and stagnant water. You sit in the filth a moment longer, trying to make sense of your situation and your nakedness though everything beyond the sun above escapes you. Foliage filters the light now, fresh green buds and growing stalks of ferns. Somewhere high in a sentinel, a whippoorwill trills but nearer still, a bullfrog's call silences the static of crickets. You blink, turn toward it -

And find yourself in the warm glow of the wood stove, eyes trained on the tarp which blocks off the kitchen. 

Thoughts sleep addled and thick, it takes you a moment to realize you're sitting up, skin painted in the golden hues of the stove. It's warm, enough so that you've kicked off most of your nest in sleep, though you blessedly haven't broken a sweat yet. You rub your eyes in confusion, trying to ascertain how long you've been out, though you know it can't be too long if the fire hadn't died down much. Restless from your dream, you climb out of your nest and creep to the window, huffing in fear and frustration when you move your coat and find the drifts have climbed halfway up the woodshed's siding. It's still cloudy, wind still whipping. It shows no sign of stopping but you're grateful it's no longer a white out at least. You stand there a while longer, trying to decipher the skyline enough to figure out the hour but it's hopeless in this overcast and you return to the couch, defeated, staring into the screened coals as you try to walk yourself back from the general anxiety of your dream and your position. 

Hopelessness has always clung to you, a shawl you've worn around your shoulders since you were a kid. Dour, reserved. It leaves you ill-equipped now, spiraling in the dead of night into a depression you know will kill you if you let yourself succumb to it. Out here, hopelessness is just as deadly as the elements and you can't give into it, no matter how much you want to tighten the valve, bank the coals, slip back under that frozen mire. So you sigh, try to steer your thoughts to something more proactive. You need sleep, but your head's clearer now than it was earlier so you peer around looking for anything that might need tending. There's still nothing to be done for the loft, but the logs which had been drying on the stove shouldn't stay there all night, and now that they're dry you can swap them for a new set. Your knees creak when you pull yourself up, blanket swishing around you. You pull the coffee table closer, place the first block off to the side, and then jump a foot when you reach for the other one and nearly burn your hand on the empty stove pan. 

It's funny how quickly the sense of not right can cut through the miasma of depression and tiredness. You know you replaced the last log you used. You remember it intimately, the cold, wet lumber nearly squishing under your thumb. You inspect your hands for evidence, brows drawing tight when you find them clammy and dirty. Exasperated, you open the vent and inspect the coals, shaking your head and sitting back on your heels when you find evidence of an old log smothering under a fresh, popping belt of cedar. Closing the door, you try to collect yourself rationally, reasoning that you'd been sitting up when you came to and therefore it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibilities that you'd grown cold in the night and decided to feed the fire, too exhausted to wake up properly as you did so. It made a sort of sense, explaining parts of your dream at least. No doubt the sensations of opening the hatch and feeding the fire, basking in the warmth of it had informed your vision, your hand on the sheet of ice and the way the season had changed around you. It's small comfort, knowing you'd played with fire in your sleep, but at least it makes sense. Means you're not going crazy.

In the kitchen, a bullfrog sings its agreement.

Despite the crackling of the fire, ice creeps through your veins worse than when you'd been stuck out before the storm. You'd like to say you whip around, seek out the source of the sound confidently and casually. You'd like to say the call of a bullfrog - or something - didn't scare you. But when you turn toward the kitchen, your head swivels about slowly, eyes taking in every inch of the room on their way. You sit frozen in place, shaking like a leaf when the tarp rustles in a draft, breaths coming quick and shallow. You're unsure how long you sit like that, locked in place by fear, entire body wound so tight the next pop of cellulose has you flinching, but it's long enough for the draft to dissipate, the tarp folding back in on itself as it settles to the floor. Long enough for you to understand that whatever's made that noise also informed your dream, that you were already looking for it when you woke up.

Your feet are silent on the threadbare carpet when you slink to the wall and grab the maul, eyes and ears peeled as you advance to the shroud that separates you from the kitchen. There's no silent way to get past the tarp, but if you sit next to the doorway long enough, you just might be able to peek inside the next time a draft kicks it up. So you try, tears burning your lash line because you don't trust yourself to even blink when you catch a series of little croaks emanating from the other room. It's not a frog. It can't be a frog, it's below freezing out there.

So what the fuck is croaking in the kitchen?

Cold air bites through your borrowed socks. The tarp rustles and raises, the edge of it pulling away from the wall enough you can peer through the crack in bits and pieces, brain stitching the image together until it makes a whole: empty, glowing pale in the moon glow. You rip the tarp away and storm through, maul raised against a threat you can't see. You tear through cabinets in your terror, even checking the washing machine before accepting you're alone. Your breath heaves as you glance around, desperate to make sense of the croaking noise that had awoken you from a sleep so deep you'd managed to work a wood stove without waking. But it doesn't make sense, the kitchen just as abandoned as the rest of the house, counters picked clean but for your empty tin of ravioli and the -.

The maul falls to the ground with a heavy thunk as you step closer, retracing your steps from earlier in the night much as you had when you couldn't make sense of the fire having been fed. You'd put the mess in the sink, told yourself you'd clean it when you melted snow in the morning. Why would you put dirty utensils on the counter when you'd just have to clean that up, too? Confused and doubting your very sanity, you reach out to touch the fork as if in confirmation and gasp when you find it hot to the touch, condensation clinging to it as it rapidly cools in the frigid air.

You think you mumble something about 'no fucking way,' but you're unsure, fingers scrambling for the tap quicker than you can register. It groans at first, protests. You go to slam the tap shut before the pipes can burst but just as your hand connects with the knob, the flow spurts to life like an artery, long pulses which grow in steadiness until it fills the sink, steam billowing like smoke. It's not possible. You'd checked - hadn't you? Perhaps not, maybe you'd just assumed the main would be off in a winterized home… you rack your brain, trying to remember but come up short. Unlike everything else tonight, you can't pinpoint the exact moment you'd checked the taps and it makes you groan in frustration with yourself, momentarily distracted enough you forget about the strange croaking noise, or the way the dishes had been washed. You even try the switch above the sink just to be sure, but you're unsurprised to find it does nothing, the display on the oven behind you still blank. 

So you sag in relief anyway, distracted and happy to have running water. Until you lean forward to shut the water off and your chest brushes the tin before you, knocks it just enough it totters a moment before tipping into the sink as well. As it falls, the corrugated side scrapes the edge and you freeze, a bullfrog call echoing throughout the kitchen. 

***

You don't sleep much after that, rest eluding you as you toss and turn on the couch, waiting for the storm to blow over. Time slips by inconsistently when you've no phone to check but you keep yourself grounded in the long pre-dawn hours by cataloging the texture of the couch underneath you and the quiet drip of the faucet in the other room.

It had seemed a waste to let the taps freeze just because you were scared.

After last night you'd searched the house high and low again, even wandering up to the loft to check closets and beds. You were alone, as expected, but you can't shake the feeling that something is with you. 

You've never been very superstitious but you can feel it in your bones, in the framework of the house. You imagine if you were to step outside you'd feel it peering at you from the treeline with owl eyes. Barely a thought spared for how quickly you'd accepted it as true, how you'd never once questioned your own sanity. You should, all things considered - no one could fault you for turning a little batty under these circumstances.

But you know it's real, whatever it is.

You suppose most delusions feel like that.

The storm overstays its welcome, rolls out just as languidly as it had passed over. All told you'd bet the snow had fallen for a solid ten hours and the accumulation certainly seems to reflect that. You're not overly familiar with the yards surrounding the cabin, but there are post caps patterned evenly in the fresh blanket outside the front windows, beyond them vaguely spherical mounds and a sudden drop into a more shallow plain. If you'd had to guess, that would be a front porch and the bannister was completely swallowed. 

Snowed in, if you happened to care about such things as property damage.

You try to wait out the overcast, hoping for better daylight and some reassurance the skies won't open up on you again, but a full hour passes unchanged, and the only thing obscuring your view of the lake from the kitchen is your own breath clouding the window pane. You're burning daylight, and there's not very much of it to begin with.

The room you'd broken in through houses two windows. You choose it as your exit point because the drifts outside look shallowest here and because you know you'll be leaving your entrance open all day. It's no use freezing the den you'd worked so hard to warm, so you pull the bookcase back into place behind you and head down the hall, fully dressed. You throw the undamaged window open after inspecting your patch job for weak spots or damages, oddly proud to find it up to par. The broom you'd pulled from the kitchen stands chin height when you lean on it, but the drift outside the window still swallows over half of it when you test the depth by pushing the handle through it. If the snows too powdery you'll fall through it and your snowshoes will be more hindrance than help, but you don't relish plowing through hip deep snow all the way to the lake so you risk it, clipping into your shoes as you sit on the sill and branching out into the world like a little fledgling after shutting the window as much as you dared, awkward and gangly on feet that sink a good four inches into the fresh powder before catching properly. It's not perfect, but it will have to do.

Shovel in one hand and ski pole in the other, you make your way to the lake slowly and carefully. It's impossible to pick out the features of the unfamiliar terrain under so much snow and you worry with every step that you're about to put too much weight on a thicket of brambles, or have your foot go crashing through felled trees. You imagine breaking your ankle here and half your speed yet again, putting all your weight on your ski pole as you test each next step. The shoreline is the most harrowing as you've no clue if a dock lies dormant under foot, if your next step will have you plummeting off a shelf of dense snow and crashing through the ice.

But you make it, and the ice withstands all the beatings you lay on it with broom and shovel and unearthed rocks, and much as it scares you to take the first step onto the thin ice of the shoreline, it holds fast and you set off toward deeper water with a grim determination, steadfastly refusing to think of how stupid you're being. 

You take note of the surrounding cabins as you walk, checking diligently for signs of life. But the windows stare blankly back, indifferent to your plight. The wind whistles through the basin the further out you go, drifts shifting like waves across the top layer of snowfall. It gives you pause, anxiety building as you wonder if your bravery will go unrecognized when the dunes shift and bury your message, but the deeper layers of snow remain hard packed and you won't gain anything by doing nothing so you try anyway, shovel digging a trench deep and wide enough for you to fall in to, abandoning your snowshoes before you do lest the grip claws scratch the ice. 

It wouldn't do anything to harm its integrity, but it makes you feel better anyway, especially when the ice creaks underfoot some hours later, shelves settling more firmly against each other. It's a natural process but it leaves you weak in the knees momentarily, breath panting with more than just your strenuous labor.

Scale is a hard thing to grasp when you feel no bigger than a speck in a giant's eye. You work so hard you break into a sweat, your bibs folded down at the waist to keep you regulated. It's a dangerous game you're playing but you don't want to soak your layers lest you get stuck in them on the return trip when your sweat cools and your temperature plummets and you're not willing to bet money the hot water at the cabin will still work when you return. But despite your effort, when you crawl out of the ditch to inspect your handiwork you're underwhelmed, your message seeming small enough to barely be visible from the cabin let alone the sky. 

Which stares apathetically back at you, unblemished by chopper or cloud break. You inspect it back, check for signs of the hours passing. The only indication you receive is a general darkening on the eastern horizon.

You sigh, tugging your snowshoes back on. You're not sure which is worse, the prospect of a longer day and therefore more time to work yourself to the bone on a message which may never pan out, or the idea of lugging yourself all the way back up the shore. You scan the coastline apprehensively, plotting out your return trip now that you can get a better lay of the land -.

