#sure he builds death traps and he skinned a person but nobody's perfect you know

[thefinalinagirl]

I'm so not okay about how Spiral ended, because my mind keeps coming back to badly beaten up Schenk, escaping the factory, and I can't not imagine him going back to his small rented flat, where he just stumbling to the bathroom, sits on the floor, and coughs up blood. There's ringing in his ears, that's not going away, and he closes his eyes, because this darkness, this nothingness is somewhat comforting, and he just thinks about everything that happened, and everything sucks, but he knows: even though he's alone, he should keep going.

[getouswh0re]

pairing: gojo satoru x reader

genre: yandere, unhealthy relationships, mentions of violence, blood & gore, mass murdering, obsession, slight manga spoilers

synopsis: he would tear the entire world apart with his own hands, just to keep you by his side evermore.

****************************************************

Love is a lethal bliss.

Bearing semblance to momentary sweetness, it warms the cockles of your heart; yet before one could even savour it for long, in its honey-like aftertaste is a deadly poison — seeping through the branching veins and killing every cell of the living host within its reach. Soundlessly, life is sucked out as one discovers themselves teetering on a tightrope of death.

i) The ambience of the atmosphere between you and Gojo is silent, deadly — akin to the calming weather before a raging storm. As the two of you stand at opposite ends of the living room, eyes refusing to meet with the sorcerer’s as an expanse of sky blue smoulders holes into your soul. Feeling your limbs trembling from the intensity of his stare, cat got your tongue. The words you’ve meant to say are stuck at the back of your throat as the taller male shifts a step forward, and you unconsciously leaning back against the wall.

“Do we have to do this love?�� You cringe at the feigned pain interlaced in your ex’s tone. “You know you don’t have to do this. This is painful for both you and I, and knowing how much you love me, you certainly don’t want to put both of us through all of this. Don’t you?”

You bite your lip, eyes downcast. 

You wish all of this isn’t necessary, that everything that has happened is nothing more than your imagination regarding the red flags displayed before your periphery. Still, you have to do it having mulled over it for a while. It is about time that all of this come to an end. 

Ever since a certain man called Gojo Satoru meandered into your life, everything changed as your feelings for the male blossomed, like fresh buds on the bare branches with remnants of snow thawing into tinges of spring. It didn’t take long for the two of you to reciprocate one another’s feelings, yet cracks gradually surface on what seemed like an all-too-perfect fairy tale, breaking the crystal ball of illusion that you had been trapped in throughout all these months. 

For as long as you could remember, Gojo has been acting out of character; sure enough he retains his childish personality and insufferable god complex, yet there are times when you could barely recognise him. On occasions he would whine for hours, desperate to gain your attention, and there were moments when he’d follow wherever you went. Initially dismissing his clinginess as his way of displaying affection, you didn’t think much about it. That was until his demeanour underwent a 180 degree shift; being overbearing was one thing, yet the sorcerer had the audacity to dictate your life and your social circle, stepping his foot way past the boundaries that even you thought was too much. 

It wasn’t like you didn’t give Gojo an opportunity to change for the better. You did; it was him who failed to reflect on his own mistakes, to take things for granted without realising he had been in the wrong all along. With those alarming signs of the relationship spiralling into a toxic one, it occurred to you that you should end things fast before circumstances aggravated. 

Love is a beautiful pain.

To relish its fleeting vestiges between their fingertips, one must endure the torment of its thorns. Not everyone has the courage to sacrifice their sanity for something so transient, but one — or maybe few, who are more than willing to pay for their price, would do anything to hold onto such evanescent reminisces close to their heart.

ii) “Come on y/n. You know you don’t want to break up with me, stop lying to your heart.” 

As if his saccharine smile isn’t enough to make bile surge up your throat, the lovelorn white-haired man stares at you with such adoration, making you revolted than ever; before you could even blink, he is already inches away, bringing up his slender fingers and caressing your cheeks with utter delicacy. 

“From the moment we met, it’s like the red strings of fate intertwining, akin to two worlds colliding.”

Feeling his breath tickling your frigid neck, goosebumps laminate your skin as you shudder underneath his lasting touches.

“Your heart belongs to me, and mine yours. It’s like the universe wants the two of us to be together — forever. Just stop denying your feelings, okay? I can hear your heartbeat ... it’s beating crazy, just for me.” 

“Gojo, you need to stop all of this —“

“Oh honey, don’t say that ... I know the look in those eyes.” He presses on, his insufferable ego refusing to give in. “You might be pushing me away, but your body does the exact opposite. You’re still in love with me. You care for me, I know you do.”

Perhaps that is what makes terrifying about the sorcerer. Wearing his usual smile on a deceptively charming face, his true thoughts are inscrutable beneath the unfazed facade; worst of all, you never know what would drive him off the edge, not until you experience triggering a ticking time bomb by accident.

“Gojo, hear me out.” You push the towering male away, determined than ever to cut ties with him for the sake of your own safety. “What you do is not love anymore. It’s ... obsession! And it’s suffocating me! If you truly cared about me you would’ve respected my wishes and opinions — but you didn’t. No matter how much you love someone, this is far beyond acceptable. I ... we need to break up, for the sake of both of us.”

Stunned, the remnants of hope flicker in the sorcerer’s azure eyes before dissipating into darkness, along with his despondent heart that has plummeted into abysmal depths of a bottomless void. Hands retracting from your skin, you heave out a sigh of relief when spine-chilling chortles echo from Gojo’s throat.

“You think that’s it? That I’ll let you go?” The crazed glint in his burning stare convinces you even more that breaking up with this delusional man is the only option to save yourself. Slowly backing towards the door, you have prepared yourself for the worst, making a potential run with a bag filled with your valuables.

“You cannot run away from me y/n! You know you can never escape from me. I will flip the world upside down to find you — and hunt you down! Want me to prove that? I will tear the entire world apart by my hands, just so that you won’t run away from me anymore!”

You finally make your run, sprinting out of your shared apartment as fast as you could whilst ignoring his shrilling screams, deciding to leave everything behind for good.

Love is an unprecedented enigma.

Like a never-ending Möbius strip, the red strings of fate intertwines people's fates — yet at the same time, it looms over everyone's lives like a doom of death, mercilessly tearing loved ones or those held dear to their hearts apart within the blink of an eye. Callous as it seems, it reminds people how minuscule acts of gratitude allow them to appreciate the present before they lament or carry their regrets later on in life. Unfortunately, with the complexity of destiny, nobody could ever foresee when karma would dawn upon their heads. Not even you.

Little would you know that doomsday would be awaiting you so soon.

iii) For what feels like going through hell and back, you finally manage to rid yourself out of the psychotic sorcerer's hands and his devious manipulation. For what it’s worth, there is no guarantee about your life returning to normal. Knowing that it is nearly impossible to escape from Gojo (knowing that his sixth eyes can instantly locate where you are), you eventually make the decision of moving away with a heavy heart, considering that it would be what it’s best to solve your issues with your controlling ex. 

Having settled the documents and errands, all that’s left is for you to leave the place filled with nothing other than sad memories. As if it seems like a fresh start is extending its outstretched hands towards you, freedom is just within hand’s reach.

Not until all hell breaks loose on October 31st — the day of your departure. 

Copper tinges beckon indigo skies at twilight, remnants of the setting sun shining through the windows as you take a last, rueful look at the apartment you’ve resided most of your life before grabbing your belongings and heading towards the train station. With the day being Halloween, it isn’t surprising at all that the streets would be crowded, flooded with jovial citizens who want to enjoy themselves during the spooky season. All you have to do is make your way onto the designated train. 

Yet that never happened, because havoc descends among the living like a catastrophic plague. 

Just as you writhe your way through the streets and making your way towards the train station, screams erupt when a massive quake demolish the surrounding buildings into shambles, tearing the festive merriment in the atmosphere apart as people turn and run in all directions without warning — leaving you extremely perplexed about the current state of Shibuya. Horror is evident in every onlooker’s eyes whilst they dash for shelter; the city is in absolute chaos — danger looming, asphalt pavements ensanguined with blood, distressed cries resonating into the night. 

“Hey!” You call out, grabbing onto a random passerby. “What the hell happened?” 

“Danger ... curses ... sorcerer —“

Your blood run cold upon the mentioning, and it didn’t take long for you to figure out the entire situation and who has been responsible. In hindsight, you should’ve had followed the rest and ran away from the scene immediately, but you don’t — standing there amongst the quiet streets in utter terror. And before you could even lift your legs and sprint for your life, there he is, stained from head to toe in blood — an inebriated stare full of nothing but infatuation for you. 

“Honey! There you are ...” Skipping over mountains of corpses humming a joyful tune, Gojo happily pulls you into his chest, nestling his face against your squirming shoulders, his grip a vice against your futile efforts of struggling to break free. “I was so worried about you ever since you left! I ... I feel like my world is falling apart, and I just cannot live without you you know!” 

“Get. The. Hell. Off. Me!” 

The sorcerer chortles at your demand, ignoring your protests as he hugs you closer to his throbbing heart. 

“Darling ... we could’ve been so happy together. Yet you have to do all of this. For what? If you had given me your heart and soul, none of this would’ve happened —“

“Oh, so this is my fucking problem now?” You hiss, shoving the taller male off. “You really are crazy — Gojo Satoru. But I never regret the decision I’ve made, and I will do it again and again if I need to!” 

That is when he activates his domain expansion. 

All of your sudden, your mind is a blank — staring into the sorcerer’s cerulean eyes as it overwhelms you like a raging hurricane, sucking you deeper and deeper until your entirety sinks into his infinite void. For once you finally fear the strongest man on earth — of the dangers he possesses and what would’ve happened had he decided to break your mind the hard way. 

“To be honest, I don’t care ~” Silent tears roll down your cheeks once you recognise the drop in the man’s usual carefree tone, feeling the remnants of sanity being ruthlessly stripped away from you as you fall limp in Gojo’s loving arms. 

“The seas can rage, the heavens will rumble. But no matter what happens, I’m never going to let any of this take you away from me — for you and I are the honoured ones, destined to be together ...” 

With his voice dwindling to a hushed whisper, the sorcerer slips a shimmering ring onto your finger, declaring in utmost adoration his vows of undying love. 

“In time and evermore.”

[little-mad]

Downsides of Thievery Pt. 1

~ Next Part ~

“Maybe stealing from an interdimensional diplomat wasn’t my greatest idea,” Gavin thought to himself from his current position in a jail cell.

He’d been hesitant about the job right away. Stealing from humans was one thing, but stealing from alteons was on a whole new level. However, the payment the client had offered Gavin had been too tantalizing to refuse. Who knew it was bad to be greedy?

“Shit,” he grumbled under his breath. How was he supposed to know the diplomat would have some weird magical artifact thing that could detect and identify trespassers? That was just unfair. Gavin was a good thief, so good that he’d managed to make a career out of it. If he had been caught due to his own ineptitude maybe he wouldn’t be so peeved. But this was just a matter of not having enough information. Thus making it unfair.

Prison was something every criminal feared, but it was also something every criminal prepared for in some sense. If Gavin was headed for prison, he might not be so worried. Sure it would suck, but at least he felt sure his undeniable charms would make him friends in no time. But Gavin wasn’t headed for prison--no, he was being extradited to the alteon dimension.

Gavin shivered at the thought. Despite having stolen from one, he had never actually seen an alteon in person. Pictures and videos could only do so much, at least that’s what people said. Apparently the true gravity of an alteon’s massive size couldn’t be understood until you saw one in real life.

Not only would Gavin quite literally be put in the hands of an alteon, but he would also be getting taken to a completely different dimension that only a few very important humans had ever visited before. Maybe he should’ve felt special.

Were the circumstances different, Gavin might’ve even felt excited for the adventure. His work had taken him all over the world, it would be thrilling to get to see a whole new one. However, he had a feeling he wouldn’t exactly be getting the grand tour.

It was at that moment that Gavin began to hear footsteps approaching his cell. A few moments later, two business-suit clad federal agents appeared. Gavin scrambled to his feet and took several unconscious steps towards the back wall. The key jangling in one of the agents’ hands told him exactly what time it was.

“Your ride is here,” the female agent announced, a slight smirk playing at the corner of her lips.

Gavin scowled.

The key carrying agent swiftly unlocked the door and beckoned for Gavin to exit the cell. “Come on, we don’t have all day,” he stated impatiently.

“Aren’t you going to cuff me or something?” Gavin questioned, taking note of the fact that neither agent had brought handcuffs with them.

The woman’s smirk grew but she remained silent. “The alteon won’t need cuffs to restrain you,” the man responded.

Gavin instantly felt the pit of fear in his stomach grow. Horrible images of himself trapped in gigantic hands were invading his mind. Being given over to the alteons meant that his civil rights would be essentially irrelevant. Unless alteons had laws protecting humans, which he doubted, then they could do pretty much whatever they wanted with him. Gavin swallowed hard.

“A-actually, I’m okay staying here…” he stammered. God, he hated how pathetic he sounded. Gavin’s line of work required a lot of guts, and while a healthy dose of caution was always good, he had never considered himself to be cowardly in any sense of the word. But now...well now he felt like the biggest fraidy cat in the whole world.

The male agent gave Gavin what almost seemed like a sympathetic look. “Sorry, but that’s not an option,” he said, once again making a beckoning motion with his hand.

“Dad was right. I should’ve become a doctor,” Gavin thought miserably to himself as he very reluctantly exited his cell.

The trip up from the cell block to the roof of the building pretty much felt like a march to death. Federal employees stared unabashedly at the man practically being sacrificed to giants. Some wore looks of pity, while others had smug expressions on their faces, as if to say “serves him right.” Were Gavin in a better mood he probably would have scowled at the nosy jerks, or at least stuck his tongue out at them. But as things were, he was in no mood.

~

Rael sighed as he shifted his feet impatiently. It didn’t elude him that every human in the vicinity stiffened at his movement. He refrained from rolling his eyes. It was irritating how the humans constantly acted so skittish all the time, as if he would suddenly go on some sort of rampage.

“Why did they have to give me this assignment?” Rael mentally groaned.

Unlike many of the members of the Imperial Guard, he hadn’t joined with some idiotic fantasy of glorious duels and honorable battlescars. Rael joined because he knew it was the easiest way to elevate his station. Plus standing guard at the palace was easy work that he was perfectly content with. That’s why he had been less than pleased when he'd been informed he would have to venture to the human dimension to retrieve some human criminal.

Prior to today, Rael had only seen a human once, it had been from a distance and only for a second as they were being escorted into the palace. Therefore, he’d had no personal reason to dislike humans. It was just that from everything he had heard about them, they sounded so...annoying. And so far, his experiences with them today had proven that to be fairly accurate.

Rael suppressed a sigh as he glanced around. Thankfully the building he’d been told to go to was at the edge of a human city, meaning he wouldn’t have to put up with civilians gawking at him. The federal agents gathered on the roof in front of him were bad enough.

The stories about how giant being in the human realm would make you feel rang true. Rael felt positively colossal next to people who looked to be barely taller than his fingers. Not to mention the building he was standing beside, which appeared to be three stories, reached no higher than his knees. “Humans are lucky our imperialistic urges died a century ago,” Rael thought. Taking over the human realm would no doubt be a piece of cake, even with their supposed technological advancements.

“Sir!” Rael’s attention was caught by the shout of one of the humans standing on the roof below. He looked down to see the speaker was the woman who appeared to be in charge. “We apologize for the wait, the prisoner is being brought up now,” she announced. It was almost amusing, the way they had to yell for their tiny voices to even be perceived by him.

“Good,” Rael responded simply, electing not to mention the fact that the prisoner should’ve been ready and waiting for him when he arrived.

After a few minutes, Rael caught sight of the door on the roof entrance swing open. Three humans stepped out. The two dressed similarly to all the other federal agents practically had to drag the third one out. It was difficult for Rael to see from so far away, but the odd one out appeared to be a young man. He had light skin, a crop of messy brown hair, and appeared to be quite slim.

Rael raised a single eyebrow. “This is the prisoner?” he questioned as he eyed the man. He didn’t look like much, which was applicable to pretty much all humans, but Rael found it hard to believe that this one could’ve successfully stolen from an alteon.

“Yes, sir!” replied the woman in charge. “His name is Gavin Stone, he’s believed to be associated with many high profile robberies,” she explained.

Rael spared the human called “Gavin Stone” one last look before giving a shrug and reaching for the miniature iron cage attached to his belt.

The cage, which had been especially made for this occasion, was quite simple in its construction. The thing didn’t even have a lock because the latch to open the door was too big for a human’s miniscule hands to manage. It would do perfectly for keeping the criminal contained throughout the duration of the trip back to the palace.

The moment Gavin had laid eyes on the alteon, his body had practically separated from his mind. Physically, he was moving forward with the guidance of his two escorts, but his mind was still struggling to process the impossibly large person looming above him.

If the alteon’s size wasn’t strange enough, the guy looked like he’d stepped right out of a Renaissance Fair or something. His skin was a soft brown color, and he had long black hair that was tied into a loose ponytail behind him. His eyes were a striking teal color that stood out against his angular features. As for his clothing, he looked to be wearing what appeared to be some kind of light leather armor over top of a forest green tunic. Oh yeah, and then there was the fact that he had pointy elf ears.

Gavin had known the alteon dimension was almost medieval in nature, and he’d known the alteons had pointy ears, but it was still so damn bizarre to see in person.

As Gavin was in the middle of gaping, the giant began to move. He flinched at the action, and he noticed everyone else on the rooftop tense up as well. Clearly nobody was comfortable around this--this thing! “How can they hand me over to that?!”

It wasn’t until he had been practically shoved to the edge of the roof that Gavin’s brain caught up with what his body had been doing. Frantically he looked around him. All of the agents, including his former escorts, had backed away from the edge of the building closest to the alteon. This left Gavin stranded, with a giant man a mere few feet away.

With a hard gulp, Gavin tilted his head back to look up at the creature who was about to snatch him away. Those teal eyes were glancing down at him, and in his hand was a cage the perfect size for holding a stupid human who really should’ve just become a damn doctor.

[ri-ahhh]

bad day

MJ has a bad day dealing with her snotty coworker, who wants MJ’s promotion and her boyfriend.

4.8k

warnings: potentially triggering BD thoughts/language; smut; obnoxious amount of fluff cuz idk about you but I need some softness

“Hi sweetheart,” Grayson says with a smile as MJ stalks into the living room with a scowl. She plops next to him on the couch and hurls her heels off with a flourished kick, glaring at where they land a few feet away on the shaggy rug. His grin falls when he notices her pinched face and lack of returned greeting. “Rough day?”