Hang on.

Fear claws its way up your throat, sudden and damning. None of it looks familiar because of course it doesn't, and the harsh winds have covered your tracks just like they'd done when you'd strayed off course and found yourself in an abandoned cabin. God, you'd been so stupid - how could you not have learned from your mistake the first time?

Unbidden, tears burn the chapped skin of your cheeks as you scan the horizon, noting the smattering of empty structures with a growing sense of dread. You know your cabin sat further back, barely visible from the shore, but beyond that you've no clue where to go, no visual bearing to follow. You should have propped that broom up somehow, or piled a wall of snow on the shore which might have been visible from some distance.

Your eyes trail overhead instead, hoping to remember which side the sun had been on when you'd trekked out, but with the dense cloud coverage it had been impossible to know, even the vague time of day having eluded you. Breath steams from your lips, clouds your vision when you inspect the treeline, trying to discern how much daylight you have left. Already the sky darkens, night creeping in from the east with greedy fingers, reaching over the horizon to greet a snow squall on the southern shore. You bite your lip, a flake of dead skin catching and ripping between your teeth. The small storm hangs ominously close, a dark smudge of gray underlit by -.

You blink. Blink again. 

"Fuck!" you hiss, running as best you can in your unwieldy shoes.

The flue - were you sure it was opened? Had you properly banked the coals to a low simmer? Had the logs you'd been drying been removed from the stove top before you'd left?

You felt just as crazy as you had the night before, confusion clouding your every memory from that morning. Had you really been that exhausted? Could you have set your one safe haven on fire?

Smoke hangs in the clouds like a bad omen, billowing wider across the clearing as if laying stagnant, unaffected by the thin winter winds which bobbed the pines. It acts as a beacon, calls you to it with unquestioning feet. In retrospect, you won't be sure why you even follow, why you don't break into a neighboring cabin and start all over again. Perhaps you thought it was a hell of a way to call any potential search and rescue to you. More likely, you'd been unable to look away from it, like a bad train wreck, the morbid curiosity overriding all your better instincts.

But the cabin still stands when you round the corner of the treeline, windows just as shrouded as all the others that lined the lake. The smokestack glows like a cherry, but the house still stands and you've no control over yourself when you're rounding to the back room window again, ducking your head through the opening to take a good whiff, surprised when it doesn't spark a coughing fit. So you heave yourself through the window again, muscles protesting loudly.

You ignore them in favor of tearing down the hall in clattering snowshoes, pushing the bookcase right over in your haste to assess the damage.

But there is none. The wood stove barely even glows, its belly cold when you hover a hand over it.

Tears spring unbidden again, exhaustion and confusion weighing heavily on you as you try to make sense of what's happened, figure out what freak combination of events could have led to this. Exhaustion, mostly. Delusions brought on by stress. Deep down you know there will be no good explanation. 

***

You were wrong about the hot water situation. You were wrong about a lot of things.

The shower matches the rest of the cabin, old and dingy but blessedly providing. Steam builds thick enough to carve in the frigid air but you don't let it bother you, luxuriating under the stream for far too long in an attempt to wash off even the most stubborn of anxieties knotting your back. You stand on washcloths to avoid fungal infections and make due with a bar of Unilever and a mostly-empty bottle of Dove three-in-one which leaves your hair dry as hell. You're no longer sure if it will even matter soon.

You're so exhausted it's difficult to even stand, feet dragging as you pat yourself off and wrap your wet head in a towel. The hallway is freezing when you exit the bathroom, wind rattling the panes of the bedroom whose door will no longer stay shut. The window you'd left cracked earlier had been wide open when you'd returned, something you'd only noticed when you'd gone back to close up shop after ascertaining there was no real threat. 

It doesn't do you much good to dwell on it so you don't, just make sure the windows are closed and locked still before closing the door again. You hear it creak back open as you lift the bookcase back into place but you don't dwell on that either. 

The eggshells and velvet sheddings you'd promised not to break are ruined, irreplaceable curios shattered on the floor. It's strange how apathetic you feel about it now, picking up the pieces you can. Mostly, you're too tired to care anymore, and relief floods you when you lay out on the couch after feeding the stove. You've only three logs left inside. You tell yourself you won't need to grab any more.

***

You were wrong about the electricity too, it seems, the soft popping of the CRT turning on blending seamlessly with the quiet sounds of the fire. You don't wake until the screen warms, electric fuzz reflected in the static on screen. You blink awake in the blinding white light, lay deadly still as you scan the deep shadows of the room for any signs of an intruder, your first instincts centering around your dishwashing friend from the night before. Another miracle - just what you need.

"Luvie."

Something with too many legs and too many teeth makes a home in your left ventricle, tickling and tearing as it spins a web in your aorta tight enough to seal it shut. Your eyes slide up - up, up - following a wood panel to the peak of the ceiling, crawl across the banister of the loft and land directly above. There's someone up there, shape barely discernible in the erratic light of the TV. They're tall, built like a man. They do not speak with a human's voice.

"You're all alone out here?" Water drips onto the chapped skin of your face, frigid and shocking.

The lighting morphs, a soft click heralding the changing of the channel. On screen, the snow cuts short, replaced by the overprocessed blue glow of channel two. You do not look away from your visitor even when the VCR chunks, the FBI warning wavering to life on screen.

"You need help, luv," the voice warns, cold and distant and possibly completely in your head. "You're cold."

"'M'not," you gripe - or at least you try to, your voice so weak and garbled you're unsure he's heard you. You try again, realization dawning on you when your voice remains thin and reedy. You're sleeping. This is all a dream. Relief floods over you like a physical thing, muscles relaxing with a sigh. Above you, your visitor hums, a bass noise which seems to rattle the panes. It's the wind, you tell yourself, more external stimuli altering your dreams. You're unsure how you can reason so clearly. 

"I can help," the voice suggests anyway, and the tension returns tenfold, entire body locking up so tight you briefly worry you're having a seizure. You shiver like that a moment, fist wrapped around an electric fence, and then your body relaxes, breath ragged and panting as you try to make sense of what just happened.

It happens again, and again. Sweat drips from your temples, pleas and pants fall from your lips. A steady drip of water rains on you, cooling your overheated skin as your body continues to seize up on you. From above (from within), the voice alternates between apologizing for the unconventional tactics, and telling you you should be thankful it's deigned to help you at all. You can't catch your breath enough to tell it off.

The episode ends in rolling waves, each cycle dimming in intensity, but lasting longer. You focus on breathing, try to move your hands. It's no good - somehow you're still asleep.

And somehow, your clit is very much on board with the rhythmic clenching and the pseudo-breathplay.

It's almost enough to make you laugh, an exasperated huff curling your lips into a grin which tenses and grits with the next wave, a bitten off groan hissing through your teeth when your cunt tightens around nothing, your hips rocking against the plush tops of your own thighs. You flinch when another water droplet falls on you, splashing against the back of your exposed fist, but it's like the paralysis that's bound you washes away with it, your fingers immediately finding the hem of your waistband. It's solace you seek, eyes squinted shut. Even out here amidst this frozen hell you need reprieve and you're not going to deny yourself relief when it comes so easily, skin slick and pulsing with the after-shocks of whatever episode had woken you up. You cum when the voice says so, when the droning of the CRT builds to a crescendo, the image on screen distorting technicolored static before the whole thing gives a violent pop, sizzling out with enough static make your hand stand up even from your position on the couch. With it, your body locks up so tight you can't move again, clit pulsing against your fingers hard enough to finish you off. 

After, gasping for breath, too tired to even clean yourself properly, you scan the loft for any trace of your apparition and sigh to yourself when you find none, already trying to convince yourself the whole thing - the TV, the dripping water, the man - was a very vivid dream. It's something you might have convinced yourself of, if given enough time, but you fall asleep summarily after, whole body wrung dry.

***

There's dirt dried on your face, some on your hand. A series of perfectly circular stains, one or two carving harsh lines down the slopes of your cheeks. As if someone had dripped dirty water on you and let the water evaporate. The only thing that keeps you from panicking about it is the steady leak you'd found dripping from the roof to the loft, overflowing onto the couch. The kind of leak that only comes with heavy melt off.

Outside, the snow is slushy, caves under your shoes. Melt off flows steadily as rainwater from every surface, the weighted boughs of the pines springing to life when their heavy burdens give up the ghost and drop unceremoniously to the earth, glistening under the pale yellow light of a spring sun.

It is January.

'You're cold. I can help.'

This isn't real. None of it. Tears stream down your face as insistently as the melt off; you feel just as out of place as the sun overhead. You're exhausted, sick of fighting so hard to maintain - to pretend it's all going to be okay. You want to sleep. You want to die.

Down on the lake, the ice emits a series of knocks, adjusting to this new development just as poorly as you are. Your eyes scan the surface almost absently, noting the crystalline shelf with some level of wonder until it registers.

"Shit," you hiss, bolting for the shoreline as fast as you can through the slush and snow.

An entire day wasted, all your work melted away with the mother of all unseasonable warm fronts. A good two inches of water now lays over the ice, all the snow you'd plowed through to leave your SOS having melted under the bright morning sun and the balmy southerly wind. You could have tried to trek back, left bootprints carved all over the trail. Maybe they could've found you then.

Frustration weighs heavily, nearly compresses you when it tests your fatigued muscles. You don't want to plow through miles of slushy snow. You want them to see you - from your message or your smokestack or your wildly waving arms, you don't care - and come save you, bundle you up in a shock blanket and take you home. You want to sleep on the dock, absorb the pale sun rays and let it warm your bones, too. You're sick of fighting.

Indecision makes you lax. The sun slips in and out of thin clouds as it carves its way across the sky. It passes its zenith - low on the horizon, just another reminder that this weather should not be - before you move again, the low echo of brush breaking shaking you from your reverie. 

To your right, far along the shoreline, something big is moving.

Sound moves strangely across the bay, echoes first into the basin before making its way to you. It's hard to pinpoint its exact origin, harder still to discern its nature. You frown at its vague direction, ears perked for every little noise. A branch breaks; something sharp which might be a shout; laughter peals through the valley like church bells.

"HELP!" you shout, jumping to your feet. "OVER HERE! HELP!" Your voice thins as it echoes, each return quieter than the last. The other party falls silent, you imagine them trying to pinpoint your location much the same as you had theirs. When you call out again, they return with your name.

Search and rescue. Finally. But, what are they doing so far out? They call for you again, voices stretching the long miles. You'd say five by shoreline, three as the crow flies. It's not right, why are they so far off? You cast back through your memories of the day you'd arrived here, retracing steps. You'd been so diligent about remaining on the path right up until that last branch; you can't have gone that far off, so why -?

Unless it was before then, when your GPS had failed. You'd rerouted, adapted, but -. The sign, Access Road #4-, with the last digit cut off. You'd been wrong about so many things.

"HELP! I'M HERE!"

Three miles as the crow flies. You can manage that.

The ice doesn't protest much like you'd feared it would when you lower yourself down from your perch on the dock. It seems despite the sun's best efforts, the thin layer of water that covers it isn't enough to melt it just yet. Your shoes plap plap as you take off but you're too distracted to remove them just yet, caught up in the strange mix of fear, panic, and anger which knots your belly. Your shouts thin out, breath shuddering as you work to keep moving, each step a massive effort.

The search party calls back, but their voices are moving further away, perhaps confused by the way your voice carries up the lake. 

"Wait!" you wheeze, stumbling to a halt as you try to catch your breath. "I'm here!"

They don't even bother to answer this time, likely not having heard. You groan and fall to your knees, gloved fingers fumbling with the clasps of your snowshoes. In your panic, you botch it twice before taking a deep breath to collect yourself, eyes slipping shut as you try to remember you'll save time long term if you can just take a few extra moments now. You wait until your pulse calms a fraction of a beat per second, until your breath evens out. When you open your eyes, your gaze falls first to the ice beneath your feet and you nearly lose your Spaghettio breakfast.

You've never seen anything so clear. Under direct sunlight, the ice comes alive, rendered so transparent it may as well not exist at all. Vertigo sets in, your brain convinced there can't be anymore than an inch of ice beneath you and you have to focus on the thin cracks which run through the shelf to orient yourself. They web their way through the glass pane - thin and cloudy as gossamer - about twelve feet deep, the only indicators that there is anything solid underfoot at all. 

On your right, deep below, small dark shapes flit in and out of vision, return to a larger dark mass further out. You assume they are the brave excursionists of a school of perch, darting close to check out what is moving on the surface. 

It's not that which tests your nerves.

Further below them, at the very bottom of the viewable basin, vague tendrils slink down into the black depths. They twist gently towards the shore, lapped at by some underwater current you imagine you can hear in the beats between their swells and lulls. Seaweed, must be. The lake can't be too deep here. Shallow enough you can see the body, at least.

"Oh, my god," you breathe, situation momentarily forgotten as you watch him bob along in a strong undercurrent, dark skin striped by the fronds which caress him. He's achingly beautiful, bathed in the pale light which filters down to him and veined through with the shadows of the ice cracks. As you watch, the seaweed parts, reveals an expanse of naked flesh. He seems perfectly preserved in the cold water, so much so that you're not immediately certain he's dead. His skin lacks the waterlogged quality you'd expect, still tight and vibrant where it stretches across his envious musculature. He's beautiful, full lips parting gently as another rolling swell of current drags him along. You crawl along after him, helpless against his pull. 

He has to be dead - right?

So why do his eyelids seem to flutter when your fist thuds against the ice? Why does the current seem to pull him up even as it pushes the lakebed down?

Why do you keep following him along blindly, ignoring the calls of your rescue team? Even as the ice begins to creak beneath you, thinning out the closer he pulls you toward a brackish section of shore. He looks so peaceful, undisturbed. Your voice warbles as you emit your last call for help, barely more than a whisper. When your fist falls to the ice to try and wake him, thin veins of white web deep into the shelf in warning. 

He's much closer now - far too close, in fact. Barely more than arm's length. Finally, it registers how much danger you've gotten yourself in, but all you do is belly down, shimmying along the ice like a snake. You feel connected to the man beneath you like this, flush toe to tip if not for the glass that separates you. Water floods through the zipper of your coat, that fresh melt cold as sin where it soaks through your base layers and pebbles your nipples. It's cold, cold enough that it finally dawns on you exactly how dead this man is. You can't help stroking your hand over the ice sympathetically, grieving a man you never knew in his lonely grave. A chain around his neck catches your eye as you study him one last time, try to commit his image to memory. You follow it to where it floats somewhere above his head, a familiar metal plaque on a ball chain. Dog tags. 

You follow him along a little further, willing the necklace to spin just right that you may learn his name. If you can just reach the search party in time, make it home, you could bring his identity to the authorities, perhaps resolve another missing person's case alongside your own. Overhead, your name rings out, further than ever. You call back weakly, all you can manage from your belly. There is a part of you that notes the urgency of the situation - how desperately you need to get a move on to catch up with the party. You listen to it as if from underwater. Muffled, confused. Surely you don't want to leave this peaceful place?

The dog tag glints when it spins, a lure catching refracted light. Sgt. K. Garrick is pushed further in, heavy body thudding against the ice from below. More ice splinters, one fine crack running all the way up to the surface where it bleeds like a fresh wound, warm water flowing up through the shelf to web yet more threads.

Garrick doesn't flinch because he is dead, and you will be too if you do not help yourself.

This time when you scream, your voice shakes snow from the shoreline pines. It thumps through the ice there ominously. The search party quiets again, a series of ice knocks reverberating in the silence that follows your call. One shouts back, the first echo coming from behind you now instead in front. They've turned around. 

You call out again, bellying backwards toward the thicker ice. Your shoes scrape ominously and you curse, pulling your soaked gloves off with your teeth so you can shimmy your legs up and take your snowshoes off. Your fingers are much more confident now, making little little work of it. You leave them with Garrick and try to turn from him, but the tide shifts with you and brings him back out, rolls him along until he follows you, his weathered knuckles tapping along the underside of the shelf. Your calls for help turn frightened, frantic. You think you babble about the man in the water, though you can't concentrate enough to be sure. 

Below you, the ice continues creaking and cracking, growing more and more damaged every time you shift your weight or Garrick's knuckles come rapping. They widen and flood, water rushing up to fill them. The surface layer bubbles with it, as if the lake is beginning to boil. The next rush of current which comes to pull Garrick along drags along the underside of the ice like a knife in your belly, a physical thing you can feel through the thin shelf as its relative warmth eats away at the last few layers. You feel it beneath your palm like placing your hand on an old, drafty window pane during a windstorm. 

When you call for help, you sound like you are being killed.

Your feet break through first, heavy boots trying to pull you under. The reaction is delayed, your whole body seeming to forget to register the sting of pain brought on by such extreme cold. Instead, you focus on pulling yourself out, palms heavy where they slip and slide across the slick surface. You heave yourself out by some miracle, breaths coming too harshly to respond when you hear the rescue party calling to you.

Above their calls - below their calls -, the voice from last night tells you you're cold again. You want to laugh; more moments of clarity coming to you in your last moments. There was nothing here with you besides your externalized desire to give up and give in.

"You need help," it says, everywhere and nowhere. Garrick's knuckles rap against the ice.

You don't want to die here, laying forever in a bed of silt. "Not from you," you hiss, and plant your fist to drag yourself on. 

But the ice breaks open under your hand, your palm crashing through to collide with Garrick's shoulder. It pushes him down, gives you distance. His own hand floats up in his wake, fingers brushing against the sleeve of your coat. Your fingers wrap around his bicep on instinct, the hard-earned drive of every human to keep eachother safe irrepressible. His eyelids flutter in the current. You slip forward after him, sparing a passing thought for how odd that is, odder still how warm his skin is against yours.

The scream you emit when his fingers wrap around your elbow and pull bubbles on the surface, frozen lake water seizing your lungs when it rushes into your mouth and chokes you, pouring down your throat into your belly. 

Garrick's eyes are black as the depths when he opens them fully.

[salty-autistic-writer]

Whumptober 2024 Day 16: Wound Cleaning

Title: Let Me Kiss It Better (AO3)

Summary: Buck has an accident at home. Tommy cleans his wound.

~

“Ouch.“ Buck flinched.

“You have to hold still, babe,” Tommy mutters, his brows furrowed in concentration and perspiration gleaming on his forehead. He’s holding Buck’s hand with the palm turned upwards, pulling tiny sparkling glass pieces out of the skin and flesh with small sanitized tweezers.

“I’m sorry. Why do I have to be such a clutz,” Buck sighs, looking away and swallowing. Of course, he had to get his hand completely messed up while trying to install a light bulb. It didn’t only shatter, it exploded and pierced his flesh with what seemed to be like thousand pieces so tiny they could barely see them. Tommy put his glasses on which he only uses if he has to read small letters and Buck is holding a flashlight with a very bright white light and they still struggle to find them all. They must have been at it for an hour now …

“Don’t be so mean to yourself. Accidents happen,” Tommy says calmly, dropping another piece of glass into the bowl he’s balancing on his knee.

“There have been a lot of accidents lately,” Buck points out, his face burning when he remembers how he tripped on a towel and managed to bump his head on the edge of the sink, shocking the hell out of them both. Or when he fell out of bed while they were making out. His back hurt for days after that, reminding him that he’s only getting older.

“Well. Remember you’re not the only one having accidents,” Tommy reminds him with a lopsided smile. “And now that you have moved in, we can at least help each other fast. But we should be a little bit more careful. If we both have an accident together, we might have to call 911…”

That makes Buck chuckle. He also feels warmth spreading in his chest. Yes. He moved in. He was a little nervous about it, he’s not going to lie. Because he couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if Tommy finally decided that Buck was too much when he had him around all the time? What if Buck would be too clingy or too rambly or too everything? What if would be too annoying or would constantly forget about something important and misplace Tommy's things? He was nervous. But Tommy managed to make him feel less anxous. Right at the start, Tommy had Buck sit down on the couch and tell him a few things about himself. A few things that, as Tommy put it, freaked other people out in the past. Enough to make them leave or laugh or, worse, be mean about it.

“I feel comfortable enough with you to trust you with this,” Tommy explained. “But you have to be honest with me. Because if any of this bothers you, you … you have to tell me immediately instead of making me think that this can work only to … to move out again, you understand?” 

Buck swallowed. His chest clenched because Tommy looked … scared. He nodded. “I understand.” Tommy continued. “Okay. I’m going to be as direct as possible. I’m having nightmares. On the regular. They are bad. Bad enough to make me talk or scream. Sometimes, I even sleepwalk. I also have some habits that might seem strange to you. There are … some kinds of food I can’t eat or can’t smell. As a child, I was forced to eat them anyway. But as an adult, I can make decisions for myself and you have to accept that I’m not cooking or eating certain things. Also, there might be times when my social battery runs out and I have to be alone. It’s not personal. It’s not because of you. It just happens and I’m going to be quiet and withdrawn.”

He stops, taking a deep breath. “That’s it.”

“Okay,” Buck said, making a mental note to look up what helps in case of nightmares.

“Okay?” Tommy echoed, raising a brow. “Just … okay?”

Buck smiled. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you for trusting me with this. I love you.”

Tommy exhaled shakily. Slowly, a smile spread on his own face. “I love you too. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Buck remembered his own fears. He nodded. “Yes.”

They were able to calm each other’s worries that day. Showed each other that they could talk about everything and would respect each other’s boundaries. It was a good day. And Buck went to sleep in Tommy’s bed thinking that this was going to work.

And it does.

Another pinprick of pain pulls him back to the present. He looks down at his hand, not able to see any more sparkly intruders. There are just a few red dots where the shards made him bleed.

Tommy places another piece of glass in the bowl. “I think we got all,” he says and puts the tweezers away.

“I’m going to disinfect your hand now,” he warns, reaching for the disinfection spray.

Buck grimaces and he has to force himself to sit still while the liquid hits his injured hand. It burns like hell.

Tommy hums in sympathy. “Sorry. I’m done now. Let’s wrap it up,” he says, putting the spray away and starting to unroll a bandage from their first aid kit. When he looks up, he notices Buck staring at him. “What?” Tommy asks with a small smile. Buck shrugs. “Nothing. Just … You look cute with those glasses.”

Tommy chuckles. “Thanks.” He wraps the bandage around Buck’s hand tightly and neatly. “All done. Want me to try to kiss your ouchie away now?” Tommy asks with a grin and sparkling eyes.

Buck nods, not able to look away, transfixed by the blue. “Please do,” he says, raising his hand with an exaggeratedly pitiful pout. “I will need at least a hundred kisses though. And cake.”