MJ nods and curls into his side, silently pleading for him to wrap her in his arms. Grayson obliges immediately and pulls her into his lap, tucking her as close to his chest as he can. When MJ asks for physical affection as comfort, which isn’t as often as you might think considering that’s one of the best ways she shows love, Grayson knows she really needs it.

“’S the matter, Peach?” he asks gently with a kiss to her forehead. He smooths her long hair down and scratches his nails lightly on her thigh as she snakes her arms around his waist. “Chanel again?”

Chanel Marten is MJ’s coworker and a petty, idiotic thorn in her side; every bit the LA bimbo with the stereotypical Barbie looks and meanness to match. When she isn’t calling MJ fat behind her back or constantly trying to undercut her to their bosses in light of an upcoming promotion they’re both up for, she’s actively hinting at how much she disapproves of MJ and Grayson together. She’s been a fan of the twins for years, and doesn’t make it a secret that she is very much attracted to Grayson, which MJ finds partly amusing and wholly fucking annoying.

“God, how do you let him go to those influencer parties alone?” Was what she asked earlier today at their office. She was scrolling through the series of photos on Grayson’s latest Instagram post from the night before, looking his sexiest in that half-open linen button-down and his Louis pants. “I wouldn't let him out of my sight in public if I were you.”

MJ glanced over at her blonde coworker and couldn’t believe the audacity of this woman to go through her man’s Instagram right in front of her. She didn’t acknowledge it, answering her question instead. “I trust him. And he’s not alone, he’s always with Ethan.”

Chanel twirled her hair and sighed, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. It was the end of the day on a Friday, and she probably could have gone home already, but had instead chosen to wheel her desk chair into MJ’s office across the hall from her own. For what, exactly, MJ didn’t know; they were far from friends, barely amicable coworkers at best. Antagonizing MJ was probably the start of a good weekend for Chanel.

Her suspicions were answered a moment later with Chanel’s next choice of words, her irritating vocal fry even more prominent than usual. “Yeah, but all of those IG models in one room, and you guys aren’t, like, super public. What if he wants a taste of what he doesn’t have?”

MJ squeezed her mouse in a death grip, but didn’t divert her gaze from her screen. “What are you implying, Chanel?” she asked irritatedly, her patience running at the thickness of a piece of paper for the bitch by then. She had already thrown MJ under the bus in their morning meeting with their bosses for something MJ’s intern had screwed up in their presentation, and MJ had caught her making snide comments in the break room about her ��birthing hips’ and ‘thunder thighs’ to Annie the Asshole from Accounting. Annie was another coworker who, upon learning that MJ wouldn't invite Grayson along to after-work drinks simply so she could meet him, had immediately put MJ in her hypothetical burn book.

Right then, she finally had a moment to go back into their projections and fix what her intern Alessia had mistyped in the final presentation copy, and Chanel was only serving as both a reminder of her actions in the meeting and a distraction from her getting her work done.

MJ wanted nothing more than to be at home with Grayson by then, a tension headache creeping steadily up the back of her neck and into her temples. She had been the lead on this client presentation, so staying at the office until nine or ten at night hadn’t been an unusual occurrence lately; she was only glad by then that this was the end of a rough few weeks of work as soon as she was done fixing Alessia’s errors.

Chanel smirked but hid it as a simper of sympathy, clearly thrilled she was visibly getting under MJ’s skin. “I’m just saying, MJ, you’re super pretty, but, like, you don’t work out that much, right?I never see you in the gym here, or hear you mention going to one after work. I mean, Grayson being surrounded by girls who do fitness for a living would have to be like being in a candy store for him. We both know how much he cares about living a healthy lifestyle.”

She double-tapped the post, her too-long nails that were clearly trying to emulate Kylie Jenner’s or the like clicking obnoxiously against the screen, and sat back in her office chair. “I think if I were you, I’d quit this place and concentrate on building a following. Maybe try the fitness influencer route, yourself. It’s a pretty good trade-off, if you think about it; Grayson gives you clout, and you get snatched for him. And, you’d be able to keep a close eye on him. Boys will be boys, after all.”

That did it. Chanel Marten didn’t know her life, and she sure as hell didn’t know Grayson’s character. MJ finally took her attention off her iMac to give Chanel a glare that rivaled Lily’s ‘you’re dead to me’ look in How I Met Your Mother. It took every ounce of self control she possessed to hold herself back from acting on the overwhelming urge to punch Chanel’s newly-doctored nose.

Upon realizing MJ was done fucking around, Chanel’s smug smile slowly faded, until all pretenses were dropped, and the two women just stared at one another. No more fronts — not cordial coworkers anymore, but rival ones.

MJ knew what this girl was doing. Trying to make her insecure in her relationship with Grayson, and question her position in the firm so she wouldn’t go for the promotion. Chanel was as dumb as she looked if she thought either of these would work, but MJ had had enough of both her intelligence and her appearance being so blatantly insulted. She swiveled back to her computer and started doing the last couple of tweaks to the report that she had started before Chanel so rudely barged in.

“You know, next time you wanna pull a fast one and make me take the fall for an intern error, I’ll be happy to let Lacey know you’ve made us all rush this presentation by turning your last three sections of analytics in late, which is why I didn’t have time to review Alessia’s portion since I had to work your shit in last minute. I have time stamps on my email to prove it. Not to mention, the screen recordings of Snapchat stories of you at Saddle Ranch that someone showed me from the same nights you sent them. Should be pretty beneficial for my interview for Executive VP next month, don’t you think?”

MJ smiled and emailed the altered report back to her boss, Lacey, and made sure her computer was completely locked down before reaching into a cabinet for her purse and lunchbox. She stood and looked down at Chanel, who had her arms crossed tightly and her overfilled lips pursed so they were unusually pale and thin. MJ was going to leave it at that, but she was very much done being the bigger person, and a brief moment of pettiness came over her.

“And I hope you do find a man as good as Gray one day; maybe having someone as kind and real as him will make you less of a cold-hearted bitch.” MJ dug her keys out of her purse, motioning with her eyes from Chanel to the open door. “Now, please get out of my office. I’m ready to go home to my amazing, faithful, sexy boyfriend.”

Chanel scoffed and rolled her eyes but did as she was told, rolling back to her desk and giving MJ the cold shoulder as she breezed past her office.

“I didn’t fucking do anything to her,” MJ whines into Grayson’s neck after relaying all of this to him. Her bravado and smugness towards Chanel had dropped almost as soon as she reached her car in the parking garage of her downtown office building. Her insecurities had crept into her brain to join her full-fledged migraine and made driving home in traffic an even bigger nightmare than usual. “She’s hated me since the day I started there, no matter how nice I’ve tried to be.”

“She’s jealous, baby,” Grayson murmurs at once, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “You’ve come in and been there half the time she has, done the same job way better than her, and got recognized for it. Nobody likes to be outshone.”

MJ sighs and squeezes him reflexively as she moves on to the other half of Chanel’s dislike for her. “And it’s like getting bullied by the head cheerleader in high school. She basically told me I was too fat for you and that I don’t work out enough to ‘keep up with your healthy lifestyle.’” She lets out a little mirthless huff of laughter. “I mean, usually she says it behind my back to Annie the Asshole from Accounting, so I guess I should be appreciative that she at least had the decency to say it in so many words to my face tonight.”

Grayson sits in silence for a moment, seething internally at the thought that some dumb bitch who doesn’t know him in the slightest could have the nerve to talk to and about his girlfriend like that. He reaches for his phone on the couch next to them. “First of all, you're not fat, and I’d love you just the same even if you were. Second, give me all her at’s. I’m blocking this girl on everything.”

God, could the man get any more perfect? MJ sits up some and cups his face, shaking her head with a small smile. “No, no, it’s okay, Bear. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she got to me. If anything, I’d want you to post a thirst trap just so she can see what’s not her’s. What’s mine.”

“I think that could be arranged tonight,” he smirks, giving her a chaste kiss.

She attempts to smile back, but it turns into a grimace as her head gives a massive throb out of nowhere. “Shit,” she mumbles, pressing her fingertips against her temples. Grayson gives her a concerned look before she explains, “Headache.”

It takes all of three seconds for Grayson to secure one arm around her back and hook the other under her knees, standing and holding her bridal style. “Come on,” he says, like she really has a choice in the matter, and starts carrying her to their room. MJ wraps her arms around his neck and nuzzles her head into his shoulder with her eyes closed to block out the evening sun. “We’re taking a bath, then I’ll order dinner to eat in bed while we have a movie night.”

MJ nods gratefully. As usual, he knows exactly what she needs. “Ratatouille?”

Grayson chuckles at the hopeful tone in her voice. Ratatouille is one of MJ’s ‘sick’ movies; something quiet and nostalgic that offers that weird feeling of peace that you need when you just don’t feel good. “Of course, Ratatouille.”

He sits her on the counter once they reach the ensuite bathroom and pinches her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, planting a warm, lingering kiss on her lips; not heated, but comforting. Just what she needs in that moment.

“Stay put,” he commands quietly. MJ agrees and starts to unbutton her blouse as she watches Grayson step into the closet, pulling out one of her favorite t-shirts of his and a pair of his boxers. He puts the folded items next to her on the counter and helps her untuck the shirt from her cigarette trousers, tossing it in the dry-cleaning pile before reaching into one of her drawers and retrieving her makeup wipes.

MJ sighs and closes her eyes as she lets him gently drag the fresh-smelling cloth against the skin of her face. They aren't part of her usual skincare regimen, but Grayson has been exposed to her routine long enough and is perceptive enough to know that they’re for late nights, or ones like tonight, when she just doesn't have the energy to do more.

It feels better than if she had been able to get herself to use face wash and toner and such, anyways. The coolness of it and pressure of his fingers feel wonderful against her eyes and cheeks, alleviating some of the pain there momentarily.

MJ flutters her eyes open when he’s done. “Thank you, Bear,” she sighs, which he replies to with a kiss before walking over to the soaking tub. She hops off the counter and unbuckles her belt and pants, then unhooks her bra and steps out of her underwear.

Her reflection in the mirror glares back at her, Grayson in the background fiddling with the knobs on the tub to get the temperature of the water just right. She watches his muscles ripple with the slightest movements, his abs outlined through the fabric of his t-shirt, and can’t help but focus back in on herself. There’s some extra squish around her upper thighs and arms that no amount of training would get rid of; a softness to her tummy that probably comes from her undying love of Oreos, which are her nighttime vice. When she compares the two of them in this intimate space, maybe Chanel was right…

“Stop that.”

MJ startles a little and looks up in the mirror from where she had unconsciously started pinching and picking at what were really the bits of healthy pudginess under her skin, to find Grayson standing directly behind her. The harshness in his tone makes her withdraw and blush some, embarrassed that he had caught her at such an insecure moment.

He wraps his arms around her middle, his open palms brushing against the skin of her belly. His touch both warms her insides and causes them to erupt in nervous tingles. For some reason, MJ has a hard time seeing the two of them like this, with her completely naked and him fully clothed. She isn't afraid, never with Grayson, but she feels incredibly vulnerable in a way she isn't used to with him.

Grayson presses a kiss to the back of her head and makes sure they have eye contact through the mirror before he continues. “I’ll be damned if I let some idiot girl who doesn't matter to either of us make you feel like you’re not enough, MJ. You’re perfect, you hear me? You’re perfect, and I wouldn't change one inch of you, inside or out. Please don’t pick yourself apart like that.”

His voice holds a mixture of conviction and sadness, and MJ bites her lip as she sinks her back into his chest, her arms folding around his at her waist. She brushes her palm across the crisp, dark hairs covering one of his forearms.

“I could work out a little harder, though,” she murmurs after a few seconds of silence. “And cut back on a few carbs.”

Grayson looks at her incredulously. She’s lean and athletic, but it’s impossible to have the juicy, natural perfection of her ass and those breasts without a little extra, which he actually adores; she’s the very definition of slim-thick, a beautiful personification of the word.

He isn’t sure what kills him more inside: to think he hasn’t made it abundantly clear to her that he loves every square inch of her body; or if girls, society, whoever it is, make her think that the hard work she puts into her physique isn’t enough simply because she has a body type that isn’t what Instagram or people like Chanel deem ‘perfect’.

Either way, he’s going to rectify things right this instant.

“First of all, MJ, I know exactly how hard you work out; I’m doing it every morning with you, five days a week at 6 AM, remember? I’m the last person to lie to anyone about how much effort they give in their fitness. I know how hard you push yourself.”

He spins her around and cups her cheeks in his big hands. His stomach withers and his heart hurts when he sees the faint glitter of tears illuminating her emerald green eyes, making him want to be extra sure his next words are heard loud and clear. “Second, if I ever see that family sized box of double-stuffed Oreos in the trash, not empty, I’ll have a meltdown wondering where the hell my girlfriend went. Please, MJ. Those girls at your work are miserable cunts who only want what they can’t have. Don’t bring that energy back here, on us. I love you, exactly as you are.”

MJ takes a moment and considers his words before relenting with a nod. He’s right. Chanel and Annie should be the last things she’s thinking about when she’s got the man of her dreams right in front of her, saying all the right things and bringing her back to reality with his sweet, supportive words.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, leaning in for a tight hug from him. “I love you, too.”

“Don’t apologize,” Gray assures, rubbing her back soothingly. “Let’s have a nice, relaxing night now, okay?”

MJ nods, pulling away enough from his body to grasp the hem of his t-shirt. He wags his brows playfully as he lifts his arms so she can pull the garment over his head, and gives her a quick smile before ducking down to kiss her.

She seems to be feeling slightly better, and a weight lifts from his chest at the realization. “Don’t distract me,” he mumbles against her lips after they make out lazily for a few moments. “Or our bath will overflow.”

“Don’t be so perfect, then,” she says back with a smirk, giving his ass a little swat as he returns to the tub and drops a Lush bath bomb and a chunk of bubble bar into the water.

While he does that, MJ opens one of the medicine cabinets. She isn’t big on taking pills, but she relents today and pops an Excedrin as her head pounded again. Once she swallows it with a handful of water from the sink, she starts to pile her hair into a bun, but is stopped by Gray’s grip on her forearm.

Her eyes had zoned out on a random spot on the counter, but at the pressure of his hand she looks up in the mirror to see him as naked as she is. “Don’t be silly,” he chides lightly, a smile toying at the corners of his lips. “You’re getting the full treatment tonight, Peach. I’ve got your shampoo and conditioner ready to go over there.”

He pulls gently down on her arm, and her hair tumbles back down over her shoulders and back as she lets him tug her to the warm, foamy water.

Ten minutes later, the Excedrin has kicked in, soft music from their ‘chill’ playlist plays through Grayson’s phone on the edge of the tub, and his strong fingers are creating heavenly relief for her as they scrub at her scalp. She’s totally relaxed in front of him, letting his broad chest and shoulders cocoon her smaller frame as her eyes droop and she moans lightly.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day, sweetheart,” he whispers in her ear, making her shiver despite the steaming water they sit in. She snuggles closer to his warmth. “And I’m sorry you have to deal with those assholes every day.”

It takes a moment for her brain to form the words, but she hums contentedly in reply. “It’s okay. Don’t know what I’d do without you, though, Gray.”

It’s so true. She has never been the girl to be codependent on anyone, let alone the man she’s in a relationship with, but Gray has achieved that honor in a matter of a year and a half. Probably earlier, if she were being honest with herself, but her adult life before him was a blur. She’s forgotten what it was like to not have him by her side, and she doesn’t want to imagine a scenario in the future where he isn’t.

He finishes washing her hair, lulling her into an even deeper trance when he moves her dark, wet locks over one shoulder so he can massage her neck with deep presses of his thumbs into her tight muscles. His fingers are nimble and dexterous, strengthened by his renewed passion for rock climbing, and are perfect for loosening the tension under her skin.

“Mmm, fuck,” she moans, not meaning for it to come out quite so pornographic, but she feels nearly orgasmic in the relief his hands are bringing her. Speaking of… “You’re gonna get the best head tomorrow, I promise.”

Grayson chuckles, squeezing her shoulders now, too. MJ feels him twitch against her lower back, but he says in her ear, “I’m not doing this for you to return the favor. I just want to be the one to make you feel better. Because I love you, and you’re mine, and you deserve it.”

“I know you’re not,” MJ smiles. “That only makes me want to do it even more.”

He grins and moves his hands further down her back beneath the water, massaging his knuckles into the soft skin there as well before coasting up her sides. He cups her breasts as MJ sinks back against him, her breathing picking up the slightest bit as his hands work magic there, too.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his hot breath flowing straight into her ear and sending goosebumps flaring over her skin.

More than okay, she thinks. MJ nods, and gasps when his hands pinch her nipples gently between his ring and middle fingers, tugging slightly. She takes his large hand off her right breast and sinks it into the water, straight to her center, her legs already parting to welcome him.

“Just rub me,” she whispers, eyes closed as he doesn’t hesitate to obey. “Circles, like this.”

MJ guides his fingers over her clit for a moment to show him exactly what she wants, but this isn’t their first rodeo and Gray knows perfectly well what he’s doing. She lets him take over and simply lies back against him as he expertly brings her higher and higher, until she’s falling over the edge, twitching in his arms and moaning sweetly.

Grayson tilts her head back to kiss him, sighing into her mouth as she twists in his arms to straddle him. He’s completely hard now, and she takes him in her hand instinctively. Twenty minutes ago, sex was the last thing on her mind, but she feels so good and relaxed now that she doesn’t hesitate to line him up and sink down slowly on his dick.

She grins smugly when his eyes fly open and he lets out an embarrassingly loud moan, completely surprised by a warm wetness that is vastly different from that of the bathwater. When she had stroked him in her hand he thought she might jerk him off, but her pussy, still deliciously tight from her orgasm, isn’t what he’s prepared for as he becomes slowly encased in it.

It’s a good thing she doesn’t meant for it to last long, because he’s so overwhelmed and caught off-guard it only takes a couple of minutes max of her grinding up and down on him while she whispers hot, dirty things in his ear, for him to shoot deep inside her.

“Shit,” he huffs out with a little laugh as she raises herself up enough for him to slip out of her pussy. “Did you just give me the equivalent of a hand job with your vagina? I know that wasn’t for you.”

She giggles and sits back in his lap, shrugging as she nuzzles his nose with hers. “What can I say, I’m feeling lazy tonight and that seemed like the faster option. Are you complaining?”

Grayson shakes his head vehemently. “Of course not, but I didn't want you to do any work tonight.” His brows pinch a bit and his lips turn down into a pout. “Are you okay? How’s your head?”

MJ smiles softly and brushes his cheek with pruned fingertips. Even post-orgasm, he’s still concerned only about her. “Better, Gray-bear. Thank you.”

God, she loves him so much. She can’t resist wiping her hands on the towel and reaching behind him to grab his phone to capture him in that moment. His hair has gone curly in the humidity of the bathroom; the light from the window shines perfectly on his chiseled face, making his sex-eyes nearly pure green and illuminating his full lips that have curled into a small, crooked smile as he realizes her intention. She laughs when he takes it upon himself after a few serious snaps to play up to the camera, scooping up some of the bubbles and blowing them off his palm while giving her a joking, coquettish expression. Finally, she puts her back against his chest once again and they take a couple of goofy, up-angle shots, close-ups of their faces.

Photoshoot over, Grayson sighs and hugs her tight to him as he sucks kisses up and down the sides of her neck while she goes through the pictures. He’s making her head swim, but she manages to determine three of her favorites and doesn’t even bother editing them before adding a simple heart emoji in the caption and posting them to his Instagram once she earns his approval.

She turns around to put the phone back on the ledge before leaning in to plant her lips on his, slipping her tongue between them sensually. She could kiss this man forever, but eventually they start slowing down. MJ moves her kisses to his sharp jawline, trailing her mouth across and down until she gets to his neck freckle. She gives it a peck before pulling back, meeting his hooded gaze with warm eyes. It feels so good to just give each other these little bouts of physical affection with no real end goal. Just enjoying each other’s company, in their own space, caressed by the comforting warmth and scents of the bath.

Eventually, MJ peels herself away from him and stands up. Grayson stares up at her adoringly, admiring the way the water cascades over her body and rains down back into the tub. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”

She looks like a naiad with her long, dark hair covering her tits and dripping sensual trails of warm water down the dips and curves of her body. As if she doesn’t look delectable enough to him right now, her pussy is inadvertently right in his face, and his hand instantly reaches up to touch her. “Me too,” he growls, his fingertips tracing her lower lips and parting them so her clit is exposed. His mouth literally starts to water as he thinks about her earthy taste and her slippery arousal coating his tongue.

Just as he’s ducking in to swipe his tongue over her slit, MJ grips a handful of his hair and stops him, tilting his head back with that grip to make him look up at her questioningly. “Not now,” she says, taking her turn to scratch her nails along his scalp for a moment. “Still sensitive. And actually starving; I had to spend my entire lunch break fixing part of that report.”

Grayson nods understandingly and lifts the plug in the drain before standing up as well. “Then let’s get some Monty’s in you, hm?”

“That sounds amazing,” she agrees, her stomach growling right on cue.

They both chuckle and Grayson helps her step out of the tub before wrapping her up in a big, fluffy towel. He kisses her nose, then her lips, and retreats into the closet with his own towel to find fresh PJs for himself.

An hour later, they’re chowing down on some burgers and shoestring fries together in the fresh blankets of their bed while Ratatouille plays through the projector. And Chanel’s stupid username hasn’t popped up once in his likes or comments.

[danyka-fendyr]

Absence of Good - 7

Chapter Seven: Naked

For once in my damn life I actually got inspired and this is what became of it. Basically I was thinking about Taylor Swift and rewatched the Miss Americana trailer (I’m waiting to rewatch the movie so I can do it with my aunt) and I just like...ended up in my feels? So I actually kind of really like this chapter and I hope you guys do too. Also shout-out to that one anon who binged the last six chapters and sent me an ask about it! I live for moments like that, truly.

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli

AoG Taglist: @pancakefancake @prettyboyspenerrr @youreasnack @alioop3818

Wordcount: 3290

Warnings: Dark themes throughout. Death. Murder. Some body horror. PTSD. Flashbacks. Trauma. Discussion of torture and kidnapping. Brief mentions of sexual assault.  

“I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess from looking at me.”

-Gillian Flynn

It was official. You were cleared for active duty again. You had passed every test they had thrown at you, and by every empirical measure you were fine. It was like nothing had ever happened. And so that’s how you decided this was going to play out. You were just going to act like nothing had ever happened.

You were going to bluff like your life depended on it.

Your first day back at work had to be perfection. You envisioned it in your head the night before, you built it, like building up a shield or a wall. Pristine, beautiful, strong. You got up extra early just to execute it, just to put on the pencil skirt, the red heels, the crisp blazer and the flawless makeup. All of it planned out, right down to the skinny vanilla latte with oatmilk. Just like a costume.

You were prepared for the barrage when you stepped back into the BAU. Penelope Garcia never let anyone come back from a long absence without at least an absurd amount of enthusiasm. Usually there was a surprise party involved. You prayed there was not a surprise party involved in your return today.

In fact, you were hoping there wouldn’t even be a case. That, just this once, the bad guys would see fit to give you a break. That maybe they wouldn’t kick a woman while she was down.

Your hopes were too high though.

Penelope’s squeals of delight and everyone’s sickeningly pitiful looks were cut short by Hotch.

“It’s good to have you back, Y/L/N.” Even stone-cold professional Aaron Hotchner looked softer, if that was at all possible. “That being said, I’m afraid we have a case.”

He didn’t patronize you by asking if you were up to it. He knew that you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. In a way, you were glad for the work. It would be distracting.

You were glad for it until the second you walked into the briefing room and saw the photos Penelope pulled up on the board. Then you were holding back vomit and taking careful, even breaths because nobody could know you were panicking. Three different women, all of whom had been tortured, then dumped. Sure, they hadn’t been tortured the same way you had been, or even by the same guy. That didn’t stop every last one of their faces from turning into your own.

You were under a magnifying glass here though, and you couldn’t break composure even for a second. They couldn’t know. So you practiced your breathing techniques, took careful, measured blinks, and listened the best you could. You swallowed perhaps a little too rapidly, relying on your latte to hide that you were just stopping yourself from crying. In a room full of profilers, the stakes had never been higher.

“Alright team. All of these women were found in the last month in North Dakota. As you can see, there are clear signs of torture, and there is also evidence of sexual assault. It appears the assault was ante-mortem, but there are no signs of remorse in the way the bodies were dumped. All of these women were in different, clean clothes, and their bodies themselves had been cleaned up. You can see that injuries were stitched back together, and the only blood on the body appears as stains from where it sat on the skin too long and couldn’t be properly removed.”

“So we’re dealing with a doctor?” Morgan asked.

“I don’t know about that. These don’t look surgical. They seem pretty messy to me,” Rossi said.

“The coroner’s report from the first victim would indicate that this isn’t professional work.” Hotch folded his hands in front of him.

“It’s entirely possible this guy’s a germaphobe though.” You made an easy contribution, something to satisfy everyone without drawing suspicion.

“You know, it’s not unlikely.” Spencer leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Approximately 9.1% of American citizens do have phobias. It wouldn’t be too radical to suggest that maybe our unsub does as well.”

“Okay, so we’re dealing with a germaphobe who can’t sew. Doesn’t narrow it down much. I’d say we need to get out there and see what’s going on ourselves,” Prentiss said.

“Wheels up in 20.”

 The plane ride was long enough that you were able to sleep through most of it after tossing around ideas. You found your own quiet little corner of the plane and promptly pretended to sleep so that no one would bother you. In reality you hadn’t slept well in weeks and couldn’t risk sleeping now in case you woke up out of a nightmare, but as far as the team was concerned, you were to be left alone. 10 minutes before landing you “woke up” to listen to Hotch giving out assignments.

“Morgan and JJ, I want you checking out the dumpsites. Prentiss and Y/L/N, go talk to the M.E.”

“Hotch, I really think I should go with Y/N.” Your entire body tensed at Spencer’s words. “We tend to work really well together and especially with a case like this I think my medical knowledge could come in handy. I might be able to figure something out from looking at the bodies and examining the stitches.”

Hotch paused for a moment. “Alright then. Reid, you’re with Y/L/N, and Prentiss you can stick with Rossi and I.”

“That works for me.” Prentiss shrugged. “I have an old buddy who used to work for the Bismarck police department. I’d like to see if he still does, see what I can find out from him.”

“Good. Then it’s decided.”

 Hotch could not have picked a more awkward person for you to be trapped in a car with. Of course, you supposed Hotch hadn’t picked him, he had volunteered. You wondered if he could tell something was up with you, or if it was just instinct. If sharks could smell blood in the water, Spencer had a nose for you being in any kind of emotional distress. Right now you wished that he didn’t.

5 minutes into the drive he spoke up.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“Yeah. Just tired.” You lean your head back further into the nook between the seat and the window frame.

“You sleeping okay?” Spencer’s brow furrowed as he glanced over at you.

“Yeah, fine.” Lies, lies, lies. “I was uh…out late last night.”

“Oh.”

You stared out the window, watching the scenery. This time of year there wasn’t much to see in North Dakota. Just frigid, icy wasteland. You dreaded getting out of the drowsy comfort of the nice warm car.

“On a date?” Spencer’s voice sounded off somehow.

“What? No.”

Maybe too quick an answer, but it was a ridiculous suggestion. You? On a date? In your dreams.

“Some friends of mine from college were in town. We went out and got a few drinks before they had to head back.” Always make sure the witnesses are conveniently unavailable.

“That must have been nice.” Spencer smiled.

“Yeah. It was good.”

“So other than that, how have you been?”

“Good. Great, really. Itching to get back to work though.”

“Really? Wasn’t the break nice?”

“Nice, but boring.” You pulled your sleeves over your hands.

“I guess.”

Spencer pulled into the parking lot, safely sliding into one of the available spaces before coming around to open your door. You frowned slightly. He had never done that before. If he was babying you now just because of what had happened you were going to kill him.

Mad. Mad was new. Mad was good. You decided to pursue that.

“Why open the door? I can do it myself, you know.” Your voice carried more hostility than was warranted.

“I know,” Spencer said, blushing. Blushing? “I just thought it might be nice. Plus with all of this ice you could get hurt. Did you know that 1 million Americans are injured slipping on ice annually?”

Ah. So he was babying you.

“I’m fine. I can handle a little cold, Spencer. Now come on, we have bodies to look at.”

You stormed ahead, determined to leave him standing there alone in the cold. What happened instead was far less triumphant and dignified. You slipped. On ice. And Spencer caught you. And then subsequently did not slip.

“See?” A smile played on his mouth as you looked up at him through your snow-coated lashes. “Dangerous weather conditions. But you’re right, we should get inside.”

He righted you, unfortunately causing you to leave his warm embrace, and looped his arm through yours as you two headed into the coroners.

 Seeing the bodies in person was worse than you thought it would be. The smell of the formaldehyde felt like it was seeping into your pores, like it would never leave you. The gleam of the metal tables seemed to whisper, “This could have been you.” The icy cold Bismarck air turned your skin to something lifeless, something that belonged underneath one of the sheets hanging over the victims. After all, what was one more dead girl?

It took everything you had to keep it together. Even then you let Spence do most of the talking.

“So these stitches, they’re not surgical,” he established.

“Well see, that’s what’s interesting about this. The first ones certainly don’t seem surgical. They’re far too messy. The technique is good, but the execution is falling apart. But the second body is far more orderly, and the third is nearly perfect.”

“So our unsub has been practicing.” The horror in your voice shone through.

“It would seem so. But here’s what else is interesting. The chemicals used to clean these girls up? They make the same progression. At first, household cleaners, hence all the staining. But then they move to medical grade stuff.”

“Wait…could we be dealing with a medical student here?” You asked.

“It’s entirely likely. However, I would bet that whoever did this is looking less to be a surgeon and more to be a coroner themselves. Look at the cut patterns.”

You froze. You didn’t want to look. You couldn’t look. You could feel your scars burning in your sides, white hot, the metal slicing through you, tearing you to ribbons.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

“As the victims progress, the pattern becomes more and more organized, until it almost looks like…”

“An autopsy,” Spencer finished.

The coroner nodded. “So I certainly wouldn’t rule out medical students, but if I had to take a guess…”

“We’re not looking for a candy striper,” You supplied.

“We have to get this to Hotch. Thank you so much for your help.” Spencer took the folders offered before following you back out to the parking lot and into the car.

 As it turned out, your suspicions were correct. The unsub had been studying to work as an M.E., until they discovered that cadavers just weren’t enough. Sublimation can only take you so far.

They began seeking out more lively victims, their psychopathy making them seem no different than a cadaver. To this unsub, people were just meat to be used and then hacked up. He would never be seeing his medical license though.

You should have felt good. Should have felt on top of the world about solving a case, especially being able to do it so quickly. Instead, you just felt a cold sense of dread about having to go home to your nightmares. On the plane, you once again feigned sleep, with the goal of slipping away from the others when you touched down. No such luck.

“Good, you’re all back! I have a surprise for our favorite returned agent. That’s right, it’s tequila time! We’re all going out for drinks, totally non-optional. And when I say all of us, I mean all of us.” She glared pointedly at Reid. “Even the good doctor.”

“Penelope, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.” Spence looked over to you.

For the first time that day, you allowed yourself a moment of weakness. You had gone through a lot, you had sat through that briefing, you had looked at those bodies. You could have a little bit of emotional vulnerability. As a treat.

You looked at Spencer hopelessly, practically begging him to save you from your surprise party fate and somehow get Garcia to call the whole thing off. You couldn’t do this. All you wanted was to go home and take a nice hot shower and curl up alone.

“Okay,” Spencer said. “I’ll go.”

Penelope cheered, overwhelmingly excited about the development.

Morgan chuckled. “Baby girl, we better go before he changes his mind.”

“Oh! Right!” And with that she was off.

 The very last thing you could have possibly needed right now was a bar. It was loud and noisy and crowded and all together far too much for you to handle. You supposed you should be thankful it wasn’t a club, but you couldn’t find it in yourself. You didn’t want this right now.

You didn’t want glowing neon lights or the wine cooler you were pretending to drink to make Garcia happy. You didn’t want music that was slightly too loud or a football game playing in the background. Most of all, you didn’t want all of these people touching you. Every graze was like someone was running nails down a chalkboard. You would have rather had a cheese grater on your skin, would have rather peeled it off and torn it to pieces.  You had to get out of there.

Your salvation came from the source of your doom.

“Well guys, I think I’m going to head out,” Spencer said. “It’s getting kind of late and I have a documentary I was hoping to catch.”

“Alright, well, we’ll see you soon okay boy wonder?” Morgan raised his glass in salute.

“Actually, perfect timing Spencer. I was wondering, do you think you could drive me home?” You had originally carpooled with JJ, having taken public transportation to work that day. Oddly enough, you knew Spencer had brought his car. “I’m totally wiped out after last night.”

“Oh, right, you had your thing with friends!” He remembered. “Um, sure, yeah. I guess your place is on the way to mine. The more the merrier!”

Garcia tried to convince you to stay, but Spencer maintained the role of a beautiful, beautiful excuse. With your combined efforts you were able to navigate your way out of the clutches of Penelope Garcia and into the cool, quiet car, where mercifully no one was touching you.

Your apartment wasn’t far from the bar, but you were irritated to find that Spencer insisted on seeing you up. You were tired of this patronizing behavior. You didn’t need to be coddled, you needed to be respected. You thought he of all people would be the one to always respect you, but apparently not.

You stopped outside of your door, keys in hand as you looked up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“Why are you treating me like I can’t be left alone for 5 seconds? You’re babying me. Stop it.”

“I’m not babying you,” Spencer said. “I’m concerned about you. You just came back from a traumatic experience, and I just…don’t think you should be left alone right now.”

“So what, you don’t think I can handle myself?” You turned to face him, livid under the glow of the overhead light. “Because I have plenty of scars now to prove I can. I’m a survivor, Reid. I think I can walk myself up a few stupid stairs and unlock my apartment door without supervision. Did Hotch put you up to this? Wanted to make sure I was ready to be back in the field?”

“What? No! Of course Hotch didn’t put me up to this. He would never do that. He respects you and believes you’re more than capable of doing this job.”

“Then what? Who’s telling you to do this?” You took a step closer, getting in his face.

“No one! I’m doing this because I care about you, Y/N, and when you were taken it was one of the worst moments in my life. I’d never been that afraid of anything before, not even when I was kidnapped. And I just kept thinking how scared you must have been, how alone you must have felt, and I…I don’t want you to feel that way now. I don’t want you to feel alone. No one is making me do this. No one is watching you, waiting for you to breakdown. It’s just me, Y/N. It’s just us.”

You wanted to melt into the way he said us. Wanted to tell him everything, wanted to let him count your scars and tell him you were afraid, you were alone. You wished that you could.

“Well thank you for your concern, but I don’t need it. Everything is fine. I’m fine. We’re…we’re fine.”

It was the last words that gave you away. The tremble in we, the unsureness.

“Why won’t you let me in? Why can’t you let your guard down. Take all of this composure and just…lose it a little?” Sweet brown eyes snuck their way in, securing themselves around your heart.

All day, you had been trying so hard to keep it together. To put on a mask and pretend that everything was fine, because that was what you needed everyone to think. You needed all of them to see you as competent and capable and someone they could look up to and respect and love, but it was just…it was just so much pressure, all the time, and normally you could handle it but now? Now it was too much, all of it all too much.

“Do you know why I can’t just lose it? I can’t fall apart because people are watching and it doesn’t matter to them what happened to me. Nobody cares about anything but right now and right now what I know is that they take your pain and they turn it into a joke. Because that’s what people do Spencer. That’s what people do when they don’t like you. When you get hurt, that’s funny. When something terrible happens to you, it doesn’t matter how bad it is, you deserved it. Gosh, can’t you understand that? Don’t you get it? It’s not just that I don’t want people seeing me hurt, it’s that I can’t let them. Because you know what hunters do when they see a wounded animal? They kill it. And I’m…I’m…” You choked.

You choked on all of it. Not just the words, but the fear, the horror, the overwhelming gut-wrenching spiraling episode you were falling into. You didn’t understand what was happening to you anymore. You just knew it hurt. It hurt so bad.

“Look at me.” Spencer spoke softly, not daring to touch you. “It’s okay. It’s okay to be hurt. It’s okay to feel it. You don’t have to stop.”

“I can’t…I can’t…”

You couldn’t stop the tears from coming down your face, the tight ache in your chest, all of these feelings catching up to you like you never could have imagined before this.