Tommy laughs, placing a gentle kiss on the back of Buck's bandaged hand. "Kisses and cake. Got it."

Yes. Because I know how much you love cake and you deserve it after taking care of me, Buck thinks and smiles at his boyfriend, watching as his injured hand is being kissed so tenderly.

[lowkeyrobin]

hey!

idk if you’re still writing but if u are - and have the time - could you maybe write fourth grade or ray seeing the readers sh scars? totally understandable if not :))

ooo yeah sure! ; also I'm still active I promise haha, if I ever had to retire (which will hopefully never happen) I'd probably but a thing in my bio to detail that I'm gone temporarily/permanently ; but yeah, it's all cool, I've written ab sh plenty of times before and I'm fine with writing about it ; decided to do ray on this one cause I've given fg enough attention atm haha ; and thank you for requesting! hope you enjoy!

RAY ; don't hurt yourself again

summary ; he finds your sh scars

warnings ; language, substances, self harm & weapons (razors/scissors iykwim) used (slightly) in detail to cause physical harm

disclaimers ; pre-stevie era

word count ; 1.3k

masterlist

This hot, sunny summer day was no different than any other. Patsy Cline's Walkin' After Midnight rung in your headphones, your cassette player quietly whirring as it plays your mixtape. The summer vibe had finally hit you, inspiring you to get with the theme and listen to some more beachy/summery songs for the season.

Ray always found it funny how you had such a taste for music. He didn't get how certain music was only for certain seasons or only gave you the vibes of a certain time, but he wasn't against it. You were way better at making mixtapes than he was.

Speaking of him, you were on your way to meet him at an abandoned pool you'd found a couple months ago. It was around sunset, the heat wearing down against your back.

Trust, the pool was clean, you made sure of it. But you found it as some hole in the concrete by some unused project apartments, water just sitting stagnant inside. You pick up your pace a bit, wanting to hurry before the sun completely set.

As you arrive, you see Ray, Fuckshit, Fourthgrade, and Ruben, dressed down to their boxers as they fuck around in the water. You wave hello as they welcome you, watching as you strip down into whatever you preferred to wear in the water.

You join them as the moon illuminates the pool, the only other slight source of light being the mostly burned out street lamps.

You end up starting a little water war, with you, Ray, and Fourthgrade against Fuckshit and Ruben. It was mostly just a splash party, with lots of shouting and yelling. Said shouting and yelling earned you a noise complaint, causing police to come deal with you.

"Hey! Hands up, get out of the pool!"

As flashlights are pointed at you all, you quickly scramble out, grab your belongings, and run barefoot down the street to avoid the police. You laugh and yell to one another as you sprint down the road, adrenaline fueling you as you aren't able to feel the rocks in the road wedge into your feet.

You hide in a garden, lit up just enough so you'd be able to put your clothes on properly and be able to tie your shoes. You shove your dry clothes on over your wet ones, attempting to warm up before you begin to freeze due to the cold water soaked in your under clothing.

You notice Ray staring at you a little too long before looking away as you slide your shirt on. You brush it off, maybe thinking he was looking over at one of the other guys, and you happened to be in the way, or maybe he saw a rabbit or a squirrel run through the lawn.

You and Ray separate from Fourthgrade, Fuckshit, and Ruben, as the trio were planning to go to some 24 hour diner to eat dinner before heading home. You and Ray head the opposite way, wanting to go home as sleep slowly creeps up on you both.

Your walk home is mostly silent, warm street lamps lighting your way down the sidewalk. You slowly glide on your board next to Ray, who decides to walk. He shakes his locs out of his face to look up at you.

"Do you hurt yourself?" He asks bluntly, unable to word what he wanted to ask any differently.

"What?" You quickly look at him confused, almost shocked. "No"

"I saw scars on your arms earlier when we were in that garden," He speaks, "Those weren't cat scratches or just rush burns or some dumb shit, those were cuts. It's fine if you don't wanna talk about it, but it's not fine to bottle it up and just hurt yourself. Like, we're here for you, okay?"

You slightly shrug and look away, your foot hitting the pavement as you give yourself a little push. "I don't hurt myself anymore"

"Oh"

You hold back a light smile. "Yeah"

"When did you hurt yourself then?" He asks, almost disappointed in himself that he never caught onto it if it was in the past. "Why?"

You shrug as you give him a blunt explanation. "Long ago. They're just scars for a reason. Life got rough, and I didn't know how else to cope. I was too scared to drink or smoke like you guys, but I was somehow able to hurt myself instead."

He nods. "Sorry"

You nod, "It's cool. I was waiting for it to happen anyways. Just another consequence of my actions, but I've grown and yknow, sappy shit"

He chuckles, "Yeah, yeah."

He pulls a blunt from his pocket, like he'd pulled it from Mary Poppins' bag, considering he just randomly had it and a lighter. He lights it up, puffing it to feel a little calmer about what you'd told him. He was such an extreme empath when it came to shit like this because he knew what the bottom felt like after losing his brother. He understood but didn't know how to help, so he just listened.

The rest of the walk is fairly quiet, the smell of weed filling your noses while the sound of your board rolling on the concrete whirs in your ears.

He waves a slightly awkward goodbye as he walks up to his front porch, knowing you'd stay on the sidewalk until he actually got inside. He grabs at the screen door, pulling on it to realize it was locked. Within the Marry Poppins pockets he had, he surprisingly didn't have his housekey.

He turns back to look at you, giving you a look you knew all to well. You laugh before waving him down to you, offering up your bed for him. He jogs back down the sidewalk to catch up as you'd already drifted away, knowing he'd follow like a lost puppy.

He holds onto your hand as you trail down the neighborhood towards your house, trying to hide the fact that holding your hand was his only comfort that he knew you weren't currently hurting yourself.

You open your front door to let him inside, placing a finger over your mouth to tell him to hush as you walk toward your room. You close the door and hand him some clothes he'd be able to wear to bed, allowing him to go to the bathroom to change while you also change.

You both flop down on your bed, sitting in silence as you stare up at the ceiling covered in glow in the dark stars. A lamp illuminates the room, covering it in a warm blanket.

He turns to look at you. "Do you wanna talk about it at all? Get it off your chest?"

You shrug before answering, "Yeah. I mean, what do you wanna know?"

He shrugs in response. "What'd you use?"

"Scissors, razors, pencil sharpeners. Anything sharp, used a knife once."

"Damn" He mutters. "How often did you do it?"

"About multiple times almost every day" You answer. "I was at the bottom then"

"When was then?" He asks, "A few weeks, months, years ago?"

"Months" You answer carefully. "I'm not anywhere near depressed like that anymore, I swear"

He nods, turning on his side to look at you as you speak. "You know you can reach out for help, right? Like, we aren't gonna yell at you or something, we wanna help you, I promise"

You quickly nod. "Yeah, it's just, when you're that low, you don't think help will actually help. I was worried if I reached out, I'd just be thrown to the side or I'd be yelled at and lose everything I have left."

He nods. "Can you promise me you won't hurt yourself again?"

You smile, appreciating the thought of those words. You hold your pinkie out to him, allowing him to shake his with yours to pinkie promise on it.

"I promise"

[sapphic-gardn]

Willow | joel miller x f!reader | pt. 2

part 1

Summary: Patrol with Joel is proving to be more difficult than you originally anticipated. Joel says some things he regrets.

(no use of y/n)

Warnings (18+ mdni): mentions of loss/grief, weapons/violence, swearing, age gap (reader is 23, Joel is in his 50s), angst, one-sided pining, no physical description of reader, will specify with each chapter

Word Count: 2.9k

a/n: hiiii! this is the second part to my joel miller fic and wowza i am so excited to share!!! all the love on part one is surreal. i can’t believe people are enjoying my writing—it’s insane to me. i love you ALL so much. i also love all my moots who have welcomed me with open arms into this lil community. happy reading! let me know your thoughts!!!! 💓

credit to @cafekitsune for the cutie divider <3

During the first week of patrol with Joel, you found yourself questioning why you harbored a crush for the man in the first place. He barely spoke, and when he did, it was to scrutinize you. It was an exhausting game of who could hurt the other one more.

When the second week of patrol rolled around, you were determined to evade conflict. The morning played out as usual—a short greeting at the stables and mumbled groans from Joel. The ride out was wordless yet tranquil. Until…

You came to a halt at an abandoned cabin, one you both had passed on patrols before, because something caught your eye. You dismounted your horse and tied her to a tree nearby. Joel got wind of your sudden detour and scoffed.

“What’re you doin’?” Joel’s voice cut through the silence and you quickly signaled to him to stay quiet with a finger to your lips. He reluctantly followed suit and sauntered behind you after securing his horse.

What had captured your attention was the door to the cabin. In passing on every patrol, you noted that the little wooden building and its worn door had been closed—the door was always closed. However, today the door was open. Wide open. A portal to another realm it seemed. Ominous as the darkness beyond it taunted you.

Come and get me.

A challenge presented to you in the form of danger. The windows were boarded up, the only light inside of the cabin coming from the spaces between the wood. You moved swiftly around the perimeter, peeking in the slits before wandering beyond the threshold. With your gun and flashlight at the ready, you skulked through the first room on your right. Clear. As you made your way to the second room, you misjudged your step and tripped on a splintered floorboard. You caught yourself before you could fall but regained your footing with a loud thud.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Your body froze in place. Instantaneously, a blood curdling screech emerged from right behind you. Before you could think, you spun around and fired two bullets into the clicker’s skull. Shit. You scolded yourself. Your mind was going a hundred miles a minute and you couldn’t decipher your surroundings. You lowered your trembling hand that held the gun and looked down at the thing that once was a person. Blood was pooling under your feet and you concluded that the infected man must have been bitten recently. He must’ve broken into the cabin to isolate and wait for his demise. Your stomach sank as you imagined what the man’s life might have looked like before he was bitten. Another casualty amid a monstrous war.

Joel quickly emerged in the doorway, interrupting your spiraling thoughts. Sheer panic washed over his face. “Coulda gotten yourself killed! Gonna get us both killed with the sound’a that goddamn gun!”

With that, Joel hastily made his way to you, grabbed your upper arm, and guided you out of the cabin to the tree where your horses were stationed. You broke free from his firm grip and mounted your horse promptly, still feeling the burn of his touch under your sleeve in the minutes that followed.

Once you both retreated to a safe distance you decided to swallow your pride and apologize, “I-I’m sorry. I should’ve grabbed my knife. I-I should’ve—I was—“

“Damn right you should’ve. Meant what I said when I called you a little girl. That’s exactly what you are. Never thinkin’ before doin’. Think you’re so tough goin’ into that cabin by yourself? Not tellin’ me what the fuck you were up to?” Joel’s voice rumbled with a deep anger that made you shiver. He was fuming, but his tone held a note of worry. Was he scared? Was Joel Miller afraid of losing you? It didn’t matter. His words were a stark contrast to the sentiment.

“Fuck. You.” Those were the only words you could conjure up because…he was right. Of course he was right, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of succumbing to his cruelty. You squeezed the sides of your horse and sped up ahead of Joel from your place beside him. With your back facing Joel, tears rimmed your waterline and flowed freely down your cheeks. The salty taste of tears bleeding onto your lips brought you back to the moment Maria found you, vulnerable and tremulous.

Growing up during an apocalypse rendered the gift of resilience. The way you saw it, words were nothing but sound waves mingling with air as they escaped a bodily vessel. Harsh words deflected off of you like a bullet to fiberglass. But Joel knew exactly how to penetrate that protective shield you so carefully curated.