“He hurt you. He hurt you very badly. Nobody expects you to just bounce back from that. Nobody needs you to be okay right now. It is not your job to be okay.”

You fell into him. Collapsed into his body that caught you like he had been waiting, like he knew this would happen, like he knew you better than you knew yourself. Knew your body, knew your pain, knew your heart, and was holding it all together, even raw and bleeding and naked as it was.

And you let go.

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”

-Lois Lowry

[zwiezraczek]

Criminal - Chapter 4

Billy (viliain) x Female reader (cop)

Prologue/Chapter 1 - CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3 - CHAPTER 4:  He is a sucker

SUMMARY: You always wanted to become a police officer. And you became one of them, brilliantly and they offered you your first case. “The Ghosts” case. The case of fleeting people and one sneaky bastard parkouring around the town to annoy you. You swore to yourself to catch him them.

WORDS: 1.7 k

NOTE: So here we are with chapter 4! I’m late, I knoooow, but yesterday I wasn’t in a mood to write so I hope you’ll forgive me! I hope you’ll enjoy this chapter! 💕 Update: I had to reupload this again because it wasn’t showing up in the tags, it’s a thing that happens A LOT to me and it’s fecking frustrating so yeah... 

TAGLIST: @onceuponadetectivedemigod​ @natsficrecs​ (leave a comment to be a part of it!)

The place itself was awful. As you looked up you saw the old buildings, in ruin. The neighborhood he had chosen wouldn’t have been your first choice, for sure. But at the same time, a perfect place for exchanges with too much things to look at to find anything. You could smell insalubrity, you could feel it with every inch of your body, brushing against your skin. And even as a cop, you didn’t feel safe in this neighborhood. But, at the same time, you hoped that all of his would lead you somewhere.

You looked around you, ruins. Ruins everywhere. He had chosen a great place, really. A place where you were exposed and vulnerable, a place where he could take you down if he wanted to, but this experiment was wort the shot. Slowly, you walked between the bags and the dust, looking for the corner with a “4” graffiti on it, you found the graffiti on google maps while looking up the coordinates he had gave you in his letter. He knew what he was doing, really. The place was awful, just like him. Him and his cheekiness towards you. Him and his little games. Him. During the last few days, you found yourself thinking more about this solo investigation, his intercourse with the police, and about your own safety. Probably more about your job – and you losing it because of this.

You had worked so much for this position, proving them that it wasn’t because you looked cute and nice that you couldn’t do your work, and first you thought that your boss understood that by giving you this case. But apparently, he had hoped for you to quit as soon as possible. This case was your death sentence, and every move you made moved you closer to the brink. You put a finger on it now, after your big failure when your boss put the blame on you, and you only for this. He was partially right, because this was your idea, but he also was wrong because he could have denied you the troops and everything he had given you for this mission. And even if you found out that the transaction happening in the backroom was linked with one of the biggest companies of the city, your boss refused to acknowledge this as a step forward in your investigation. Of course, because looking up the corporations wasn’t your job apparently, and because dismantling a larger network wasn’t a bigger success than catching the Ghosts. Of course.

You sighed. After a few minutes, you found your corner, the corner Four assigned for your exchanges. The corner where you would become a phoenix or burn to ashes, depending on Four’s will. It was truly your last chance. And when you arrived right next to the walls, you tried to stay calm as you saw the little note he had left you.

“Cute cops are apparently rebel cops! ;)”

What a bastard.

~~~~

“You did what,” One exclaimed through the server Three created for them to speak without attracting cops, well at least for the moment. “I hope you’re joking Four, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“As if you could,” Four replied maybe too casually to be certain of that.

He had maybe screwed some things up by sending the letter to the cop on their case. But One wanted to congratulate her, he said, for this amazing trap she settled for them, and wanted to know who were the guys behind this informatics trick. And Four took it as a request. Well, he took it as a permit to send her a letter. But apparently it wasn’t a permit. And apparently he got himself into so much trouble.

“I’ll fucking kill him, somebody stop me,” One repeated and Four could hear the frustration. Oops.

“I won’t be the one stopping you,” Two stated as Four only gasped in a dramatic way. “I’ll help if you want.”

“What in the fucking world you thought when you did it,” One asked again, absolutely irritated.

“I thought it would be fun,” Four replied, a bit unsure. Then he heard Three’s chuckle. “Hey, don’t laugh at me, if not you we wouldn’t be in that situation!”

“I screwed up yes, I brought the cops yes, but now you made the cops follow us and seriously? That’s the greatest shit you’ve ever done Four,” Three laughed as One groaned.

“What’s the plan,” Seven asked.

“Guys, don’t you fucking see that I just helped us,” Four insisted, his fingertips taping on the desk.

“Fuck no, enlighten me,” One replied sarcastically.

“If I play it nicely, we’ll be able to gather information from her. We’ll be one step ahead and…”

“You sweet-talked her with bondage,” Seven remarked and Three laughed, “I’m sorry but you’re not our expert in flirt here. I’d rather send Five for the letters and the seducing part.”

“I can help with the letters if you want Four,” Five added in a warm tone, contrasting with the whole situation. She really tried to keep her calm. She really did.

“Guys I can fucking do it I’m not,” he stated before being interrupted – again.

“She doesn’t have to reply,” Two casually said. “He left her the choice. She can absolutely refuse to answer the letters and we won’t have any problem. Am I the only sane person in here?”

“She’s right,” On finally said in a calmer tone. “We keep our fingers crossed that she won’t leave you that letter in the dumpster you asked her to.”

“It’s not a dumps-.”

“It’s a fucking dumpster,” One retorted, “and if she’s sane enough she won’t go there. And if she does, you tell us. Simple. So, subject change until this case is solved. What about our partnership with the company?”

Four sighed. He really hoped that the cute cop would write back. Because he found it funny to tease cops like this, and she looked particularly receptive to this kind of little games:  she ultimately tried to follow a parkour expert well-knowing that he would be faster and smarter than her up there, nonetheless she had tried. And that was quite impressive. And reckless. And he loved recklessness.

Once the had call ended, he turned around to take a look at his crappy place. He wished they could all afford a better place to live in – well, he hoped that One would ultimately share the money they had – but for the moment, this apartment should be enough. He sighed and looked throught the window.

Every night since the last encounter with you, he went to the place in order to see if you replied, hoping secretly to be able to communicate with you. Every night, he took a different path to arrive there, he wandered from roof to roof in order to reach this place and to see, from above, if there was something new on the ground. He put the flashlight right on the dusty fallen fragments of the wall and saw this. He saw the letter. He felt his heart race, he felt a sort of excitement, happiness. An adrenaline rush.

“Dear Four,

Thank you for this letter, I will absolutely accept your offer so this is my reply to all of you.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about what to write in this letter to all of you. I figured out that I probably should answer your questions first. I can’t say who helped me find you, that’s a secret as much as your identities are, am I right? And thanks for the congratulations, I deserved them and will deserve even more when I’ll catch you. Soon :)

I’m truly surprised that you wrote a letter to me, I hope it isn’t compromising at all for you – and probably your teammates. Don’t worry, nobody knows about our exchange, as you asked this is why I came there to put the letter in this dumpster. For a guy wanting bondage apparently, you seem to be more into… Trash from what I see on my computer screen. I’m not judging, just telling that I’m a bit disappointed.

Any requests? ;)

I hope hearing from you soon,

Lovebird aka the cute cop”

This. Is. Not. A. Dumpster.

~~~~

This little game of his was going on for weeks, and never seemed to stop. You tried to catch him off guard, but by letters all was too difficult. So, you decided to change your strategy: you had to see him and to keep him under surveillance as much as possible. After you left your letter, you waited a long moment before the sunset and you left, and then, you came back in the morning and the letter wasn’t there. You were sure of it now: he came during the night. Which was logical. But not reassuring at all, not for you.

And, as soon as you could – because you took a few days off – you began to patrol around the place at night, with a black hoodie on while walking fast, and even faster. As you walked, your eyes looking on the ground, you tried to blend in which wasn’t that simple with all these threats around you even when you carried a weapon. You wondered why a woman had to feel insecure at night, even when she was able to defend herself.

One night, after a few exchanged letters, a few coffees and some hours of patrolling you noticed him coming down from the roof, with his blue hoodie on. You saw the happy look on his face when he illuminated the place where you left your letter earlier on that day. You couldn’t help yourself but smirk. You caught your bird, but what he was doing right here wasn’t enough to arrest him by yourself, alone. You needed evidence, you needed proof and you needed to know where he lived.

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                 SOON YOU’LL GET BETTER

      time's running out for Riza. and they can do nothing else, but face this truth.

                                                     ao3

{AN: This is easily the most personal story that I have ever written. My mom died of cancer almost two months ago and I needed to cope with that, hence this fic. Tbh, I don't even think it can strictly be called fanfiction - I simply used those characters to channel my personal trauma. Sorry not sorry for that. It feels very weird to post it publicly, but I decided to do it, cause the fact that this doc was somewhere on the hard drive of my laptop was driving me mad. Also... I feel like the topic of death and dying is not discussed often enough nor openly enough. I certainly hope that this story will maybe help someone who's going through something similar to what I'm going through. Or maybe will help someone to understand how it feels to say goodbye. How heavy this grief is. 

The title comes from Taylor Swift's Soon You'll Get Better, cause this song is by far the most accurate description of what's going on in the head of some who has a sick parent that I have ever seen.}

__________________________________________________________

When you're feeling lost I'll leave my love

Hidden in the sun

For when the darkness comes

- Colbie Caillat

RIZA

The house’s so quiet and feels so inviting that she could cry from the sheer relief of coming inside. There are no flames dancing in the fireplace but she still feels warmth worming underneath her skin, replacing the bone-chilling coldness of the rain outside. With a sigh, she kicks off her shoes before putting them neatly in the corner and stepping on the white plush carpet in the corridor. She wiggles her toes in it, enjoying the texture against her battered feet.

Soft material makes her steps almost soundless as she makes her way through the first floor and climbs up the stairs. Even Koya doesn’t lift his little ginger head from where he’s sleeping, in his wicker basket by the doors of her younger daughter.

Riza gently pushes the door, letting them open slightly. The light from the corridor spills inside the room, framing Sara’s bed in silver; her little face so pale in the poor lighting, dark hair messy and thumb inside her mouth.

It’s been a few years since she last did it, since she last came back to the childish comfort of this coping mechanism.  Riza was sure that she has it well behind her, those moths of coating Sara’s hand in foul-smelling ointments or wrapping it with ribbons.

Despite her best wishes, she can do nothing but take a few steps closer and then another few and then suddenly she’s on her knees right next to the bed. Carpet in her little daughter’s room is blue, Amestrian royal blue, deep and soft. Her girl loves this color. Wears it in her hair and on her clothes and all her pet animals are blue too.  But as Riza watches her sleeping face, she thinks pink would be a shade much better suited for Sara, with her rosy cheeks and flowery innocence of a child shielded from any possible harm, any dangerous blow.

That’s what they have been doing all this time, her and Roy. Spreading an umbrella above their girls’ heads, building glass castles on the clouds for them and keeping them safe at all cost.

Riza gently touches Sara’s still-chubby hand and contemplates pulling her thumb from in between her lips, but ultimately decides against it.

Her daughter will need all the comfort she can get soon.

*

Sometimes she feels like she has spent most of her life waiting.

When she was six years old and her mom went into labor, nobody suspected that it won’t be a quick thing, devoid of complications. Tereza Hawkeye was a strong woman, used to hard work on the farm and running the house for her absent-minded husband. Riza remembers her red, calloused hands and freckles that would appear on the bridge of her nose during summer months; remembers her smile and the smell of her hair.  There wasn’t a soul that would look at her and guess that Tereza was born in the aristocratic circles of Central City, with an army of servants ready to attend to her every whim and silk dresses in her closet, that she could rise very, very high if she didn’t decide to so-called ‘’follow her heart’’, run away with the young alchemist and settle down with him in the village on the countryside, forgotten by god and men alike.

To be honest, Riza never thought much about her mother until she became a mother herself. Trying to put together fragments of Tereza in her head the way one could play with a jigsaw puzzle, she looked through few faded photographs she had left and recollected even more faded pictures in her memory. And the more she thought about it and the more she watched Roy and Grumman playing chess together, the more she pondered of how much of a hopeless romantic really was in her mother. Because it seemed to her Tereza could be as well a perfectly pragmatic young woman who just plainly decided she preferred to be barefoot and pregnant at the edge of the world than to be pushed on the board according to the whims of her father – even as a queen.

No matter her motives, Tereza married Berthold Hawkeye and gave him a daughter before dying in childbirth along with their son.

And Riza remembers that waiting all too well; small blonde girl sitting forgotten and omitted on an armchair in the corridor, clutching her teddy bear close to her chest, her face pressed to the faded material. She remembers screams behind the wall, remembers how her father stormed inside, remembers the sound of the door shutting close. Remembers long hours of pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids just to see stars exploding. Sometimes she feels like maybe she never left this armchair, never hoped off to kiss her mother’s soft, cold cheek goodbye.

And then years and years of silence, of wind blowing inside the house and playing with endless pages of her fathers’ notes laying discarded on every surface. Of silence in which they both were trapped, like flies in a jar full of honey, which they shared for so long she thought she will never speak again. Until a pretty boy from Central City appeared on their creaking doorstep, with his laughing dark eyes and a suitcase. He bowed in front of her politely and asked about her name.

And she said ‘’Riza’’, even though only her mother ever called her that, even though she was ‘’Tereza’’ in her birth certificate.

And he smiled widely.

‘’What a beautiful name.’’

Forget fire alchemy;  the warmth she felt in that moment was incomparable with any other before and after.

At least her daughters won’t be left to her own devices after she’s gone. At least she has given them a better father than hers. At least this, at least that, all bitter, all making her choke.

*

They tell them first thing in the morning.

Time for deception and avoiding this topic is over. They wasted it on constructing elaborate lies instead of trying to find the right words and it’s so, so hard now. Riza grips Roy’s hand tightly under the table during the breakfast and opens her mouth before he has a chance to.

“I’m sick, girls.”

The harsh, ugly truth. Cruel military honesty.

Sara whips her head up to stare at her in shock, her eyes round like coins and confused. She drops her fork; it slips from in-between her fingers and lands with a clatter on the porcelain plate, spraying her blouse with yellow of scrambled eggs. But, as Riza takes a look at her older daughter, she thinks Eli as well could’ve, on the contrary, turned into a stone. She doesn’t even blink. She just sits perfectly still, her hand suspended in the air, reaching for a bread roll.

A heartbeat passes, maybe two.

“Girls-“

Eli’s hand slaps down on the table.

“How sick?”

Sara’s bottom lip starts to tremble. Dear god, please don’t let her cry. – thinks Riza desperately, feeling something welling up in her chest. She feels like a grenade about to burst and kill everyone in the room.  Maybe that’s truer than she suspected.

She tries to answer and, horrified, finds that she cannot seem to find any words.

“Very sick, Eli.” – says Roy instead; quietly, gently, he reaches out to caress Sara’s cheek and here they are, rolling down her perfect, pink skin. Tears, one after another.

Riza cannot breathe, cannot think even.

Eli slowly lowers her eyes, until they stay stuck on her plate; she is so, so beautiful like that, lost in thought. Forget blonde hair and sun-kissed complexion of Hawkeye’s, forget her blooming breasts and round face – she has never looked more like Roy right now, when Riza can almost see the gears in her head turning, her brilliant mind putting facts in order.

“I knew it. I knew it and yet… I didn’t want to know it.” – Eli’s voice is very quiet, barely above whisper, but she commands the attention of everyone. Even Sara stops biting on her lip to look at her. – “You stopped working and god, all those trips. The trip all the way to Xing, that you didn’t take us – you were visiting Al and Mai, right? To ask if they can do anything.”

Riza suddenly has an urge to laugh. To cry also, but mostly to laugh. Her eyes find Roy and there it is, their common understanding how could we thought we can ever keep anything a secret from them?

Even if they don’t know, they do. Sara’s finger stuck in her mouth, how big of a crybaby she became lately, her ever-brave and ever-bold firecracker of a girl.  The stare of Eli’s watchful eyes analyzing every action and change in their daily routine.

“You are too smart for us, darling.” The corners’ of Roy’s lips twitch as if he was about to smile. “We never give you enough credit.”

Eli takes a shaky breath and barks a sad, little laugh before burying her face in her hands for a moment. When she raises her head up, her amber eyes are shiny.

“I don’t think I am, honestly. If I was, I would know what to tell you –“

“Are you going to die, mommy?”

Silence falls like a knife, cutting Eli’s sentence in half and freezing Riza’s brain. Sara is standing now, hands planted flat on the table and she leans towards her; tears still rolling down her cheeks and nose already red, she asked her question with the dead seriousness, crashing violently with the high, birdy pitch of her voice.

Ishbal was one, never-ending bloodbath that she will never manage to atone for. Working under Bradley was a constant, day by day struggle, when her body felt like a taunt bow-string, never relaxing, always on alert. During five minutes when she thought Lust had killed Roy she barely felt  alive at all. Promised Day was a nightmare. Her first miscarriage sent her into the very depths of despair. Sitting with Roy in that room and hearing the results of the tests, seeing his face and the light gone from his eyes, she was sure there will be nothing more harder than that. But having lived through it all, Riza realizes has never felt more broken, more helpless and devastated, than now; when she has to gently cradle her youngest daughter’s face in her hands, look her in the eyes and say, without any turn-backs or bullshit excuses:

“Yes.”

*

There are more than a few things that she loves about her life. She loves their house in Central; cozy, bright and without fancy high ceilings and big windows that would put her bodyguard instincts into overdrive. She loves her dogs; their simplicity and loyalty, how they always come over to greet her home, how they appreciate a good scratch between their ears and how they all remind her of dear Hayate somehow. There are days that she even loves Central City, its hustle and bustle, and all the memories – good and bad alike – that she made here.

But above all, she loves her family and each and every person that form it. She suspects she will never stop marveling at the miracle that happened to her at some point; that the lonely, sad little girl growing up as alone as a child can possibly be, ended up surrounded by so many people loving her and caring for her. So many people to say goodbye to.

She considers herself lucky. More than lucky – the luckiest.

It doesn’t think any of this makes is easy. On the contrary -  she thinks it would be easier if she was not so generously gifted by fate. The biggest struggle, as she learns in time, is to not say I’m fine all the time, not repeating it as a foolish parrot round the clock. She respects Roy and girls too much to maim them with this fool’s gold phrase, but it’s so difficult. She finds herself biting on her tongue more often than not, several times a day, until there are scars on the soft tissue that refuse to heal.

Cause she is not fine.

*

Where it hurts most,  asks her Roy one time, desperately, in the dead of the night; his arms around her, holding her upright from behind and his lips on the back of her neck as she sags above the toilet. At this point, she can’t remember how much time has passed since she started vomiting, the room is spinning in front of her eyes and she too bone-deep tired to even try faking anything, and so maybe that’s why she actually answers him.

She slowly wills her arms to raise up, until her hands are up in the air, high enough so he can see.

“This.” She says, voice small and throat scraped raw, but she knows he would understand anyway.

This never-ending shaking, twitching, trembling, as if somebody was electrocuting her limbs all the damn time. Her treacherous hands that used to be so sure and reliable holding a gun, finger concrete-still on the trigger, and which now did not even allow her to braid her daughters’ hair. She misses their sureness and, even more than that, the sign of them simply makes her scared. Everything is more real, more tangible, seeing this tremble.

And then she starts to vomit again, with blood this time, and she doesn’t want to remember anything else from what followed, but she recalls how it ended; the blissful, cool sheets, the wet rag on her forehead. Roy on his knees by the bed, kissing her every finger and knuckle and line on her palms.

*

They go to Dalisay in June, just four of them. The road is longer and harder than Riza hoped it would be, with pain running up and down her spine like an electric current, her hands struggling to turn the pages of the book - but it’s nice anyway, so nice.

She cannot read and is too tired to talk really, so she just sits with legs resting on the opposite sofa and head nested on Roy’s shoulder, listening to Sara’s baby-bird-twitting. Her girl spends the whole journey standing up with her palms pressed to the glass, looking out of the window and asking about everything – what is this station, what is this city, how many hours ahead of us, are these sheep, mommy look, mommy look. And Riza obliges, slowly turning her head in the direction of the outside and nobody has to know that she doesn’t look at the sheep, or horses, or little farms, but she just watches Sara; her eyes gleaming, her cheeks cherry pink, dark hair curling around her face.

Eli has an alchemy book on her lap, opened right at the middle, but it’s more for the show as she’s not reading either. From time to time, she scratches Mochi’s head or pets Koya gently, but most of the time she just stays silent. Riza feels her eyes on her, as her skin tingles from the intensity of this state, with the familiar desperation, love, and longing. How to burn someone’s face in your memory, in your heart? If you stare long enough, can you remember for forever?

So, the only voices in their compartment – a nice one, really, with comfortable sofas and wooden floors and curtains, private, for what she’s more than thankful – are Sara’s questions and Roy’s answers. He knows everything about the landscape outside and Riza wonders how weird it must feel for him, going down this old memory lane with them, taking the same train that he used to take as a little boy and then teenager, but many years later, with his family and his dear, dying wife. She doesn’t know what kind of feelings it must evoke – she was always the one waiting on the train station after all, static and longing.

He tells Sara – this is river Enola, do you know where it starts? This village is called Priam, they have a sunflower festival every summer, yes, we can go see it. Yes, this blue thing is a lake, lake Moore. It’s very big. Like, hm, from your school to the park? No honey, I don’t think whales live there. Dolphins neither. But there are many other fish.

Riza skids closer to him, feeling his arm gently wrapping around her, his fingers rubbing circles on her hip. He must take comfort in knowing at least this, answering at least those questions. For Roy’s action-driven nature it must be torture to drift with her like that, time slipping from in between their fingers like water. But he slows down to stay by her side as long as they have left, wills his blood and heart to match the rhythms of hers. He is no longer her wildfire, but a rock, solemn and still.

Unflinching.

*

Dalisay’s somehow just like in her memory and completely different at once, and it makes her head spin. The streets are busier, livelier – with the opening of new train lines and the discovery of rare elements in the area nearby, her sleepy little village has never been so awake. But the air still smells like honeysuckle and strawberries, the grass is so shockingly green compared to the one in Central.

It’s a new world, altogether. It’s almost like they crossed some barrier and entered a foreign land.

And her daughters explore it eagerly, even Eli losing that worried expression from the train in order to curiously peek around the corners and listen to people talking with a melodic, longish intonation that Riza has abandoned long ago, somewhere between the first and second year of the Academy. Sara basically vibrates with energy as she runs from one stall to another on the farmer’s market, begging Roy for sugared almonds or a pack of mint candies.

As the girls lead the way, the two of them slowly stroll, step by step. Riza holds onto Roy’s arm, but she feels so light that it surprises even herself. The pains more bearable like that. She can almost convince herself that the girls are a little smaller, that they are still a First Family, that it’s just a regular Saturday like thousands before and thousands after. The sun’s so warm and honeysuckle so sweet, and they take a break here and hide in the shade for a second.

“I have dreamed of taking you on that damn market, you know.” – Roy whispers into her ear and she just has to laugh at the irritation at his voice. –“ But I never had enough money or guts to do it.”

“To be honest, I think guts were the bigger issue.” – she waves her hand at the crowd and the stalls. – “ The only thing you could’ve bought me here back then were carrots probably.”

He chuckles lightly, gently sneaking one arm around her waist to stabilize her, as the smooth street turns into a cobblestone path. She wonders briefly if he even notices those small acts of care that he performs or if they are something completely instinctual. Her heart swells at the thought and she turns her head slightly and presses a kiss just below his jawline.

“What was that for?” he asks softly, caressing her cheek with a free hand in return.

“Everything.” She simply states and rests her head on his shoulder as they continue to stroll at snail’s pace, in silence this time. She is sure he understands. They never really needed many words between them anyway.

Bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, they make their way forward.

*

There were snakes in Ishbal. Or, she supposes, there are snakes in Ishbal, since they have proven to be far more resilient than Ishbalans.

Upon entering the front, the first thing higher-ups did, was presenting  her with a pair of military boots and forbidding her to ever take them off. They were monstrous things, made from tough, boiled leather, with an extra protective layer around the ankle; they weighted a ton and made her feet cook inside, turned her skin white, slimy and wrinkly. But she and everyone else would dutifully wear them every day, even in their sleep, mindful of the alternative.

Sand vipers like dark and cool places, just like humans in the desert. They are small and sleek, their bodies fashioned for zig-zaging through the golden dunes and escaping from sunlight. If they bite you, you don’t even feel it at first; you go on with your life, resume your duties. But after two hours or so, you start to shiver violently. Then, in mere minutes,  you lose your balance. Then your sight, your hearing. And then you die, just like that. It takes maybe an hour from the first tremble. You don’t have any time to say goodbye, to write a letter to your loved ones.  You are gone before you can feel yourself slipping away.

More Amestrians died from this goddamn venom than from any Ishabalan resistance, that’s for sure.

Riza’s sickness is kinda like that.

It takes time to unravel, gives her a room to breathe, gives Roy and the girls and even herself some hope against all reason, because how can she die if she still can walk and talk and smile? If she cooked a dinner yesterday and tended to the flowers in the garden in the afternoon?

Yes, she can.

Yes, she does.

One morning, she doesn’t get up.

I still have time to say goodbye, I still have some time, I still do. - she keeps on thinking right until it runs out.

ROY

In the end, after Havoc and Catalina take sobbing Sara away to their flat, it’s only Roy and Eli, alone.  Her, curled on the bed by Riza’s right side. Him, kneeling on the floor next to the bed by Riza’s left side. Each holding her hand.

It’s very late and very quiet, no sound besides Riza’s heavy breathing. She has lost consciousness days ago and ever since then, Roy has been staring into her unseeing eyes and trying to spot just a spark of awareness in them, just a little bit of brightness. It’s all for naught, of course. Her eyes are still brown, but they are no longer hers. He doesn’t know where his wife went to, but she’s not here. He told that Eli a thousand times and more and she would always nod in understanding and then lay back down on the folded sheets and resume tracing gentle circles on Riza’s limp hand.

So he gave up trying to talk her out of staying. Besides, her presence gives him comfort, he cannot deny it; she’s the other set of heartbeat in the room that is not going to go silent any time soon. And she’s the only one who can possibly come close to understanding what he feels, no matter how different was Riza’s role in her life compared to the one in his.

Riza, Riza, Riza. Slipping through their fingers so damn quickly. He keeps on begging for just one more smile from her, just one more word that means anything; not the delirious babbling that she sometimes lets out, not those screams full of fury when they try to move her. She just went under so quickly and violently that it makes his head spin.

‘’Life is no more than a candle burning in the darkness, about to get blown away at any moment.’’ – Eli whispers, breaking the silence.

Roy almost smiles at that. They’ve been playing this game of quotes ever since she was six, but recently, she started to win more than lose. His bright girl.

“I don’t know.’’ – he admits, his eyes trained on Riza’s face. God, she is still so beautiful. Her skin is clammy from sweat, lips half-opened and cheeks hollow and she remains the only woman he has ever had eyes for. – ‘’Who wrote it?’’

‘’Mom said it.’’

Eli’s voice is heavy and, when he takes a look at her, he realizes she’s on the verge of tears.

“She did?’’

‘’Yeah. She also said I should cherish the light as soon as it lasts. But - papa, this is - so hard.’’ – his daughter lowers her head, her hair falling down and obscuring her face from him, but he can still hear her choked sobs. Her shoulders are shaking. She hasn’t called him ‘’papa’ since Sara was born.

She does not deserve this, crosses his mind. Maybe it’s my punishment for all the things I did, but she’s innocent. She’s good. She does not deserve this.

He wonders what he can say to her to make it easier for her and finds himself empty-handed and terrified. So he settles for the only thing he can say.

‘’I know, baby. I know.’’

He holds out his free hand and she takes it. Her grip is strong and sure, and he thinks, once again when did she grow up, when did it happen? Five minutes ago she used to have two long braids and missing front teeth. Ten minutes ago she used to be a sleeping babe by Riza’s breast, cheeks pink and brows constantly furrowed, as if she was pondering about the universe’s biggest questions. And now she’s here, they’re both here, holding hands in a circle and waiting in silence for the candle to burn out.

*

‘’She wanted to say goodbye so badly. We had so much time and wasted it all.’’

‘’We did not waste any time, dad. I don’t think you can ever really say goodbye to someone like that.’’

*

Riza dies before the morning comes, choking on the blood flooding in her lungs and flashing the whites of her eyes in desperate attempt to catch yet another breath. Roy does not cry; instead, he stays solemn and still as a stone, his voice loud and clear, telling her how he remembers when they first met.

“What a life we had, my love. You can go now, rest.”

He can feel his heart beating in his throat.

Eli sobs helplessly, clutching Riza’s hand to her chest.

“I love you mom, I love you, I love you.”

Maybe Eli is right. What more can you say than that? I love you, I will miss you. And Riza already knows all of that, wherever she is.

“You don’t have to be brave anymore, Riza.” - He tells her, every word dipped in honey of years well-lived.

And then there is only silence, uninterrupted, ringing in his ears like a gunshot.

He can swear that his wife last breath was a sigh of relief.

ELIZABETH

Dawn finds Elizabeth curled on the swings in the garden.

She has laid down here after mom died, hours ago; slipped out of the house just when the lights of uncle Jean’s car appeared on the driveway. In part, she wanted to give them all the space to say their goodbyes and didn’t feel like she was needed inside. In another part, she just wanted to be somewhere else for a while.

Nobody told her that death had its own smell.

And nobody told her that her mom’s corpse will still be soft and warm after she passes away. That, if one would not look for it, you could even not notice she wasn’t breathing.

Elizabeth sat on the bed and felt as mom’s hand in hers was growing colder and all she could think of is that it’s still her mom.

And so she fled, her feet wet from the morning dew and sobs still tearing through her body.

She’s not crying now; it feels like she has run out of tears, to be honest.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she’s thinking: there are mom’s clothes hanging in the closet. Her shoes put neatly on the shelves by the door. Her favorite mug, the one with chipped rim, on her bedside table. Her favorite perfume, the one in a blue glass bottle,  in the bathroom.

What we’re supposed to do with all of that?

What am I supposed to do, when she’s gone?

Now it’s only her and sunrise, light caressing her face like her mom sometimes used to do, when she was tucking her in.  She closes her eyes and she can almost see that; moonlight coloring mom’s hair silver and her soft, low voice wishing her goodnight. The smell of her shampoo. The quiet rhythm of her steps on the carpet as she was leaving, the sound of the door shutting close because Elizabeth never wanted the ajar.

Mom used to sing to her when she was sick. Soon you’ll get better. Soon it’ll get better.

Elizabeth pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Maybe she can pretend it’s not real, if only for now. Maybe she can forget that their time has run out.

Maybe she can just – close her eyes and think about her mom, about her face and her voice.

Ooo-ah, you’ll get better soon.

Despite the morning chill, for a moment, all she feels is warmth.

[sick-raven]

Ghosts of the past - Chapter 2

Chapter 1 and all warnings

AO3

Chapter2

Mercy and Dylan were standing in the warehouse next to a van. There were more Don Falcone’s men but these two lead this business. Gun dealing was simple thing for most parts. It only went sideways if the Bat appeared.

“That woman, where is she?” asked Dylan.

“Over there, among the containers,” pointed Mercy. “She went all over the warehouse and then disappeared in shadows.”

“Sick,” grumbled Dylan. “I hate these guys for hire, all of them are freaks. Remember Deadshot?”

“Don’t remind me.” The memory of people killed by simple pin was still too fresh.

“How do we call this one anyways? Dark ninja lady?”

“Banshee,” the voice behind them said darkly. Mercy and Dylan almost jumped out of their skins. The woman stood behind them, scarf on her face, jingle bells on her belt and several weapons next to them. “They are coming,” she said and walked away. Mercy tried to follow her with her gaze, but once Banshee entered shade of crates it was like she disappeared.

“Freaks.”

Another van entered the warehouse. Out of it came five people armed to teeth. This was very friendly business, Mercy recognized two of them. These sells usually went smoothly.

Banshee overlooked the whole situation. She was more used to excitement. This bored her. When she offered her services, she hoped for more hitman jobs. Being a bodyguard and waiting for the Bat to appear… she could have just spent her evening watching TV.

People down there were talking, showing each other goods, smiling even. Banshee let herself get lost in thoughts. This was her fourth week in Gotham so far. She expected it to be harder. The toyshop even had a few customers already.

The boring sell was over. Everybody turned to leave. Banshee stayed in the shadows, her time will come. She needs to clean the booby-traps she set. All that preparation for nothing.

No, not nothing. You got paid, remember?

With a sigh she started to clean. While taking down the sound traps, a rustle of fabric sounded through the place. Banshee turned fast but nothing was there. She frowned, someone was here, they will not slip away.

Banshee made two steps, looked around, a sound mine firmly held in her hand.

Nothing.

She felt her heart speeding up. She jumped away just in time. Batarang missed her. She tossed the mine the way she expected the attacker. High frequency waves filled the room. The rhythm bounced of her heart making her chest painful.

Then she saw him lurking in the shadows. She took out a gun and shot two times. Missed. He disappeared among the boxes. Banshee jumped up and turned on another sound grenade. Her body got used to crazy beats over the years but even herself couldn’t take them forever. Covering your ears wouldn’t work because the frequency attacked the body.

The Bat stumbled in the darkness revealing himself. She jumped on him, kicked him. He tried to dodge, he caught her punches but couldn’t hold her long enough to stop her. Punch, kick, he started bleeding from the nose. The noise intensified and even Banshee felt copper taste in her mouth.

In final attempt he moved away and grappled way from her. He disappeared.

Banshee stood there breathing heavily. She couldn’t believe her eyes, she felt like she was fighting her old friends, like…

Her body trembled. She didn’t have this reaction for years!

Banshee turned off the sound mines. She breathed out, her heart calmed down, and held her shirt under which her necklace was hidden.

“You still here?” she asked empty warehouse. “I have a question.”

But she was all alone.

***

That night Miranda walked home, and she noticed a person standing at the end of the street. She blinked and the silhouette was gone.

***

Leading a double life was standard for her at this point. She loved her job, the excitement of the hunt. But too much excitement can kill you. That’s why she divided herself. Miranda Bradbury, nice shopkeeper, enjoys pizza and alcohol and loves to sing loudly when alone. And Banshee, assassin, gun for hire, wanted in all fifty states. And both of them on the run.

She was sitting in her shop when a customer came in. She jumped on her feet. Everyone would recognize the face and in real life, he was even more handsome than the gossip magazines made him look. Bruce Wayne.

“How can I help you?” she asked and almost spilled tea all over herself and the counter. Gotham’s billionaire walking into her shop? That was crazy!

“Miss Bradbury is it?” he smiled with perfect teeth. “I’ve heard you redecorated this place.”

She didn’t know what to say so she just nodded, dumbfounded.

“I love to see old places getting new, better reputation,” he continued to look around.

“Glad to help.”

He laughed shortly and leaned over the counter. “There is this charity event for local orphanage. So, I was thinking about donating toys. I am sort of collector myself, I have this giant T-Rex from Jurassic Park replica in my basement, so when I was looking for likeminded people, I found your shop.”

“I have no words,” joked Miranda. Straight to the point, these billionaires. “Nobody every called me nerd this nicely before. I can give you discount. For the kids.”

“Thank you, that’s great! Can we make really big order?”

“Sure.”

“And I will make sure to send you the event invitation. My treat.”

***

That’s how Miranda got into this gala evening. She felt very inappropriate in her cheap dress among all these posh, rich people. She stood by the bar, drinking one glass after the other. Formal events didn’t interest her much, but it was a good marketing. Despite everything, she cared for the shop. It gave her money, it made children happy, it was her base for illegal deals.

She’s seen Bruce Wayne flirt with every woman he met. So, the magazines didn’t lie, he was a playboy. Good on him, when you can enjoy a life, you should do it.

Watching the crowd got tiring fast. She was scanning the room, ate some finger food from time to time. The atmosphere of music and laughter got to her. Or maybe it was the alcohol. She saw the silhouette again.

This time closer.

Someone walked past her field of vision.

The shape disappeared.

That’s it! No more drinking! She gathered herself and went to find a bathroom. The building was full of small corridors leading to nowhere. She ended in one of those.

No toilet. But at the end of the corridor she saw three man in masks holding one of the servers in front of them like a human shield, gun aiming at server’s head.

Miranda stopped. The armed people noticed her. She was too far away for them to grab her, but also too far for any self-defence. ‘Great,’ the thought, ‘next time, bring a knife.’