Before life in Jackson, you had always felt inferior. Viewed as a damsel in distress by the men in your life. But you were so far from it, gathering the courage to leave the Seattle QZ at sixteen to find your parents who disappeared on a smuggling job. Surviving on your own for two years and teaching yourself how to be self-sufficient. You quickly picked up on how to use weapons as well as raid buildings without getting caught (not your best moments). Independence came easily to you and you would be damned if you let some old grump tell you otherwise. Clearly, all he saw in you was a naive little girl.

You return to the stables before Joel. He makes his way in just as you turn to leave. In passing, you glare into Joel’s eyes and hastily shove him with your shoulder on your way out. You’re pretty sure he notices the redness around your eyes from crying. You can see a glint in his eyes that exhibits a look of sorrow. Even if he is sorry, he can’t take it back. He can’t take back the feeling of sheer humiliation that is seeping into your bones. He can’t take it back.

You traipse through the town center, in no rush to get home and sit alone with the voice of doubt in your ear. The smell of pine invades your olfactory senses and the string lights twinkle above you like stars in the night sky. It reminds you of Christmas, before the world ended, sitting criss cross in front of a fireplace with a steaming cup of hot cocoa. And your parents are there. They would buy every toy on your Christmas list just to see you beam up at them and wiggle with glee. You miss them, you never got closure when they vanished. You didn’t find them, you have no knowledge of how they died—or if they even died. You can’t help but wonder if they left you on purpose. You caused trouble in the QZ—always trying to prove a point to someone in authority. Getting kicked out of FEDRA school was the last straw for them, they barely acknowledged your existence after that. But of course you still loved them, they were your parents. You still love them, they are your parents. They were good people before it all, before they became desperate.

The sound of your own sniffle pulls you back to the present. You find yourself on a bench, staring mindlessly at a family of three.

“Hey, you alright?”

A brown haired girl emerges in front of you. She has a look of sympathy painted on her features, yet she speaks so casually. She follows your eye-line to the family in the distance. You recognize her. She is the young girl who is attached at the hip with Joel. Apparently she isn’t his daughter, but technically she is, given what they’ve been through together…Tommy made it all too confusing when he explained it to you.

“I’m okay, yeah, I’m alright. Thanks.” You dismiss the loaded question with a wave of your hand. When your eyes meet hers, your features soften and you see a tinge of something behind her brown eyes. Maybe it’s hurt, or fear, she seems guarded, similar to yourself at that age.

“I’m Ellie,” She eagerly extends her hand and you take it in a firm handshake. You introduce yourself and make room on the bench beside you. She reluctantly takes the spot and sighs, the shape of her breath visible against the contrasting cold air. The first few minutes are silent, neither one of you are keen on breaking the calm air that surrounds you.

“So,” Ellie finally breaks the silence, “rough day, huh?”

You snort, a small smile emerging on your lips, “I guess you could say that. What about you? Aren’t kids your age usually running around the commune finding trouble?” You look at her out of the corner of your eye when she giggles.

“Not much to do around this boring ass place. Plus, my best friend is hanging out with some dude I fucking hate. Count me out on that third wheeling bullshit.” Her vulgarity takes you by surprise, but you find it quite funny.

After awhile, you two fall into easy conversation. She asks you so many questions…so many. It almost feels like an interrogation but you know she’s just curious. It’s endearing, the way she perks up when you answer her questions about life before the apocalypse. You were young, so you barely remember anything, every memory is coated in black and white hues, lacking details, nonetheless, she holds onto every word.

The sun is mostly gone from the sky, which is your cue to start walking home. You and Ellie decide to make the trek back to your neighboring houses together, still entwined in your storytelling the whole way there.

You arrive at your gate and bid your farewells to Ellie with a small wave and a promise to her that she can come over whenever she feels like it.

“He talks about you, you know…Joel. He asks Tommy way too many fucking questions about you too.” Ellie’s words bounce around in your brain and leave you short-circuited. That’s the second time today you’ve been rendered speechless. First by Joel and then by his (kinda) daughter. Ellie reads the dumbfounded expression on your face and sighs, “I just—I know he’s a fucking pain in the ass, but I think he cares about you. Sure as hell doesn’t ask questions about anyone else in this fuckin’ place,” she stares at the ground before she speaks up again, “Uh…look…I-I didn’t mean to trip you up or anything…uh…I’m gonna head home now. I’ll come by tomorrow? Yeah. See you then.” With that, Ellie’s ramble ends and she swiftly makes her escape to her home. The home she shares with Joel. Joel, the man who cares about you? The thought actually makes you laugh out loud.

Joel’s best trait is hurting people. He reads you like a book, he pinpoints every insecurity you harbor, and uses it to push, push, push your buttons. The stone cold exterior you display is merely translucent to someone like Joel. He’s seen it before, every time he looks in the damn mirror. He feels drawn to you, a moth to a flame. If he gets too close, he might get burned. What happens when you set his heart aflame? Maybe you already have.

The front door opens and closes and Joel hears Ellie padding her way to the kitchen where he sits at the table, nursing a tumbler of whiskey. Ellie plops down on the chair across from him.

“What’s got you in such a bad mood today, old man?” Ellie leans over the table and playfully nudges Joel with her fist.

“Not right now, kid. Don’t feel like jokin’ around,” Joel’s eyes flicker to Ellie’s for a moment before refocusing on the amber liquid in his glass.

Ellie throws her hands up in surrender, “Alright dude, just don’t drink yourself to death—that shit would be far more embarrassing than a clicker getting your ass.” She lightheartedly laughs and leaves the kitchen with a pat on Joel’s shoulder, exiting through the back door to her makeshift bungalow in the yard.

Joel figured that a few whiskeys in, the tight feeling in his chest might loosen up. But he’s five glasses in and he can’t stop picturing you. The inconsolable expression on your face as you left the stables haunts him every time he closes his eyes.

His mind takes him to the moment he met you. You were crouching over a patch of vegetables—carrots, maybe? Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth and your brows were furrowed in concentration. When Tommy called your name and you looked up, Joel felt the wind get knocked out of his lungs. You were…angelic. Smeared dirt covered your forehead, and beads of sweat gathered at your hairline. Even in your unkempt state, your allure was ever so present. Joel couldn’t bring himself to look at you, even as you reached a hand out to introduce yourself. Then, your witty remark. Something inside of him shifted in that moment and he knew he had to leave. A young, bright woman like you wouldn’t want anything to do with an old, damaged man like Joel. So he did what he does best, he pushed you away, created a distance so you would learn to hate him.

Joel’s outburst on patrol earlier today took it too far. He knows that—but he was terrified that something might’ve happened to you. When he saw you, standing in that abandoned cabin, shock dripping from your expression, with a lifeless clicker on the floor below you, he became angry. Angry that you would be so careless. Angry that you didn’t ask for help. Angry that he cared about you so damn much even when he tried his hardest not to.

On his sixth whiskey, Joel curses to himself as he meanders to his front door. His brain is devoid of all thoughts that don’t include you. Your smile, he wants to make you smile. He wants to be reason you smile, not the reason you cry. He twists the doorknob and forces himself out onto the front porch. Your lights are on. It’s late, why are you still awake? Thank god you’re still awake.

His steps are calculated when he saunters up your walkway. He hesitates, his fist is hovering over your front door. He lightly knocks on the thick wood, but regrets it immediately and turns on his heel to leave. With his back facing away, he hears the click of a lock unlatch and a sliver of light emanating from your open door casts a warm glow on the porch.

“Joel? What are you doing here? Do you need something?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. With the sweet sound of his name spilling from your lips, he turns to face you. The door is now fully open and you are leaning against the door frame. The light coming from inside the house outlines your figure like an angel descending from heaven.

He clears his throat, “‘M sorry, darlin’, is nothing. Get some rest.” Despite his words, he makes no move to leave. You step out from the threshold and lessen the distance between the two of you. Joel searches your eyes, looking for a hint of something, anything that isn’t pure hatred. All he finds is affliction.

You scoff, “C’mon, just spit it out already. I ain’t waitin’ all damn day,” you echo his words from the morning of your first patrol together. Joel notices and he chuckles before regaining his composure.

“‘M sorry. I wanted to come over here and tell ya that. I was fuckin’ scared shitless. I didn’t mean a word I said back there. I trust that y’can hold your own.” Joel’s words catch you off guard. You stutter, all coherent words evade you and your bottom lip starts to tremble. You quickly avert your gaze to hide the imminent tears pooling at your waterline.

You sniffle, “Thanks, Joel. That was probably hard for you, apologizing and all. You can go home now, I forgive you. Just forget it ever happened, m’kay?” You sound defeated and it fractures something within Joel.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Hey. Look at me,” you meet his gaze and simply melt. The tears fall freely down your cheeks and a small gasp escapes you, “I’m sorry. You don’t gotta let me off the hook, I jus’ gotta tell you ‘m sorry.”

Suddenly, you become hyper-aware of the situation. Mere inches separate you and Joel. He is studying your face, so close you can smell the whiskey on his breath. A mixture of lust and hate stirs somewhere within your lower belly.

“Okay,” is the only word you can conjure up. It’s a whisper, barely audible. Joel’s hand cradles your cheek and he swipes a tear away with his thumb. His eyes flicker between your lips and your bewildered gaze. His breath hitches, seeing your beauty up close is otherworldly. He feels himself leaning in, closer, closer, closer. He is a hairbreadth away from grazing your lips when you turn your head. Your buttery voice dances through the air, “Please, Joel. Just go home. I can’t do this right now.”

You turn on your heel and slink back into your house, before closing the door, you breathe a weak, “Goodnight, Joel.”

You don’t know if he says it back.

a/n: ty for reading. ilysm <3 i hope this part lives up to the last one :,) i am so nervy to post this EEEEEK!!

taglist: @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @alejaa-a @cool-iguana @littleshadow17 @planet-marz1 @alyhull @joeldjarin @lizzyervs @casa-boiardi @loveisacowboyyy @thegrlwholivedd @ashleymsnodgrass @ilovepedro @dilfspitdrinker @bastardmandennis @breakfastatjoels @gracieheartspedro @chaotic-mystery

[amaranthhiding]

Indeana Jones and the Tear of Pele

My fic for the Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2024 that I've been pouring my heart and soul into for the last few months.

Art by Aggiedoll

Castiel POV

"So…," Dean bridged the gap of their sudden silence. "What's on your bucket list?"

"What?" Castiel asked, wondering what would happen if he simply gave in to his fingers' itching desire to reach out and slide over Dean's arm. Now that he'd gotten another brief taste of it, the urge to feel, to sense, to touch was so much harder to rein in, lighting up the nerves in fingertips that were his alone again after all the time he'd spent locked into his own mind without any control over this body.

"Not in general," Dean clarified nothing whatsoever. "I sure hope you ain't gonna kick the bucket any time soon. Or, like, at all. I just mean while we're here."

Castiel had to admit that standing so close to Dean really impacted his ability to focus, celestial being or not. He could only make half a sense out of this string of words. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Dean was covering some kind of nervousness with the way he kept interrupting himself by adding more sentences. Only that there was no discernible thing for him to be nervous about. There was nothing but them and the open sea.

Dean POV

The frog chirped and hopped away with one long leap. Running on intuition more than any logical reasoning, Dean pushed aside the fern that the animal had disappeared behind, uncovering an opening in the ground. He pulled out his phone and activated the flashlight, shining down into what seemed to be a steep, narrow tunnel leading down into pitch black.

He hated narrow fucking tunnels. A small part of his brain still seemed to be functional enough to have his phone send Sam his coordinates with a brief 'Just in case'. Then he stowed the device back in his pocket and covered his face in his hands, dreading what came next.

Cas, he reminded himself. He was doing this to get Cas back.

Words: 32,679 Rating: Explicit Tags: Canon Universe, Post-Season 11, Beach Vacation, Fantasy Adventure, Humor, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angel Castiel, Castiel's True Form, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Dean in Denial, Dean Makes Up Excuses for Touch, Castiel Uses Sarcasm, Slow Burn, Castiel Goes Missing, Castiel and Dean Save Each Other

Link to Fic Link to Art

Reblogs are much appreciated! <3

Taglist under the cut.

@samsrowena @suninjang @typicalrowena @jomybeloved @thefandomsinhalor @butch--dean @fanficlounge @cocklesdestielfiction @destielficbasket @romachebella

If you'd like to be added/removed from my taglist for Destiel and/or Samwena content, let me know in a reblog, reply, or personal message. :)

[cod-dump]

I just looked up Price & found that he was in the WWII COD games as well as the modern-day-setting ones. IDK but my immediate thought was the boys finding out that he's some kind of time traveler OR that he's an immortal--

& then they start calling him "Gramps" or "Pops" instead of "Dad" :D

Old Man ___

It was Gaz who found the box. It was in an old storage shed on base, kept shut by a rusted lock and decorated by boarded up windows. He found the building and went to Price to ask him if he go through it. Price was waist deep in paperwork when Gaz asked him.

“Storage shed?”

“I took some pictures of it, if you would like to see.”

Gaz showed Price and the man went through them before shrugging and handing him back his phone.

“Probably here from when the base was used by the old SAS. Whatever is in there probably isn’t relevant anymore.”

“So… can I go through it?”

“I don’t see why not. But be sure to burn any old files and bring me any technology you find.”

Gaz had to restrain himself from jumping around in excitement, “Yes, sir.”

Gaz always loved going through old things. Old technology, books, antiques— He loved going to antique shops with his mom when he was a kid. Something about old things really fascinated him. Gaz drove out to the old storage shed, armed with bolt cutters, gloves, a flashlight, a portable LED lamp (he doubted any electric ran to it), and a face mask (to fight off the dust).

He clipped the lock and looked at it. It looked old. The handle to the door looked old, too. Gaz set the lock aside before attempting to open the door. He ended up having to bust open the door due to the rusted hinges. He was greeted by a wave of dust.

“Fuck, when was the last time someone was in here?”

Gaz shined his flashlight into the small building before stepping in. He was more than delighted to see that the ceiling held up well and that there wasn’t any animals that made their home inside. Gaz gasped when he saw a box of floppy disks on a shelf directly next to the door.

“Score!”

Gaz grabbed the box and started looking at disks. Other than the blanket of dust they were covered in, the seemed to be in good condition. He tried to read the labels, but a lot seemed to be in code. Though he was able to make out something on a couple of them. A Chinese character: 天. He took a picture of the character before he moved on to some ledgers, going through them each. He was out there for hours until the sun started to set. Gaz only noticed when he got a text from Soap.

Suds: Are you alive?

Gaz jumped when he saw what time it was. It was almost time for dinner and lights out. Gaz quickly put the ledger he was looking in back on the shelf before leaving the building. He had to slam the door shut. He ended up putting a new lock that he brought with him on it to keep anyone out before he left. He was interrogated when he finally made it to the mess hall.

“Where the hell were you? You’ve been gone all day!”

“I’m going through an old storage shed I found in the woods.”

“God, must be ancient if you have taken a liking to it.”

Gaz rolls his eyes, stuffing a spoon of slop in his mouth. While Soap teased him for his ‘obsession’ with old things, Gaz thought back to how much stuff was in the storage shed. He wasn’t surprised Price didn’t know about it. There was a lot of grounds of this base covered by woods. Could be several other buildings like the storage shed, hidden by trees and the paths to them reclaimed by nature.

His next free day Gaz went back to the shed. He was pleased to find that the lock he placed remained and none of the boarded up windows were messed with. Gaz pulls his mask on after he removes the lock and heads back in. Gaz immediately went back to the ledgers, deciding to see what the oldest date he could find. The newest thing in the building that he’s found so far were the floppy disks, and even then they went out of style in the 90s.

Gaz flipped through the ledgers and found that the dates were going further and further back.

“Shit.”

It became increasingly obvious that the storage shed was all relating to a project under the code name ‘Shòu’. The ledgers mostly covered expenses but the floppy disks could have other information on them. Gaz flipped through the pages of the ledger he was holding, stopping when he came across a date.

2/7/1776.

Gaz blinked before he took a picture of the date. That’s as far back as the ledgers were dated but he knows they ledgers themselves were newer than the 80s at least.

“Were they keeping track of transactions since 1776?”

Gaz couldn’t see how transactions from more than two centuries ago were relevant now. Gaz puts the ledger back, accidentally knocking another off onto the floor.

“Fucking hell-“

He gets on the floor to grab it when he notices something over in the corner through the shelves. It was a box with ‘Ash’ written broadly on the side. Gaz stood up and made his way to the corner, kneeling next to the box. He opens it up and finds several files inside. He picks one up, seeing the name ‘Thomas Ashburne’ written on it. He opens it, surprised to see little information that made sense.

“Discovered 2/7/1776? What?”

Gaz read further, brows knotted in confusion.

Subject was found alive after impaled by three arrows to the chest. He was missing an arm, the severed limb laying three feet away from him. After a fortnight under observation, Ashburne was still alive and the severed limb showed no signs of rot and was reattached to young Ashburne.

Gaz closes the file, giving himself a moment to process what he had just read. He sets the file aside and looks at other ones. There were many different names but they all appeared to be the same person. Though he kept thinking it should be impossible for them to be the same person, especially since this person should’ve died over two centuries ago. But these were SAS files. They don’t joke about stuff like this.

Gaz picks up another file and freezes when he sees the name on it.

Captain Jonathan Pryce.

Gaz shakes his head, seeing that the file was dated from 1939 to 1945. He opens the file with shaking hands and immediately drops it when he sees a picture inside. That was fucking Price. Beardless but it was definitely him. Gaz breathed heavily as he sits there. His heart was pounding as he tried to think of how he was looking at Price in a file from eighty-three years ago.

A relative. Just a relative.

Gaz stares at the file again, opening it up to look at the picture before reading the information listed.

Heaven’s Hands Agent Ash.

Gaz blinks before reading more.

Agents Ash and Agent Zima headed the Heaven’s Hands division against German forces in Operation Barbarbossa. Agent Ash deployed after three days of the blitzkrieg attacks started across the border. Agent Ash’s orders were to help defend Moscow and fend off German invaders.

Gaz skims through the report. The Heaven’s Hands Agents were the ones that helped the Soviet Union push back against Axis. Gaz puts the file back after taking out the picture of Jonathan Pryce. He swears he was looking at Price but that couldn’t be possible. Was all of this a joke set up by Price and the others? If it was, they did a lot to set it all up. Gaz picks up a file that appeared newer than the rest. It was labeled ‘Ash’. Inside were various pictures and sketches of… Price. Of him in different time periods, clothes. But it was him.

In the older pictures, which were sketches, Price appeared younger. Maybe late twenties. But in the latest one, which was the 1940s one, he looked like he aged. But only maybe a decade. Gaz actually couldn’t recall if he had ever seen Price without a beard. All of these pictures were of him without one.

“This is one elaborate set up for a fucking joke.”

He could maybe see Price joking around, going along with this joke that Soap came up with and Ghost decided to go along with because he had nothing better to do. But Gaz couldn’t think of how they would’ve managed to set this up without him knowing… or without paying a good bit of money. Gaz stuffs the picture of Jonathan Pryce into the file with the other pictures, deciding to take it with him.

Gaz made it back to base, keeping the folder tucked under his arm as he made he way to Price’s office. Price was a damn good actor but Gaz liked to think he knew the man’s tells by this point. He felt weak in the knees when he made it to Price’s door, having to give himself a moment before he knocked.

“Who is it?”

“Sergeant Garrick, Captain.”

“Come on in.”

Gaz steps inside, Price staring at him computer screen when he did. Gaz shut the door behind him and walked up, swallowing.

“Been busy in that old storage shed?”

“Yes, sir.”

Price hums, still focused on his computer screen, “Find anything interesting?”

“Yes, actually. A couple old files. Several ledgers, too.”

Price looks over, his eyes drifting down to the file that Gaz was now holding up so he could see the label. Gaz likes to think he knew all of Price’s tells to when the man was faking. But that look of shock and how he paled looked pretty damn real to him. Price straightens in his chair, swallowing hard. Gaz could see him biting his tongue, looking around before he met his eyes.

“So… that’s what was in the shed, huh?”

Gaz nods and Price heaves out a heavy breath before he holds his hand out for the file. Gaz hands it over and Price opens it, face stone when he looks at the old pictures inside. Price shakes his head when he looks at the picture from WWII.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

“Are those… of you? Like actually you?”

“Afraid so, Kyle. Sit down. We’re going to be here awhile.”

Gaz sits and Price looks at a picture from the 1880s. Or that’s what the date on the back of it said when it was from.

“I can’t believe- You’re fucking with me, yea? You and Soap and Ghost?”

Price doesn’t say anything, just looks up at Gaz with a dead serious expression that he’s seen in interrogations and on the field. This was very real.

“The-The first file I looked at… the report inside said that a Thomas Ashburne was ‘discovered’ on the battlefield after-“

“Found with a severed arm, ripped from him by musket blades with three arrows to the chest. Later it was reattached after they discovered it wasn’t rotting or that… that I wasn’t in pain anymore or dead.”

Gaz stared at Price he looked at the pictures.

“I don’t remember everything. Hard to. But I remember that day. My ‘birth’ as they called it.”

Price looks up at Gaz and he could see something he never noticed before. Without thinking, he speaks.

“What’s the Heaven’s Hands?”

Price sighs, “My old outfit. They had been operating since the Roman Empire.”

Gaz gaps and Price laughs quietly.

“Disbanded after World War II. A lot of internal issues that had been building up for a long time. Us Hands ran went off to do our own things when the last board member left.”

“There’s others like you?”

“‘Like me’? You mean old? Yes, there is. Some are older than me.”

Gaz hums, staring off, “Other… Hands?”

“Look, I didn’t pick the name. It’s just what they called those who… don’t die by normal means. I’ve lost my arm, been shot through the heart so many times that I’ve lost count, and I have some lead in my head.”

Price smiles softly when he picks up a picture that Gaz hadn’t seen, “We just don’t die. Made us the perfect soldiers. Told us we were ‘blessed by our faith’.”

Price sets the picture down and Gaz reaches over and picks it up. It was Price and a man he’s never seen before. Big beard, wild hair.

“Zima was my shadow.”

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, he shaved and learned to style his hair, learned to fly. Now he wears stupid sunnies all the time to make himself look cooler.”

Gaz slaps the picture down, “NIK?!”

Price snorts as Gaz really looked at the picture. It really was Nik!

“He’s-“

“Old as shit, too. But I’m still older.”

“How is it possible for you to be-?”