They did only logical thing. Shot at her with their silenced guns. She did only logical thing. Ran behind the corner and went fast for the main hall.

“Watch out!” she shouted but the loud music silenced her. ‘Well, every man for himself,’ she decided and ran up the stairs. She didn’t trust the main door. Windows or a roof will be her way out.

She went up one flight of stairs, almost knocked one of the waitresses over, and stopped dead in her steps. On the top of the stairs stood… a man? Dressed as bad Halloween decoration in scarecrow costume with scythe in one hand and gloves with sharp nails.

It’s an ambush led by crazies! Damn you Gotham!

The man didn’t say a word. He held his scythe high and slashed towards her. She jumped backward and stumbled. She moved one more time kicking her high heels off. No need to break your neck when you can be chopped to pieces.

The crowd downstairs started to scream. The armed men finally walked in. Sound of gunshots quickly silenced the music and the fun.

Miranda thought about the best approach. Scarecrow was walking down slowly; the bullets were flying downstairs. She calculated. Yeah. She was fucked.

“There is no getting away,” whispered the man scythe ready.

“Oh, tell me about it,” she snarked and went for him head on. He cut at her, she went close and caught the scathe by the handle. She kicked him in the guts, he bent from the pain, not letting go of the weapon. Scarecrow gathered himself and then grabbed at her with the glove, scratching her chest as she dodged.

Too late she realized he wasn’t going after her neck. When he held the hand up the tiny silver ball dangled in front of her. She screamed in shock, then he pushed her down.

She fell hard on her back down the stairs. “No! Give it back!” she demanded and then…

They stood there. Around Scarecrow there were six of them. The ghosts hoovered and their shadows ate the light from her eyes and oxygen out of her lungs. She wanted to scream and run and cry. She couldn’t. Miranda stopped breathing, she felt her heart beating quickly, nearly jumping out of her chest. The ghosts came closer and closer.

Their cold hands on her neck, on her chest, in her mouth. Choking her.

Scarecrow stood there watching. Even if she could, she wouldn’t see his expression. Yet he seemed pleased.

But she was dying.

She had no other care in the world. Body numb, lungs crippled. Death.

And then the world went dark.

***

It was supposed to be a quick hit and run. Gather the money from rich Gothamites, maybe test new smoke grenades and then leave. The research won’t pay itself. Scarecrow didn’t want to risk running into the Bat. He had healthy respect towards the detective. He had plans for him that didn’t include meeting him tonight.

But he also didn’t expect to meet Miss Bradbury. She tried to put up a fight and she was very good. He was sure she would have defeated him easily if he didn’t know her weak point.

He held the bell and watched her squirm. It gave him pleasure seeing people scrapped to their basic instincts. They scream, they fight or flight, they panic… brain is a brilliant machine. Fear it beautiful and it tastes like power. Grandma knew. Jonathan also knows.

But this pleasure vanished being replaced by sheer curiosity. Miranda Bradbury didn’t fight. Neither did she flight. She screamed, stumbled and then nothing.

He kneeled next to her.

No pulse. No breath.

“What?” he whispered to himself. He’s seen people die of fear. Their hearts giving in to pressure. But this… She just made him more curious.

What if…

Nonsense.

He did it anyways. He placed the silver ball in her palm. It made a small jingling sound as he handed it out.

Nothing. No change.

Of course, what was he thinking?

Shouting brought his attention to hall. “Damn it,” he mumbled as the Batman took out first guy. No time to waste, this was a fail of the bust. Jonathan threw one of his smoke grenades to the crowd. He turned to run.

He felt fingers slip of his ankle.

Miranda watched him, to weak to grab him.

“Interesting.”

Time to flee.

***

“Are you okay, miss Bradbury?”

Miranda stood next to the bar. She was drinking wine someone left standing there. Medics already took every shaken and screaming person out. Not her. She was fine. She was okay. She didn’t need help. She. Was. Fine.

She took another glass. Then finally looked at Wayne.

“Little shaken,” she answered. A little? Miranda, dear, you nearly died. They had you. You felt them eat your soul. Cut your life piece by piece. They got you. All thanks to that jerk.

‘Doctor-patient confidentiality my ass,’ she thought angry at herself.

“Let me take you home,” offered Wayne.

How thoughtful. Problem was, she didn’t trust him. Her low-life criminal scum moves to Gotham and in few weeks damn Bruce Wayne is offering her a ride. Right after Batman kicked ass near her. Seemed to be too big of a coincidence.

“No, thank you. I think I will walk. Clear my head,” she smiled at him drinking one more glass in one go. Let the sweet unconsciousness take her.

“As you wish. Just be careful,” he backed away. Maybe she scared him with her stare or alcohol odour.

So, she walked. In this huge city it would take her hours. She didn’t care. There was a time she spent days walking barefoot on snow and sharp rocks. Miles and miles until every inch of her body became numb to pain. To every feeling.

Why did she remember now?

Oh, right, she left her shoes in the hall.

Fuck, Miranda, what were you thinking! She stopped, leaned on disgusting Gotham wall and stared at the blimps flying overhead. Think clearly! How hard is it, you stupid bitch!

There were no stars visible. She remembered skies full of lights. She used to watch them every evening as a reminder she is still alive. Shimmering in the night sky – yes, still alive after hours of pain and torture and training. Still alive.

What will remind her here? Blinking lights of blimps? The Bat symbol shining on the heavy dark clouds that seemed to never go away? How can she be sure she isn’t one of them? A ghost?

“What’s beauty like you doin’ on a street like this?” The voice snapped her from memory land. Drunken man was walking towards her, knife in hand. “Gimme your jewellery and I will not gut you,” he chuckled.

“Fuck off, I am not in the mood.”

“What’ya say?” he blinked in surprised and got angry immediately. “You whore I tried to be nice!”

He stabbed at her. She caught his hand, broke his wrist in one fast movement. Silenced the scream before it even started by kicking him in the head.

He lay there like a sack of potatoes bleeding from the corner of his mouth.

Like an alarm clock, the rush of adrenaline finally awoke her from dizziness and bad memories. Finally, her mind cleared. It was all so obvious.

Jonathan Crane just tried to kill her.

Banshee will not let that pass.

Chapter 3

[thefandomdirtymind]

First fight

Marvel

Steve Rogers x reader

Vintage couple serie : 1- 2

Warning : Smut 

The city was in fire. Around you, some of the building you had habit to see on your morning walk to your work, was now on the ground, huge pile of trash. Like everyone else, when the bomb as start to explose in different place in New York, you had run, letting the avenger take the terrorist down.

Outside on the street, you look around you, hoping to found a safe place. Or at least, see Steve, on his Captain america uniform, in perfect health doing his job. It had start with a muffle noise in a crowd of scream and cries, a particular sound coming for one of the trash space, one with some spot again in fire. 

“ Hel...Help meee....Heellpp...eee” 

There, between two piece of what could be a wall, a little hand was trying to gain some attention for save his life. Running without thinking of the danger, you try to avoid the fire. Coughing because of the dust and the smoke it take you a few time. But, you succeed to push away enough fragment to finally see the face on the little kid you desperately try to help. Cover in dust, her cheeks was wet of tears and a long bloody scratch was crossing his forehead.

“ He sweetheart, we will get you out of here and we will found your mommy okay ? “ You confort her, pushing with all your weight to move the largess part blocking his way out.  

“ O..Okay but attention !” 

To late, the metal piece cut the side of your hand, making you yelp of pain. Soon, your blood start to pour on your arms,staining the sleeve of your shirt. But, you didn’t truly feel the pain, the adrenaline was focus to help the children. Lifting her out of danger, you see the police running to help you. A clearly worried mother in tears behind them. 

The situation of the city was now safe, letting only to the journalist to film the damages and talk to the scared citizen. Sitting on a chair of what was earlier a little terrace, a medic was putting your hand in a bandage. It’s at this moment you see him, walking urgently toward you, in his dirty blue, red and white uniform, his helmet was nowhere to see. 

“ Y/N, are you okay ?” He ask, concern.  

“ This woman had save a little girl for death Captain, you should be proud “ The Medic said, letting you two alone. 

But, Steve stay silence, a weird expression on his face. 

“ Do you think we can go home ? ” You ask, tired and feeling the pain killer slowly doing their effect. 

“ Of course, I take you back to your appartement, do you think you can stay on a motocycle ?” He said,reaching for his key, clearly struggle to not looking at you. 

“ Yes, i’m not that hurt...” Getting up of the chair you follow him. 

It’s was not the first time you ridding his moto,but, he was usually helping you to getting on it, or crack a joke about you being way more beautiful that the people he was taking on his old machine at the war. But, this time, he say nothing, just starting the machin after making sure that your arms was enough lock around his waist. 

Entering into you appartement, you remove your shoes, letting a sigh escape your lips. 

“ Can I use your shower ?” Steve ask, removing his top, letting him in his white t-shirt and pants, putting his shield against the wall.

“ Sure, but before, what’s your problem” You demand, knowing that somethings was coming. 

“I don’t have a problem “ He reply, coldly. “ I’m just kind of upset that when I was busy at saving the city, hoping that my girlfriend was alright, knowing she was enough smart to just found a safe place to stay But now,. I hear that she just put herself in danger and hurt herself in the process !” He shout, grinning his teeth.

Surprise, you feel the anger boil in your vein. 

“ Excuse me, without me this little girl was probably dead ! And you don’t have to do me a lesson, you show me how you was before the experimentation, but that didn’t stop you to try helping people !” You reply, hearing your voice becoming more and more loud.

“ I trying to enter into the army, I didn’t just ran into a dangerous area without preparation ! The police is on the street for these reason, help citizen in crisis.” 

“ Nobody was running at her help! What I was suppose to do, let her suffocate in there !? I only see the police where I succeed to lift her out of this awful pit of trash. I didn’t remove her of the fire, they were almost extinct when I had enter the area.” You cross your arms, ready to not let him win this battle. 

“ Oh great, so you through, the fire is almost dead, nothing worst can happen ?! What’s happening if the floor had fall and you felt or the wind had touch the fire and trap you in it !” He reply coming closer. 

“ I save a live Steve Rogers, no I didn’t over think before it or had a proper plan, but I don’t usually do it for living ! I’m sorry if I had worried you but I’m fine !” You finally said, knowing that seeing you hurt had probably shock him more that anythings else.  

“ Today, the only things I was thinking was I hope you was okay, we save this city and the only person I wanted to save was you.” The man respond, passing a hand on his face, letting you see his exhaustion and concern.” I can’t save you, if you put yourself in danger like that. I’m proud that you save a live, but please, next time call a policeman or at least other people to help you.” He finally said, taking your injurie hand in his. “ I’m sorry” 

You knew that the fight was over, then you said the only things left to do.

“ I’m sorry too” You said, putting a soft kiss on his lips.

“ I’m glad you are safe”

Smiling, you put yourself on your tip toes to put another kiss on his lips. 

“ I’m glad you are too” You confess before Steve lifting you on his arms letting you put your legs around his belt line.

“ If we go take this shower now ” Steve propose, putting his nose in the crock of your neck. “ You always smell good, but you kind of dusty an smell like smoke now, so you will need a shower too” 

“ Oh, then that will let me the chance to thank you to save the city and my life” You tease, playing the lady in distress. 

Laughing, Steve take you to the bathroom, helping you gently to remove your clothes between two kisses. Inside of the shower, the temperature between you two rivals with the warm water itself. 

Stuck between the wall and his strong body, your hand was never left his perfect skin. His mouth, like a butterfly, was flying between you lips, you necks and you breast. His hand for his part, was caressing your pussy,playing slowly with his thumb on your clits. Moaning, you body because tense, making him smile.  

“ Steve please, now “ You beg, you breath becoming quick by the anticipation. 

Lifting your leg along his waist, he keep it up, pushing himself slowly into your intimacy, watching you face taking this expression he loved so much. Biting your lips, you sigh of pleasure. Moving your hips, you follow his rythme, feeling the cold ceramic of the wall slapping you ass. His groan of pleasure was overwhelmed you, making you wish he will continu to make you love all night long.   

Closing your eyes, you gasp when he start to become faster,caressing the sensitive skin of your thigh.He whisper in your ear.

“ I love to see you like this, god you are beautiful” He said, his voice lower by his own pleasure building into him.  

Little cries was coming out of your mouth and te pressure of the orgasm was slowly invaded you. When it take you like a wave, your body start to convulse, out of control, making you screaming his name like if it was the only one you knew on your life. 

Steve had came not longer after you, his breath heavy, groaning while he bring you closer,his forehead against your. 

“ I love you Y/N” 

“ Me too Steve” 

Catching you breath, you kiss him deeply. Finishing your shower, you heading the bed for a good and earned nap. 

Tag: @jadepc, @anavengerstale @castellandiangelo @coffeebooksandfandom

[bxcketbarnes]

You’re Mine, Got It?

Pairing: Mitch x Reader

Author: @ninja-stiles

Words: 4723

Author’s Note: I found a prompt and this is what came out of it! Thanks to @mf-despair-queen for proofreading this for me :) Enjoy babes!

*Flashback*

 My boyfriend, Dylan, and I were heading to our one year anniversary when it all went down. Someone had run into us, making Dylan and I smash against the dashboard, his head smacking against the steering wheel. I groan in pain, hearing Dylan’s voice, but it’s like I was in a fishbowl, the accident making my ears ring.

“Baby? You okay?” He asks, pushing my hair away from the wound, touching it lightly, making me wince in the process. I nod my head, looking over at him, seeing a gash on his forehead. I see a silhouette behind him and I stiffen.

“D-Dylan, b-behind you.” I stutter, getting lightheaded. Dylan looked out the smashed window, squinting slightly to see the man in the smoke. My eyes drooped, my head laying against the dashboard, going in and out of consciousness. When my eyes were shut, a heard a gunshot go off, making me jump slightly, but stay still. I heard tires squeal, indicating the person drove off and I opened my eyes, seeing Dylan laying against the steering wheel, not moving. I tear up, reaching my hand towards him, shaking him slightly.

“Dy-Dylan? Baby?” I ask, slowly moving towards the drivers side door, gasping when I find a bullet hole burned between his eyes. I begin screaming and crying, trying my best to open the passenger’s side door, but not succeeding. I reach into my pocket, finding my phone and start to dial 911. I hold the phone up to my ear as it rings, taking huge breaths to keep myself conscious.

“911 what’s your emergency?” Dispatch asks me.

“Uh, m-me and my boyfriend were in an accident a-and a-a guy, h-he came out of the smoke and shot my boyfriend. I need help, I’m trapped in the car and I can smell gas, please…” I mumble, pressing my hand against my forehead.

“Alright, ma’am. Where’s your location?”

“Um, Fourth and Broad.” I recite, looking at the street sign that’s positioned to my right.

“Alright an ambulance will be there shortly. Try to keep your eyes open, alright ma’am?” I nod my head then remember that the woman on dispatch couldn’t see me.

“Y-Yes.”

*Flashback over*

I shiver at the memory. The worst day of my life, the day I lost my best friend and boyfriend of one year. Since then, I’ve been going to the gym, looking for a trainer to make me stronger, in case I deal with this type of situation again in the future. I begin to punch the pads on my trainer’s hands, getting all of my anger out from that day.

“C’mon Y/N, punch harder. Put all of your strength into the hit.” He demands, making me start to punch the pads harder, taking short breaths. My eyesight turns red, getting furious at the guy who took Dylan’s life, punching the pads with all my might, one of my wrists missing the pad hitting my trainer in the stomach. He groans while bending over, clearly in pain.

“Oh my god, Daniel. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I ask, kneeling next to him, taking the gloves off my hands.

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine. I see you finally channeled your anger.” He chuckles before wincing. I chuckle as well, hiding my face before moving my hair out of the way.

“I guess I did. I’m just, so appalled that someone would do that, to people they don’t even know.” I whisper, rubbing my eyes, trying not to cry in the middle of the gym.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sure the police are still looking for the guy. Since you’ve been gaining these new skills and have a hatred to people who do wrong, have you ever thought about trying out for the CIA or something?”

“I mean, yeah, but I don’t know if I really have the guts to shoot somebody,” I tell Daniel, helping him up off the ground.

“Well, you should definitely think it over, alright?” He asks as we walk out of the building. I give him a nod, waving goodbye, heading towards my car. Once I’m inside, I begin to think about what Daniel said about joining the CIA. I furrow my eyebrows as I’m in deep concentration, thinking if it’s a good idea or not. It would be a good idea, for the reason of that guy not being caught, being able to get justice for Dyl, but the downside is that I could be killed myself. I sigh, starting my car, heading home.

 Next Day…

 I walked into town, going to the farmer’s market when a tan-skinned woman approaches me. I look at her with a skeptical look, placing the bag of apples in my bag.

“Um, can I help you?” I ask, furrowing my eyebrows together.

“Yes, you can actually. I talked with one of your friends, Daniel. He told me that you’ve been training for almost a year and asked me to consider you for our kind of work.” She informs me, looking around at the people. “Do you mind if we can speak more privately?”

“S-Sure.” I comply, following her a coffee shop that doesn’t have that many people in. We take a seat in the back of the building, near the corner. “So, first thing’s first, what’s your name?”

“Irene Kennedy, and you are?” She asks, clasping her hands together.

“Y/N, Y/N L/N.” I tell her, picking at my fingers.

“Can you tell me what happened that day?” She asks, giving me a sympathetic smile.

“I-I can, yeah. So, me and my boyfriend of one year, Dylan, were going out for an anniversary dinner when we were t-boned by another car. Both of us had smacked our heads against the car and I remember him asking me if I was okay, which I nodded to. Soon after that, a man came out from the smoke and at the time, I didn’t see him holding a gun. I was in and out of consciousness. Then, all of the sudden, a gunshot went off and I don’t know if it was the car that had hit us or a different one, but they sped off. When I looked at Dylan, he had a bullet hole between his eyes.” I explain, tears pooling a little, wiping them quickly, not wanting to seem weak. She gives me a small smile, squeezing my hand lightly.

“Do you want to avenge his death?” She asked me while leaning forward slightly. I nod my head in agreement and she told me she’d drive to my apartment so I can pack some clothes, then she said she’d take me to some facility. I was going to question her, but she cut me off telling me to trust her.

I place my packed bag in the backseat, taking my place in the passenger seat as she takes off to this facility. It’s a silent ride to the place she’s bringing me to, except for the soft sound of the radio playing in the background.

“So, what kind of company is this?” I ask, curious because she hasn’t mentioned anything about who or what she works for.

“We’re basically assassins or hitmen. Or, in your case, a hitwoman. We take out terrorists that harm the world and I think you’d be a good fit.” She tells me, looking at me for a second before looking back at the road. I nod my head in surprise, not knowing that hitmen still exist.

“Do I have to do some sort of test to be eligible or?” I ask her, getting curious.

“Not exactly, we just have a bootcamp, it might be different for you since you’ll be the only girl, but you might be just as strong as the other guys there.” I nod at what she says, looking back at the road, seeing trees everywhere before a white house comes into view. Oh it’s beautiful. We pull up to the house, seeing a intimidating man walking out of the house, an unreadable expression etched on his face.

“Should I be afraid or?” I ask before we get out and she just shrugs. My lips part, not exactly answering the question and I get out of the SUV. I walk up with Irene, standing in front of a six foot tall bald man, who is currently wearing bitch face. My hands begin shaking a little as the man looks over me, his facial expression staying the same the entire time.

“Who the hell is this, Kennedy?” The man asks, anger laced in his voice.

“This is your new recruit.” She tells him.

“What do you mean? I thought Rapp was the last one you were going to bring in.” He crosses his arms and Irene sighs.

“I thought he was too, but I was contacted by her trainer, saying that she was training to fight and was learning real quick. Plus, she told me that she wanted to help stop the bad guys. I think she’ll be perfect under your supervision. You’re the best guy I know, Hurley.” Hurley sighs loudly, looking back at me before nodding his head.

“Fine. What’s your name?” Hurley asked.

“Y/N, sir.” I reply, politely.

“Alright, Y/N. Nobody in bootcamp knows their real names so, you need to come up with a fake name. Rule number one, tell no one about yourself, like where you’re from, shit like that. That’s a major rule around here. You can and will be kicked out if me or the other trainers find out you exposed yourself. Head to the barracks in the back. It’s a big wooden building, can’t miss it. I’ll meet you in there after getting your file from Kennedy here.” I nod in response, grabbing my bag, walking towards the building. I hear chatter and fighting when walking up to the door. Once inside, I find two guys fighting on the mat. The door closes loudly and everyone in the room stares at me. I feel a little intimidated at first before I make my way over towards and empty bunk. I place my bag on the bed, closing my eyes before taking a deep breath. You got this Y/N. I turn around to go back towards where the guys are, only to bump into someone.

“O-Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I apologize, my hands resting against a broad chest. I look up seeing that I had ran into a really attractive man. Holy fuck this man’s attractive. I blink a few times, taking in his features. Semi-long chestnut hair, whiskey colored eyes, pink lips that look delicious.

“It’s alright. So, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He asks me, a small grin on his lips.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You have no idea what I’m capable of and for all I know, I could totally kick your ass.” I smirk, crossing my arms and he looks at me surprised.

“Well, maybe we should find out then.” He chuckles, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s your name?” You need to come up with a fake name, Hurley’s voice ringing in my thoughts.

“Evie. What about you?” I ask, giving him a small smile.

“John. What do you say, first one to tap out wins?” John asks, moving his arm towards the mat, all the guys conversed in small talk.

“You’re on.” I walk over to the mat, taking my shoes and socks off. I slip my shirt off, exposing my galaxy colored sports bra. John strips his shirt off, exposing that beautifully sculpted body of his. I bite my lip slightly, silently checking him out while getting into a fighting stance. He comes at me first as I swiftly dodge him, standing behind him. While he’s still faced the other way, I trip his ankle, making him fall to the mat. I heard the other guys cheered me on, smiling to myself. I didn’t see John’s foot swoop under my feet, making me fall on top of him. I groan quietly, my hands on either side of his face. I blush, noticing that our faces are barely inches from each other.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” Hurley’s voice yelled out and I scramble off of John, standing up straight.

“N-Nothing, sir. John challenged me to a fight and I took it.” I confess, John nodding as well once he manages to stand up.

“And? Who won?” Hurley demands, looking between John and I.

“Well technically no-” John begins but I cut him off.

“I downed him first, sir. That is until the other men distracted me, making John take out my legs from beneath me.” John looks over at me before nodding his head in agreement. Hurley looks over at John in surprise.

“You’re one of my best fighters, John and you’re telling me that you got downed by a woman?” Hurley asks, giving one of his intimidated stares. I look over at John, seeing him nod his head in agreement.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I want you to help her improve her skills. She may have some, but they need to be highlighted, to the max. Now, what’s your name girl?” Hurley asks, giving me a knowing look, implying that I came up with a fake name by now.

“Evie, sir.” I respond, placing my hands on my hips.

“Evie, have you ever shot a gun before?” He asked and my face went white. Aw crap.

“I-I have not, sir.” I gulp, moving my hands in front of me, clasping them together.

“John, take her out to the range.” Hurley commands and John nods his head, putting his boots on. I walk over to my bunk, finding a pair of boots laid next to my bed, thinking someone must have put them there while I was fighting John. I lace up my boots, following John outside, walking towards the range.

“You know, you’re actually a pretty good fighter. How long have you known to fight?” He asked, walking side by side on the dirt path.

“Um, about a year.” I respond, truthfully.

“A year? Seriously? Wow, you must be a fast learner.” I nod, seeing the range in the distance, my hands becoming sweaty.

“Are you good with guns?” I ask, looking over at him.

“Yeah, really good. Probably one of the best people to train a newbie.” He gives me a lopsided grin, making my heart flutter. I nod, letting out a breath as we walk up to the gun port. I gulp, seeing all the different types of guns. Oh god. I’m so screwed.

“Alright, we’ll start with the pistol.” John grabs a loaded pistol, handing it to me. I slowly take it, immediately placing my finger on the trigger.

“Woah, woah. Could you take your finger off the trigger? It only takes one stumble for you to accidentally shoot yourself in the leg.” John mentions, putting his hands up slightly.

“S-Sorry.” I mumble, removing my finger from the trigger, giving John an apologetic smile. John chuckles, guiding me to the shooting range area. He stands behind me, placing his hands over mine, explaining how to hold the gun.

“Is this okay?” He asks, nodding his head towards our hands. I give him a small nod and a smile, John smiles as well, licking his lips slightly. “All right? Ready?” He asks and I give him a nod, feeling like I got it locked down. He releases the targets and I begin shooting at them, not exactly hitting them. Once all the targets are gone, I look back at John, giving him a defeated expression.

“Okay, so you weren’t wrong when you mentioned that you’ve never fired a gun.” I groan in response, placing the gun on the table.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’ll teach you everything I know.” He tells me and I nod.

“Tell me something first. I know we’re not supposed to, but you intrigue me.” I tell him and he ushers me to continue. “What’s your real name?” I ask, leaning against the counter. John licks his lips again, looking around, making sure no one’s around.

“Mitch, Mitch Rapp.” He says and something clicks in my mind. Rapp. “What’s yours?”

“Y/N, Y/N L/N.” I smile, which he returns.

“Alright, back to training.” Mitch chuckles, picking up the pistol, giving it back to me.

 2 Years Later…

I take cover behind a wall, reloading my gun as Mitch does the same next to me. I wince slightly, looking at my shoulder, seeing a bullet wound.

“Oh, fuck.” I mumble quietly, ducking past the door into the bathroom, raiding the cabinet of peroxide and gauze. Mitch ran into the bathroom, putting his gun away in his pants.

“They’re gone. Are you okay?” He asks, pressing his fingers against the wound, making me groan in pain.

“Ow. What the fuck, Mitch?” I yell, giving him a small glare.

“Sorry, I had to find out if it’s still in there.” He mentions, looking at the back of my shoulder, finding the exit wound. “Luckily it was a through and through.” I find some gauze and medical tape, handing them to Mitch. Our fingers brush as I hand him the supplies, my cheeks heating up slightly, reminding me of the first time he taught me how to shoot a gun. Mitch smiles softly at me, taking the supplies into his hand, patching up my shoulder.

“Thank you, Mitch.” I tell him, pressing my lips to his cheek. I pull away, seeing his cheeks dusted pink as I walk towards the front door, Mitch following.

“Alright, we need to get back to the hotel. Get some sleep and do some more intel about these guys.” Mitch informs me, placing his large hand on the small of my back as we walk down the street, looking around us, just in case. As we go around a corner, we’re met with a guy who looks to be in his forties, similar to the guys we were fighting before. We both take a step back, not knowing what this man is capable of and before we can even blink, the guy punches me in the face, knocking me out.

As I regain consciousness, I find Mitch next to me, a stab wound on his side. I rush to his side, slapping his cheeks lightly, trying to get him to wake up.

“C’mon, Mitch. C’mon, please.” I beg, tears sliding down my cheeks, my fingers shakingly moving to his neck, checking for a pulse. I sigh in relief, finding his pulse, laying my head against my chest. I heard him groan, quickly getting off of him, applying pressure to his wound. His eyes flutter open, giving me a small smile.

“I-I’m fine.” He stutters, trying to sit up. I chuckle, sniffling silently, helping him up.

“Mitch, you were stabbed.” I tell him, moving his shirt up, inspecting it closely. He removes my hands from his torso, intertwining our fingers and I look up at him, his smile fading once he see’s my face.

“What? Is there something on my face?” I ask, letting go of his hands and when I touched my face, I wince slightly.

“You’ve got a bruised cheek.” Mitch whispers, softly running his fingers across the large bruise. Mitch wraps an arm around my lower back, slowly walking into our hotel, heading upstairs to our room. Once inside, I bring Mitch into the bathroom, once again rummaging through the cupboards trying to find a first aid kit. I find it and search through it finding a needle and thread, my eyebrows furrowing into confusion. Needle and thread in a first aid kit? Huh. I stand in front of Mitch, who’s currently watching me.

“Take your shirt off.” I tell him, knotting the thread in the needle, getting out the peroxide.

“Wow, already? You could at least take me to dinner first.” He mutters, giving me a smirk and I give him a playful glare before giggling. He slips off his shirt, his body looking just as good as when I first saw it. I bite my lip as I place some peroxide on a cloth, pressing it to his wound. He winces slightly, placing a hand on my hip.

“Jesus, Y/N. A little warning next time.” He tells me, gripping my hip harder as I dab the dried blood.

“You’re an assassin. You can kill people perfectly, but can’t take a little stinging? I mean, you were just stabbed.” I say sarcastically, throwing the cloth away, piercing his skin with the needle, stitching his wound. I tie it off, throwing the needle away before placing gauze over it so they don’t rip.

“You honestly scared the shit out of me, Mitch.” I whisper, my eyes glued to the gauze I put on him.

“Why’s that?” He asks, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear and I look up at him.

“W-When I was trying to wake you up, y-you wouldn’t wake up, so I thought I lost you and I-I don’t want to lose another best friend.” I mutter, placing my hand on his bicep. His arms wrap around my thighs, lifting me up, bringing us to our room.

“You lost someone?” He quietly asks, while carrying me. I nod my head, placing my hands on his shoulder, rubbing them slightly.

“It’s a reason why I became an assassin,” I tell him and he drops me onto the bed, standing between my legs. He nods his head, our eyes connecting and his fingers softly rub my cheekbone before leaning down, placing his forehead against mine. My eyes flutter close, feeling my heartbeat quicken.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Mitch whispers against my lips and I nod my head, feeling his lips brush against mine ever so slightly. He presses his lips against mine, pushing me back onto the bed, hovering over me. Goosebumps appear all over my body, feeling his hand roughly squeeze my hip. His lips move down my jaw, onto my neck, trailing towards my ear.

“M-Mitch.” I moan, my hand gripping his hair. He leaves wet kisses down towards my shoulder, leading to my collarbone. I push him off of me, lifting my shirt off and unclipping my bra, revealing my breasts. Mitch’s eyes widen, biting his lip leaning down, pressing small kisses to each breast. I move my hand towards his length, but his hand stops me.

“This is all about you, baby girl.” He mutters, lightly biting my nipple, making me moan out. His lips leave my breasts, whimpering, needing more from him as he kisses down my stomach, stopping at the beginning of my jeans. Mitch unbuttons my jeans, pulling them down my legs, showing my lace thong. He groans at the sight, throwing my jeans to the side before spreading my legs open. I gasp, bucking my hips when I feel his finger pressed against my clit through my panties.

“How wet are you for me, baby?” Mitch whispers, seductively, rubbing harder against my clit, making me gyrate my hips. He moves my panties to the side, leaving me to shiver once I feel his rough tongue sliding through my folds, brushing my clit. I moaned out, leaning my head back, gripping the duvet. I look back down at Mitch, watching him nuzzle his nose against my nub, the tip of his tongue poking through my entrance. My lips part, a pleasured sound escaping it, squirming my hips against his face, his hands gripping my hips to keep me still.

“M-Mitch, baby. Fucking hell, don’t stop.” I moan as he began to lick harder, his tongue dipping into my pussy. I begin to moan louder, pleasure rippling through my body. His tongue moves up through my folds, lapping at my clit, swirling around it, before sucking it into his mouth. I arch my back, gasping as he begins to fuck my cunt with his tongue, his lips sucking on my labia while his nose digs into my clit. My pussy grew tighter as his tongue dives into me, driving me wild. I buck my hips up, screaming out as I begin to cum, making me shudder and writhe against his mouth. He lifts his lips off of my pussy, standing up as I pant heavily. I get onto my knees in front of him, unbuttoning his jeans, pulling them down along with his boxers, seeing his hung cock. I lick my lips, stroking it slowly, about to lick his shaft when he stops me.

“I want to fuck you so hard first. Then, I want to finish in your mouth.” He moans and I nod my head, getting back onto the bed. I get on my hands and knees, leaning on my elbows while looking back at Mitch as he presses his length against the entrance of my pussy. I moan slightly, moving my hips back, wanting him inside me.

“Beg for it, baby.” Mitch smirked, running his cock head through my folds. “Beg for me to fuck your pussy.”

“P-Please, Mitch. Please fuck my pussy.” I moan, shuddering slightly, feeling him press into me before pulling out. Mitch thrusts into me as my eyes widened, a moan escaping my lips as his thick cock slams into me from behind. My hips bucked against his cock as my pussy walls tighten around him, my breasts rocking back and forth as he rams into me over and over again, small moans leaving his lips, one of his hands sliding up my back, gripping my hair. His dick rubs against my sweet spot making me shudder, moving my hips back against him harder, his hips slapping against my ass.

“You’re mine baby, got it?” He moans into my ear, slamming into me more roughly, slapping his hand against my ass cheek. “Say it.” He slaps my ass again, letting out a groan, shoving his cock deeper into my depths.

“I-I’m yours!” I scream out, leaning my head against the mattress, his hands pressed against my ass cheeks. “F-Fuck, Mitch, I’m cumming!” I gasp, ripples of bliss flowed through my pussy as ecstasy rips through me, my walls clenching on his length as he continues to pound my hole.

“Fuck, Y/N.” Mitch grunts, slamming into me one more time before pulling out as I get onto my knees in front of him. I take him into my mouth, bobbing my head on his dick as his hands run through my hair, pulling it back. I grab onto his balls, massaging them as he begins to thrust slowly into my mouth. Mitch grunts, his seed spilling out of his tip and down my throat. I milk his cock until he stops cumming, looking up at him through my lashes, giving him a cheeky wink. I take my head off his cock, licking my lips of any cum that leaked out. Mitch helps me off the floor, placing his hands on my lower back, pressing our foreheads together.

“I want you to know something before you start thinking of something absurd. I did this, because I really, really like you. I might even love you. You've captivated me ever since that day we first met at boot camp. All those times where you almost died, I freaked out, doing everything I possibly can to save your life. I-I love you and I would totally spend the rest of my life with you, Y/N.” Mitch confesses, tears pooling in my eyes, a smile appears on my lips.

“M-Mitch, I-I’ve always wanted to hear you say that. I feel the same way, about everything you said, literally. I-I can't lose you, I’d go crazy. I love you, too.” I whisper the last part as Mitch grins, leaning down pressing his lips against mine.

“Will you do the honor of being my lady assassin?” He asks and I chuckle, nodding my head yes.

“Of course, especially after that amazing fuck you just gave me.” I chuckle, biting my lip as Mitch laughs loudly, shaking his head.

“If it was so amazing, why don't we do it again? I have to shower. Feel free to join me.” Mitch winks, walking into the bathroom as I follow him, closing the door behind me.