“Immortal? I don’t know. None of us know, actually.”

“You don’t know how you’re immortal?”

“No. The Heaven’s Hands looked into it for almost their entire existence. But none could figure out why we were like this.”

“You said the Heaven’s Hands disbanded and that you went off to do your own thing… does anyone else know about… your age?”

Price closes the file and leans back, “Laswell does. She stepped up to be some sort of ‘handler’.”

That explained so much about why Laswell kept such a close eye on them. She was actually watching Price. Does she also watch Nik? Or does he have his own ‘handler’? Has Gaz met other immortals in his life without him knowing? Is anyone one else he personally knows immortal?

"I can only answer the questions if you actually say them out loud."

"Who else is immortal?"

"Nik is the only other one that you know who is immortal. He's the only other Hand I've seen since the disbanding."

Gaz went to say something but Price stopped him.

"Kyle, no one else can know about this. About me or Nik."

"Why not?"

"The Heaven's Hands did a lot during their operating days. Turned the tides of wars, fell leaders and empires while rising others in their place. Few know about them. For everyone's safety, no one can know."

Gaz swallows as Price takes the old picture of him and Nik and puts it back into the file, closing it.

"I need you to bring me everything that you can from that shed."

"Everything?"

"Mostly files about me. Those ledgers you can burn. Anything else you bring to me so I can figure out what to do with them."

Gaz nods and stands, heading to the door. He grabs the knob and Price says something else.

"I'm serious, Sergeant. Not a word to anyone. Not even Ghost or Soap. That's an order."

Gaz looks back at Price, finally seeing the countless years that the man has lived weighing on his soldiers.

"Yes, sir."

Gaz leaves the office, walking with purpose. He wasn't sure what he walked into, but he knew this was only the tip of the iceberg.

[badfanfictionaire]

Scare-o-Ween Haunted Graveyard has had a long standing rivalry with the haunted corn maze, Acropolis Extreme, across the street since… well as long as they’ve both been open. During the off season, Scare-o-Ween is actually a petting zoo, and Acropolis is just a field with some porta-potties parked off to one side. But for the month of October? It’s all things spooky and creepy. And fraternizing with the enemy is strictly forbidden.

This year Eddie’s been cast as Gregor the Green, a zombie who used to be a deep sea diver when he was alive. His skin is coated in thick luminescent green paint to look like deadly algae, and he has a big old fashioned diving helmet over his head with strobing lights that shine through the portholes. He is really good at his job, and that’s mainly because he loves Halloween. It’s the time of year when freaks are appreciated rather than shunned, and he’s nothing if not a freak. During the summer he works the carnivals and fairs that come through Indiana. In the Spring he works at a garden center, and in the Winter he bar tends or waits tables. He’s not fussy, but if he could work as a scare actor all year he would be in heaven.

He knows he’s not supposed to fraternize with anyone from Acropolis when they all file out of work after their shifts. The staff parking lots are very close together, so Eddie usually keeps his head low while he walks to his van least one of their enemies tries to make contact.

Now, if he’s being totally honest, he has zero clue why the rivalry exists. Most customers go to both venues just on different nights; and aside from being a spooky attraction, they don’t have much in common. The rumor is that back in the day when they both started up, they were run by families who didn’t get along. He’d heard a lot of tall tales, like how one of the Acropolis employees had allegedly put itching powder in all of Scare-o-Ween’s actors’ costumes. Or how Scare-o-Ween’s owner had allegedly tried to burn down part of the corn maze right after it had been shaped for the season. No one really knew what was true, but they knew better than to make contact with the other employees and give them any reason to start something.

Usually he’s fine with this, but tonight something happens. He’s walking, head down like always, when he hears someone very softly say, “Um, excuse me?”

When he looks up, it’s like the world has turned on its axis and he’s wildly spinning through space. Even with the remains of her face paint on she is divine.

“I know I’m not supposed to talk to you, but, everyone else already left and my car won’t start.” They glance around at the empty Acropolis parking lot. Eddie’s surprised everyone is gone already, but his shift had ended a little later than normal.

Eddie quickly glances around on his own turf and sees that basically everyone else is already in their cars and driving for the exit gate.

“I um, ok. Let me just run and grab my jumper cables, yeah? It’s probably a dead battery.”

“Great!” she smiles and him and it’s like the sun slapping him across the face.

Goddamnit, with how cute she is he would probably be willing to do something way stupider than just helping her start her car. Hell, he hardly even cares of anyone sees him talking to her. If she asked, he’d probably quit on the spot and start working at Acropolis.

He darts to his van and wrestles the jumper cables he keeps in the back out from underneath a pile of random shit, then takes a flashlight from his glove box and beelines back over to her.

“What’s your name by the way?” he asks, tossing the cables over the short fence between lots.

“Chrissy,” she says, “And you?”

“Eddie.”

“Eddie,” she repeats, and his heart slams harder against his ribs, “My knight in shining body paint.”

He grimaces, remembering he’s currently fluorescent and in the presence of a literal goddess. Embarrassing.

“Dead scuba diver,” he says sheepishly.

“Corpse bride,” she says with a curtsy.

“Milady,” he says handing her his flashlight.

He pops the hood on her car and props it up so he can take a peek. “Go ahead and try to start it.”

Chrissy gets behind the wheel and turns the key, nothing happens.

“Crap,” he bites his lip, “I wasn’t even thinking, I can’t jump it without my car, and I can’t get into this lot.”

“So it is the battery?” she asks.

“Seems like it, since not even the accessory mode comes on when you turn the key.”

“Shoot.”

“Hey, I have an idea. Let me have your parking pass, I’ll just drive around and swipe your pass to get in and then I can jump it and you’ll be good to go.”

“How do I know you won’t steal it?”

“I’ll give you mine as collateral.”

Chrissy smiles at him and holds out her hand, “Deal.”

They shake on it, and she fetches her card from her purse while he takes his out of his billfold.

In no time at all he’s pulling the van into enemy territory and up close to Chrissy’s car. It doesn’t take long to get her battery juiced up enough to turn the engine over, and before he knows it she’s ready to head home.

“Will I ever see you again?” she ask, twirling his ID in her hands.

“You know we’re not supposed to mingle.”

“I know,” she says, kicking at the gravel under her feet, “But what if it was in secret?”

“Someone’s a naughty little thing,” he teases.

“My parents think I work at the movie theater, they wouldn’t approve of me working at a haunted corn maze with “devil worshipers”.”

“I like you already,” he hums, bouncing on his toes.

“So, I’ll see you again then?” she holds out his card toward him.

When he takes it, he kisses the back of her hand. “For you, mademoiselle? I’d break all the rules for you.”

She surprises him once more when she kisses him square on the lips before slipping behind the wheel.

“Goodnight, Romeo,” she says sweetly before she pulls away.

“Goodnight, Juliet,” he calls after her.

(And if the security cameras caught the entire ordeal, and they both get fired the next day, well, at least they get their happily ever after, unlike some star-crossed lovers…)

👻👻👻👻

(Read on AO3)

[f1a1w1n]

Hey, helloou! I saw you write for Cal and I was wondering if you could write something abt him with a reader who doesn't like to cry, but she's actually kind of sensitive, so she cries easily?

Just think he'd be sweet to someone that tries to be strong for him and stuff.

hello! sorry its taken so long! I think this is such sweet idea.

Cal x f!reader

summary: sensitive reader x cal

basically two lovesick fools confess to eachother

word count: 1.8k

warnings: none except for kissing oooo!

an: request stuff or ill claw my eyes out

love ya!

~

“Bingo.” 

Cal rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “I told you so.” You say smugly. You and Cal stare up at the face of the canyon, deep flowy lines etched into the red rock. It had taken you roughly the whole day to walk here, in the early morning having had to ditch your speeders when you encountered thick jungle that you’d have to cut through. By hour six Cal had started to doubt your navigating skills, but you were sure of your surroundings. 

You and Cal had drifted these past few months, with Cal always going off and exploring some part of an abandoned temple, fighting stormtroopers, and you hunting some bail skipper. It was lonely work but you pretend to enjoy it when Cal asked. The only time you managed to spend with Cal was late night dinners together on the Mantis, but you could tell he was too tired, so you eventually just went to bed when you got to the ship, sparing Cal the trouble you thought. 

“Yep. Right as always.” Cal smiles.

A thick silence settles between the two of you. You felt a glob of burning pain creep up your throat. You smile half-heartedly and take a swig of water, hoping the tightness of your chest will loosen. “Uh, shall we?” Cal gestures towards the small crack in the rockface. 

You nod and make your way towards it. You wish you could talk to Cal, openly chat like you used to. But something stops you, a new unspoken boundary drawn between the two of you. You almost think you see Cal go to say something but he walks ahead. If only it was a year ago, when both of you talked with no hesitation, no concern of what the other thought. Complete and open communication. Now you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside his head.

You try to make small talk. “So what are we exactly looking for?”. Cal opens his bag and kneels at the base of the cave opening and fishes out his lightsaber.  

“Well, uh. I’m not exactly sure yet.” Cal pulls a flashlight out and tosses it to you. 

“What?” I say.

“Well I’d have to be near it to know.”. We walked for an entire day just for Cal to be unsure? You don’t say that though, a mangled ‘oh’ sounds parts your lips, unsure what to say next. Cal takes your silence as a cue to keep talking. That burning in your throat threatens to rise again.

He stands and steps back. “It’s a force thing.”. You nod again and walk behind Cal as you trek deeper into the cave. Cal’s lightsaber buzzes to life, bright blue light painting the cave walls. Your flashlight begins to glow a soft white the darker the rock hallway gets, puny compared to Cal’s light. Outlined by the light of his lightsaber, you can see the back of Cal’s head, clearly deep in thought. He leads you in and out of twisting hallways, one hand on the cool rock as he traces the swirling patterns. 

The deeper you go, the more constrictive the quiet becomes, broken only by the soft hum of Cal’s lightsaber and your own steady footsteps behind him. You train your eyes on the dusty floor, resisting the urge to stare into the back of Cal’s head, he’d probably notice, another freaky jedi thing you despised. 

That burning in your throat found its way sneaking into your mouth. You’re supposed to be used to this distance, the space that had grown between you two. You’d both chosen it, right? You clear your throat, though you keep your voice low. “Why do you need me here? Seems like you have it figured out.”

Cal glances back, his eyes bright, reflecting the blue of his lightsaber. For a second, you catch a flicker of something in Cal’s eyes. Hurt? Confusion? His gaze shifts quickly, back to the shadowed path ahead.

“Uh it’s kind of complicated….” He looks at you briefly, then away again, his brow furrowing as if he’s searching for the right words. 

“Complicated.” you repeat, not a question, an open ended statement. 

Cal shrugs. “It’s nice having your company, and uh, Cere wanted me to talk to you.”

Your chest tightens at that, though you hide it by turning your flashlight down, angling it at the uneven floor. “Talk to me about what?” you murmur, hoping the strain in your voice is masked by the dimness.

Cal shifts uncomfortably, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his lightsaber. He hesitates, glancing down at the ground. “I’m… not sure, exactly.” He lets out a quiet, almost sheepish laugh, and rubs the back of his neck. “You know how Cere is. She notices things.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, drawing blood. The metallic taste flooding your mouth, at least it distracts you from the burning that’s migrated down to your chest. “Right.”. You remain silent, waiting for Cal to continue. 

“Yeah. Well…” He trails off. “She just… she mentioned that maybe I’ve been too focused on other things lately. Missions. My training. I guess she’s noticed the same distance we have.” He frowns as if the realisation itself hurts, like he hadn’t allowed himself to fully think it through until now.

“Do you think we’re distant?,” you test.

Cal’s gaze flickers to you, eyes shadowed in the dim glow of his sabre, his face unreadable. “I don’t know,” he says softly. 

The words land heavier than you expect. You look away, blinking back the heat gathering in your eyes, refusing to let yourself break here, in front of him. Not now. But Cal notices anyway, he wants to say more, to reach out, but he hesitates, unsure.

“Look,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “I know things have been... tense. Different. We’re both busy people - and I didn’t want to push you if - if you needed space.”

The admission makes something clench inside you, the ache you’d buried threatening to spill over. But you force yourself to respond with a casual shrug. “Space is good, I guess,” you say, though it sounds empty even to your own ears. “Priorities and all that.”

The silence stretches out, thick and stifling, until finally, Cal turns and begins walking deeper into the cave, leaving you to follow. And for the rest of the trek, neither of you say anything more.

~

Later, back on the Mantis, the quiet surrounding you settle into the small corner bunk that has become your refuge, pressing the small of your back into the ship's cold walls. You’re alone, listening to the gentle hum of the ship as it drifts through hyperspace. You’d expected to feel relieved, finally back in the comfort of the Mantis. But instead, you feel raw, grated over like a freshly scraped knee that keeps getting reopened, every emotion you’d tried so hard to contain is now dangerously close to the surface.

Footsteps sound from the hall, Cal appears in the doorway. His expression softens when he sees you, but he hesitates, glancing away as if he’s still unsure of his place. It's ironic really, seeing as he usually sleeps in the bunk opposite yours, but as of late he’s taken to sleeping in the co-pilot's chair. 

“We were gonna get food at one of the outer rim planets if you wanted to join us,” he says tentatively. 

You try to force a smile, but it falters, and before you can stop yourself, you look down, your voice tight. “I’m fine. Not really hungry.”

He nods slowly, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you he doesn’t believe you. He goes to leave but something boils over. “Look, if there’s something you need to tell me just tell me alright? I’m sick of this weird back and forth we’re having.” You feel the tears prick at your eyes, a dull ache in your chest as you struggle to keep it together. “I miss you, and I don’t know what I did but just talk to me.”

But the weight of it all, the loneliness, the unspoken feelings, finally breaks through. “You don’t talk to me,” you whisper, the words barely audible. 

Cal’s face falls, and he steps further into the room, looking at you with something between frustration and guilt. “I do talk to you,” he insists, voice tense. “But every time, it’s just… it’s like you’re not there.”

You fling yourself up. “I barely say anything? All you ever say to me is—‘hi,’ ‘bye,’ and ‘goodnight.’ That’s it. That’s all I get now!”

Cal steps forward, his jaw clenching. “That’s not fair, and you know it. I’ve been busy, but I just thought… I thought you just needed space!”

“I didn’t need space, Cal; I needed you,” you shoot back, your voice cracking. The tears are hot and sticky staining your cheek, you look away, unable to bear the way he’s looking at you—like a beautiful puppy. “I’m just—just here, waiting for scraps of your attention.”

“You think I don’t feel this too? That I don’t notice the distance?” His voice raises, rawer. “You think I don’t notice you slipping off and going to bed whenever I come home? Or - or you smiling and talking to everyone else on this goddamn ship except for me? You think I   like feeling like I’m losing you?”

His words hit you like a blow, raw and passionate, the pure emotion in his eyes, and for a moment, you can’t find anything to say. You swallow hard, turning away, you wipe at your cheeks, hating that you’re crying, hating that you can’t seem to hold it together in front of him. “You do that too.” Your voice trembles. “You do that too.” You repeat. 

Cal’s face twists with an emotion you can’t read, and he looks away, like he’s trying to gather himself. “I can’t lose you,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear him. His gaze flicks back to you, and in his eyes, you see the same hurt, the same longing that’s been eating away at you. “It’ll kill me.”

Before you can respond, he steps forward and pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a fierce, almost desperate embrace. The distance between you vanishes, and you feel his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours, the solid, grounding presence of him surrounding you. 

His lips find yours, first a tentative kiss, then filled with a desperate kind of need, and you melt into it, your hands gripping his arms as if you’re afraid he might let go. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He strokes your hair. He pulls away and wipes the tears from your face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just kiss me.” you say.

Masterlist

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[gt-supernova-art3mis]

hey y’all! I was recently playing Mortal Kombat 1 and decided to write my own multi-chapter Mortal Kombat 1 g/t fic. Much love to @obwjam & @pocket-lad for always encouraging and supporting me to write my own g/t fics no matter the fandom and always being there even if it was just to bounce ideas off of no matter how extreme I thought they were. thank you both and to whoever reads this!

now entering: 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 || 𝐌𝐊𝟏

ੈ ♛ ‧₊˚ ― 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙛𝙪𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚 ︴ ❝ I'd catch a grenade for ya ❞

Next

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Chapter One: Curiosity & Consequences

Johnny Cage. There he was, the embodiment of charisma and confidence, commanding the set of his Indiana Jones film with effortless charm. Airlea Baros, had lived in the shadows her whole life, often found enjoyment in watching Mr. A-List from afar. As she peered from behind one of the props on set, she watched Johnny approach the temple ruins alongside his co-star, Adam.

“We're off the map. We should go back, re-check the route,” Adam suggested, glancing around nervously.

“It’s this way,” Johnny replied confidently, and Airlea felt her admiration swell.

“The temple!” Adam exclaimed, pointing at the entrance.

“Goddamn, Alessia,” Johnny muttered, his gaze locked on a dead, burnt body nearby. Airlea's stomach churned at the sight. What had happened here?

“Can you open it?” Adam asked, peering at the massive door.

“Without killing us? Let’s hope so,” Johnny shot back, determination etched on his face.

Airlea could hardly contain her excitement and fear. Here was her hero, facing danger head-on, while she remained hidden, a mere spectator in a world she longed to join.

With a mix of trepidation and excitement, Airlea quietly slipped into the temple after them, staying hidden in the shadows.

“Turn 'em off,” Johnny instructed, gesturing for Adam to shut off their flashlights. “Yeah, we’re definitely getting warmer.” The dim light of the chamber flickered, heightening her sense of adventure.

“How are these still burning?” Adam asked, his voice echoing in the stillness.

“Oil bubbles up from the ground. The chamber channels it somehow,” Johnny replied confidently, leading them deeper into the temple.

Airlea's pulse quickened as they entered a burial-like room adorned with ancient artifacts.

“Katara Vala. And his shield! What? So, there’s metal in the floor,” Adam exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder.

“That’s not just any metal,” Johnny said, kneeling down. “It’s liquid mercury.”

“Shit! That stuff's toxic,” Adam warned, and Airlea felt a chill run down her spine. She knew this was a dangerous situation, and she had to be careful, but the thrill of being so close to her idol was irresistible.

“Fatal. Only step where I step,” Johnny warned, leading the way across the precarious floor. Airlea watched nervously, her heart racing as Adam almost tripped, barely catching himself.

“What did I say?” Johnny shot back, just as a button was pressed beneath their feet, causing liquid mercury to surge dangerously close.

“Shit!” Adam exclaimed, almost falling in, but Johnny grabbed him just in time.

“I’m sorry. I—” Adam stammered.

“Not now. Get out the explosives.” Johnny examined a large pillar, his focus unwavering.

“That’s our bridge?” Adam asked, incredulity in his voice.

“Do this right, it’ll fall across,” Johnny replied, glancing back at him.

“The Kalima. They’re real?!” Adam shouted as winged demon beasts emerged from the mercury.

“Keep working. I’ll take care of the she-beasts,” Johnny instructed, adrenaline pumping.

“You disturb Katara Vala’s slumber. For your sin, you die,” the Kalima hissed.

Airlea could hardly breathe as she watched Johnny engage in battle, his movements fluid and powerful. She had never seen anything like it.

After defeating the Kalima, Johnny stood tall, brushing off his hands. “Got no time to die, crazy lady.”

“You okay?” Adam asked, shaken.

“Yes. We ready? Physics, for the win. Let’s go,” Johnny replied, a determined glint in his eyes.

“This’ll be worth millions,” Adam said, referring to Katara Vala’s shield, his ambition clear.

“It belongs in a museum,” Johnny shot back.

Suddenly, panic erupted. “Adam!” Johnny yelled as his friend slipped into the liquid mercury after a scare from Katara Vala.

“You will not have it,” the ancient spirit warned.

“You don’t need it; you’re dead. Speaking of which, you just killed my best friend. And I’m not one to forgive and forget,” Johnny declared, fury igniting his every move as he battled Katara Vala.

After the fierce clash, Johnny searched for the shield. “Now, where’s that shield?” he asked, running toward it—just inches from Airlea, who held her breath, hidden in a nook.

“I... am not yet defeated,” Katara Vala warned, rising again.

“Yes, you are. Time to go home.” Johnny threw the shield with pinpoint accuracy, striking down Katara Vala like a hero in an epic tale.

Airlea's heart raced with admiration as she witnessed it all, realizing that her life was about to change forever. Her heart raced as she imagined what it would be like to meet him. 

Airlea knew she had to hurry back to her home before more people showed up. As Johnny was distracted, she made her way through the temple, her heart pounding from both excitement and fear. But just as she was about to escape, her eyes landed on Johnny’s satchel, carelessly set down near the entrance.

Curiosity got the best of her, she thought. I have time. Johnny has a big ego that always needs attention.

With a quick glance behind her to ensure Johnny was still engaged with the crew, she darted toward the satchel, her tiny heart racing with the thrill of discovery. She carefully climbed up, peering inside, eager to see what treasures lay within.

“Cut! Print it!” the director, Steven, called out, breaking her concentration.

“I knew it! I felt that one. You felt it too, right?” Johnny exclaimed, excitement radiating from him.

Airlea barely heard their chatter as she rummaged through the bag. Her fingers brushed against various items—scripts, a water bottle, and something that glinted in the low light.

“Temple of Katara Vala... Take 39... Tail state,” the clapper board person announced, making Airlea jump.

“That’s a wrap,” Steven said, clapping his hands together.

“Steven. This was fantastic, thank you. Just like the old days. And these props? Jimbo killed it,” Johnny praised, beaming.

Airlea’s heart raced as she heard him speak. She couldn’t believe she was this close to him, her admiration deepening.

“Hey, about my pitch. Y'know, the karate zombie thing? I’m thinking four films. Maybe a streaming series?” Johnny suggested, his excitement palpable.

“Johnny, I don't—” Steven began, but Johnny cut him off.

“You’re right. Not here. I’ll swing by your office after I change.”

“I can't. Have to meet with the editors. Marsha will call you,” Steven replied.

“Great! Have your assistant call me,” Johnny said, waving as he walked away.

Airlea's excitement turned to panic as she accidentally knocked over a water bottle, causing a chain reaction of items tumbling around her. In the chaos, she slipped deeper into the satchel, wedging herself between a rolled-up script and a few props.

Before she could free herself, Johnny returned, picking up the satchel without noticing her tiny figure inside. As he slung it over his shoulder, Airlea felt the sudden sway of movement and the pressure of the bag tightening around her.

Shit, she thought, her heart racing as she realized she was going home with her idol—if only he knew.