 I'm finally happy again…

[captain-jason29]

I was looking for some work done by CZs world outside of YouTube; google was being dumb and said he was not a real person. After a many tries and fails I came across Adam troy Castro. Is an author and freelance writer for nightmare magazine. I read his second to newest short creepy horror story called the narrow escape of zipper-girl. It’s scary. It does not have death, blood, guts or core. It’s a twisted love story. What make it scary is if you have tattoos or pricings or any other body modafacsion you feel the fear that it could happen to you. And if they could put the right music to it, you would not sleep. So if you want help keep writing or reading alive check out Adam troy Castro or just read his short horror story below. Thank you. The Narrow Escape of Zipper-Girl: It was her zipper that drew me to her. She was beautiful enough, according to what most people seemed to consider beauty. She had a black buzz cut, the kind of body that gives the impression of lankiness even on someone petite, a complexion pale as milk, and an overbite that made sure that a sliver of teeth was always visible even when her bee-sting lips were mostly shut. Everything about her face seemed tentative, as if placed there by a designer who knew just how much any given feature needed before it gained enough prominence to overpower the others; hence her tiny nose, her light eyebrows and her gray eyes. When she first crossed the room, she struck me as so light on her feet that she might have been something drifting in the breeze; but it was the long line of her neck that made me look twice, the longest and most graceful neck I had ever seen on any woman, to that point. I’m a neck man. Some guys notice breasts first. Others are first taken by long shiny legs. I notice necks. I’ve always noticed necks, the most beautiful and most vulnerable attribute women have. Hers had a zipper. I had seen any number of studs and implants and piercings on women, but had never seen a zipper.It stretched across the curve of her throat, drawing a diagonal line from just below the base of the jaw, to the edge of her collarbone. Later, analyzing just what made her zipper so intriguing, I decided that the angle was crucial. Worn horizontally, it would have resembled a second mouth, worn vertically, a second vagina equipped with gold metallic dentata. Slicing diagonally, like a slash, the way it was—and here I note how impossible it is to describe it accurately without running into the traps laid by the very language—it was its own thing, denying easy analogy. I bought her a drink, and chatted with her long enough to allow the obvious question to arrive naturally. She had no problem demonstrating that the zipper was functional. She touched the fingers of one wispy-thin hand to the zipper’s pull-tab and drew it south. The teeth duly separated by a hair, revealing another expanse of pale skin beneath them. The zipper was, in short, a false promise, implying entry to the flesh beneath the surface but in the end just an overlay, a fraud. I liked her a little less right away. I still asked her what had given her the idea to implant such a thing. She had some reason I forgot within minutes of her offering it—some deep appreciation of the artificial, some philosophical point about the fictions we all embrace while navigating modern life. It was background noise, just like the band’s set and the fruity flavor of the house specialty drink she recommended. Her name, some exotic spelling of a commonplace name for girls, was just a label. To me, she was always a mostly unremarkable girl who had brushed greatness with the implantation of a zipper, but had retreated from it with other lame attempts at individuality. To her, I was the guy who admired the zipper but seemed to have found other points of attraction. I didn’t like her much. I never did, though we were together for over a year, and most observers would have supposed that I was wild for her. In truth, I found her tiresome and vapid, a girl who had substituted style for substance. But I successfully hid that. It was the zipper that drew me. That night and over the next few weeks I discovered what little else there was to learn about her. She lived in a third-floor walk-up with stairways so narrow that it was hard to imagine how anybody had ever been able to move furniture into any of the shoebox apartments above. The hallways were dim places with octagonal white tiles the diameter of silver dollars, separated by grout that had gone black from decades of scuffed feet. The building was narrow, too, and there were no more than two apartments per floor, one unimpeded by the stairwell and one that assumed an eccentric L-shape to accommodate it. She had one of the L-shaped ones. I liked that. It was easy to imagine her just around the bend, minding her own business, not knowing I crouched in wait on the other side. She had artistic pretensions. She had written poetry and performed as lead singer in small bands. She had a voice that had turned to premature gravel, and she enjoyed the character it lent her. She was extraordinarily proud of the one gothic horror story she’d written that an anthology had published, but she was not driven to produce more. When I asked her if it was about zippers, she thought I was joking, and said yeah, right. Later, I read it, and it turned out to be nihilistic vampire shit, redeemed only slightly by her facility with poetic language. It was a story where nobody’s throat got cut, where the point was more the weight of the alienation her blood-sucking creation felt, and I read all of it waiting for the mood and the poetry to get out of the way so the bleeding could start. But nobody died. Nobody even bled. I didn’t see the point of that, but still complimented her as she seemed to expect, and at regular intervals during our time together asked her when she was going to write another story. She was a casual smoker, but she hated what the lingering smell of tobacco did to furniture, and so she never lit up at home, limiting herself to one a day, on the street. I liked to think of the way she would have exhaled if the zipper had opened up onto her windpipe, the fumes exiting her throat without ever rising as far as her lips. I liked to imagine her head, expressionless and unconnected from the breathing process, almost dead, floating atop a bed of smoke, like a vision. She had two tattoos, a bleeding barbed-wire band circling her right bicep and, showing more age, a tiny rose blossom at the base of her spine. I told her that if she was already bleeding on the arm she should add a long stem with bleeding thorns to the rose. She said maybe. It was not wise to return to such ideas too often; I had to pretend other interests. She owned a one-eyed cat. It had lost half its vision before she rescued it, in what was clearly some wound inflicted by a human being. It was uncommonly friendly to most people, especially considering what it had been through, but after a few sniffs it never came near me. I shrugged and said you could never tell with animals. It never would come near me, not even after the zippered girl and I moved in together. Maybe it knew I didn’t like its asymmetrical features, the way that single slit pupil regarded me with perfect comprehension. Much later on, after the zippered girl and I had lived together for a few weeks, I climbed down the fire escape one day I knew she wasn’t home, broke the window with a brick, ransacked the place, and took the cat so I could make it symmetrical again. The zippered girl had a regular job. I wondered aloud how she managed to hold one down, let alone in the dentist’s office where she served as a perky young receptionist, while sporting a zipper in her neck. She told me that it was easy to camouflage. When she wanted to, she could look quite conservative, a nice conventional girl who wore minimal make-up and had a mysterious love of neck-concealing scarves and high collars. She laughed that it was her boring disguise. I laughed and said, your secret identity, before you rip off the scarf and stand revealed as Zipper-Girl! I didn’t tell her that she was boring no matter how she was dressed, that nothing about her intrigued me except for the one delightful change she had made in herself. She had no way of knowing. I wasn’t interested in most people, and had long since perfected the art of seeming to participate in conversations while paying minimal attention to them. I was great at it. I gave her no way of knowing that she was only the medium for the zipper. When she lit candles and we made love, I was careful to pay obeisance to all the other stations of her personal cross, bringing pleasure to her breasts and her ass and both the northern and southern set of lips, but it was the zipper that kept me interested, the thought of it being a real portal instead of a fake one, the image of the tab pulled down and everything wet in her pulsing underneath. At one point, I bought a red light bulb and she teased me for having such a corny device in my erotic arsenal. She didn’t know that red light made certain things easier to imagine. Some nights we used oils, and the sheen on her skin, combined with the scarlet glow, made her breasts and arms look like they’d been lubricated by wounds. Once in a great while I unzipped her neck and licked the pale skin between the interlocking blades, making her giggle as I felt the blood pulsing underneath, and tortured myself with the thought of how it would take only one convulsive whim, now, to get at it. The night she blurted that she loved me, I took that as a cue. She may have thought it was inappropriate shyness, at odds with our supposed closeness, but I let my eyes dip downward just before I said me too. As intended, she thought I was talking to her. I used the name Zipper-Girl whenever I could. She liked it, and before long, in most private conversations, I hardly had to use her real name at all. Sometimes I had to remind myself what it was. I put her name on my arm. She was thrilled. But I did it because I needed a convenient reference. I was an efficient worker. My work duties occupied only about twenty percent of the time at the job. My bosses tried to give me more, but they couldn’t keep up with my ability to arrange my work day around vast tracts of free time. I refused any promotion that required additional responsibility. They honored me with an office anyway, and I spent hours in there with the door closed, using Photoshop on portraits of the girl with the zipper. I gave her more than just the one. I airbrushed out her eyes and put a pair of sealed zippers over each one. I did the same to her lips. Who needs lips? They’re imperfect sealants, and instruments for fricatives. The improved portrait became a sock-puppet, even more attractive in its artificiality and in its censorship of the personality the excised features could no longer express. I imagined her sitting in a chair, not tied there, but trapped there by blindness, waiting for me to unzip her mouth so she could eat. I imagined the one in her neck being an opening to her esophagus that I could use as the entry point for nutrients that would keep her alive but that she could not taste. Zippers gave me the option of controlling her very senses. In my fantasies, she made sounds of protest until I taught her to stop. Then I would return home to a Zipper-Girl who was to the images in that file what a paper airplane is to a fighter jet. I had to endure doing things with her. Clubbing was all right because the music was so loud I could pretend enough local deafness to abstain from conversation. Dining required more work, but I made myself the kind of man who spent more time listening than he did speaking. Going to museums was hellish, but I developed a particular interest in the paintings where the faces were caricatures, like the aftermath of terrible accidents where the bones had healed back in inhuman shapes. I became a fan of one artist who liked to obscure the eyes behind screens of concealing shadow. I told Zipper-Girl this was a representation of just how much human beings hide from one another. This was bullshit. I just liked to imagine that along with the eyes I couldn’t see there were also concealing zippers. She got serious and said, you know, you hide more than any man I’ve ever known. What are you thinking about, what are you feeling, when I catch you staring into space? I made a special effort to be attentive toward her, for the rest of the evening. It wouldn’t do to be so mysterious and moody that she no longer wanted anything to do with me. One day when I was out and about without her I found a young girl’s hoodie abandoned at a bus stop. This was a warmer day than expected, and the owner must have taken it off to cool down, leaving it behind when the bus arrived. I wondered how long it had taken her to realize that she’d left it behind, if her parents had enough money to replace it or if when the cold weather came again she was left walking to and from school in hunched misery, hands stuck in dungaree pockets. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out, because I could have asked her. A tag bearing her name and address had been sewn to the base of the hood. I brought the garment home in a bag, hid it away, and the first time Zipper-Girl was not around used a pair of shears to amputate the zipper running from hem to collar. I zipped it open and zipped it closed. There was one section near the bottom where it tended to get stuck, surrendering to motion again only after ardent struggle. I thought of the girl needing to take it on and off, growing red-faced whenever she had to fight with it, perhaps even breathing heavily, in a battle consummated only when it once again gave her what she wanted. I imagined that the zipper knew that it was conquering her, that it made her its bitch with its recalcitrance. I imagined Zipper-Girl weeping because she had pulled the false promise in her neck halfway down only to have it stuck in place, refusing to either ascend or descend, its teeth forming an asymmetrical, vertical grimace. I put the zipper from the hoodie away where I could find it again whenever I wanted. I carried it around in a jacket pocket and fingered it, imagining that the two strips bounding the metal teeth were not material from a hoodie, but skin, taken from a breathing neck. The weather turned cold and she bought a distressed black leather jacket for herself. It had zippered pockets on the breasts, on the shoulders, and down the arms. There were pockets too small and too tight to house more than spare change. They were not meant to be open or closed, just to display their zippers. I banged her while she wore it and nothing else, paying all due attention to all the soft and unzipped parts of her anatomy. She asked me to use her name. I called her Zipper-Girl. She asked me to call her by her real name. I was able to arrange a glimpse of my own tattooed reminder, but knew that she’d noticed the hesitation. One night, as an experiment, she brought home a bondage hood. It was a full-face mask with zippers covering the mouth and eyes, with another zipper running down the back, to the neckline. She donned it just to demonstrate that it was too large for her, regardless of all available adjustments. She asked me to wear it. I had no choice. I had to say yes just to make it possible that she would someday wear one like it. I put it on and she drew it tight, sealing the one over my mouth, then zipping it back open, then sealing it again. In darkness, unable to see her face and therefore cut off from what she was thinking or feeling, I knew only that this had gone on far longer than I had expected. After a while she loosened the hood, removed it and left the apartment with it, returning two minutes later without it. It was just enough time to have taken it to the garbage chute. She didn’t talk to me again for the rest of the night. Sex became more and more infrequent. One night when angry she told me that sometimes she looked in my eyes and saw nothing behind them but an empty space, that it was like looking through a dirty window into a gutted building. She said that when she saw something moving in there, it wasn’t necessarily something she liked. I told her she was imagining things. She asked me to name five things about her, aside from the zipper, that I liked. I was only able to come up with four. I was fortunate that she had either lost count, or been so satisfied with rote poetical evocations of her smile, her sense of humor, her singing voice, and her eyes that she let the subject drop. When we did make love, I noticed her studying me during the act, measuring my own sincerity by the negative space formed around the one feature of her body that was not currently safe for me to acknowledge. Winter faded. Spring came. The jacket got put away. She put on a white tank top and light blue jeans. I think she chose the button fly deliberately. We went for a walk in the park, and in the first moment of easy intimacy we’d had in weeks, linked hands, a gesture I privately liked because the interlocking fingers reminded me so much of the only bond I really cared about. We watched a street mime and we had ice cream from a vendor. A little boy with a toy plane asked Zipper-Girl about the thing on her neck and she said, oh, that’s just a boo-boo, honey. It’ll go away before long. The little boy was satisfied by this answer. He ran back to his mommy and I watched him go, feeling a wrenching pain inside me. When I turned back to Zipper-Girl her eyes were wet, and I knew that I must have flashed the wrong expression. She said you know what? I said what? She said, I’ve been trying to tell myself that I was wrong about you, you were just a little focused on one thing. But everything I’ve been wondering about is true, isn’t it? You don’t care about anything but the zipper. Not even the slightest bit. It took me a second to say, that’s not true. She said, wanna bet? How about I go to the guy who put it in tomorrow and have him take the damn thing out? It’s, like, an hour’s work, tops. I’ll be the same person afterward that I was before, except I won’t have this piece of shit on my neck. Is there any fucking chance on Earth you’d still want to be with me if I did that? Tell me I’m wrong. Come on. Tell me I’m wrong, you son of a bitch. I said, stop testing me. She said, too late, I’m testing you. I’ve decided. It’s going. What are you gonna do about it? I took too long answering. She said, fuck you. Just fuck you. And she got up and walked away. I’ve read in books on such things that when relationships go sour, some injured parties replay the mistakes they made in their heads, changing the dialogue in arguments, altering what was said to what should have been said, turning moments of petulance into moments of generosity, turning passages of disastrous blindness into moments of heart-affirming empathy. I have read that people rewrite the endings. I am not immune. On the stage of my imagination, she might have still had cause to tell me I was a sick piece of shit who she never wanted to see again, but I kept her from being able to make it stick. In my version, she never got watchful friends to stay with her and keep an eye on me while I gathered my few belongings and left. In my version, one male friend of hers didn’t say to me, tell the truth, you son of a bitch. You’re the one who took her cat, aren’t you? In my version, I denied it with persuasive shock instead of remaining silent and getting a chorus of angry voices replying that they fucking knew it all along. In my version of the story, I did not stay away for months, busying myself with other things, only to slip unseen into the back of a small concert being given by her latest band of the moment, and I did not see that while her ink had spread down both arms, the zipper was well and truly gone, not even a scar remaining. I did not see her kiss a guy in the audience, and I did not see her face light up, the way it never had at any point during the year she and her zipper had been with me. In my rewrite, she embraced the only special part of herself and had zippers installed everywhere imagination and medical reality rendered possible; one in her forehead that could be drawn open revealing skull, two on her cheeks that could be drawn aside to reveal teeth and gums, others on her arms and on her breasts and down her back and everywhere else she had never been bold enough to have zippers before. In my rewrite, we found a hood that fit her, and whenever she was at home and not dealing with my needs it was her duty to sit with her nasty face and her annoying personality packed away, while I spent hours and days toying with the feature we’d had enlarged to stretch all the way from her jaw line to her belly button. In my rewrite, she liked it, or knew that it didn’t matter whether she liked it. That, I know, would have been ideal. That would have been bliss. I leave her alone and write it off as a learning experience. This is the world I actually live in. It’s impossible to walk down the street, now, without looking for the zippers on the bodies of others. So far I haven’t seen any. It hasn’t caught on as a fad. But sooner or later I’ll find someone who knows that the zipper is the only important thing; or one sufficiently eager to please, or fool, into changing herself in any way I demand. It’s only a matter of time. In the meantime, getting ready, I’m taking classes in tailoring.

[upontheshelfreviews]

If you’re new to the blog or just want to revisit from the beginning, click HERE to read the review for “Tourist Trapped”.

Previously on Gravity Falls: Twelve year-old twins Dipper and Mabel Pines are spending the summer in Gravity Falls, Oregon, a little town where the strange and supernatural are almost everyday occurrences. When Dipper’s not trying to learn the identity of the Author of the enigmatic Journal that’s been aiding him in his adventures, or Mabel isn’t trying to start the perfect summer romance, they’re evading ghosts, monsters, zombies, and attracting the attention of a powerful demon who once sought to wreck their great-uncle’s mind. As of late Mabel’s formed a tentative truce with her former rival and rich bitch Pacifica Northwest after saving her from some murderous mini-golf balls, but things are complicated when it comes to her and Dipper…and they’re about to become even more so…

  C-can it be? An episode review perfectly appropriate for Halloween at last? Huzzah!! Come everyone, let us partake in the Dance of Joy!

We begin not with the Pines family but with the Northwests in their resplendent mansion overlooking Gravity Falls. Preston Northwest (Nathan Fillion) and his wife are preparing for a gala event they’re set to host the following evening. Pacifica enters wearing the wrong dress – lake foam green, not sea foam green like her mother requested. Pacifica insists that she likes wearing this dress, but her father rings a tiny bell that silences her protests.

Without warning, the plates, silverware and chairs begin to float around the room and smash themselves. Preston insinuates that this unusual occurrence is a strangely familiar one. With only several hours left to deal with this supernatural problem, the Northwests happen upon the one person who could save their party.

The next afternoon Dipper settles himself in for a nice long marathon of his favorite show “Ghost Harassers”. Too bad for him it’s preempted by Mabel, Candy and Grenda wanting to watch live coverage of the rich and famous arriving at the Northwest Mansion for their annual high-society gala. Only the uppest of the upper-crust are allowed in while the common folk must content themselves by tailgating outside the manor gates.

Dipper shares my thoughts on these kind “news stories”; that it’s pointless celebrity worship that nobody should care about, especially when it’s about the Northwests, who have caused them so much trouble in the past. He even says that he’d tell Pacifica Northwest she’s the worst to her face. Then Pacifica shows up at the door asking for his help. His response?

When Mabel overhears Pacifica telling him to name his price for his aid, she demands Dipper give in so she and her friends can attend the party. Dipper and Pacifica reluctantly agree and she drives them up to the mansion. While Candy, Grenda and Mabel fawn over the fanciness, Preston welcomes Dipper and has Pacifica go dress him in more suitable party attire.

The girls get a sneak peek at the guest list and learn a wealthy young hottie from Austria, Marius Von Hauser, will be attending. As much as they want to pursue him Candy says that chasing someone in that league would only end in disaster and they tentatively agree that he’s off-limits. That doesn’t stop Mabel and Candy from taking turns flirting with him when Grenda’s not around since her outspokenness usually scares guys away. But Grenda finds out, they fight, she tries the whole “your shoe’s untied” trick on Marius to prove a point and I’m just getting this B-plot out of the way rather than cutting back and forth to it so we can focus on the A-plot.

All paranormal activity signs point to a painting of a very manly lumberjack in a room decorated with hunting trophies by Gaston (though there’s a surprising lack of antlers in all of this decorating). Dipper’s not too concerned with dealing with the pesky poltergeist, though. When it comes to the Journal’s ghosts, you’ve got your Caspers, your Slimers, your Pinheads and your Freddys to name a few, and chances are a spirit that pops in and out of pictures and just floats furniture around is gonna be in the first category.

And then Sam Raimi takes over directing duties.

Flesh, skin and clothes appear on the skeleton and it takes the form of a disfigured lumberjack with a beard of hellfire. It declares its thirst for Northwest blood and chases the kids through the manor grounds and back. A quick look through the Journal reveals that ghosts from paintings can be trapped in a silver mirror and Dipper spies one hanging on the wall of the bedroom. But Pacifica refuses to let him fetch it since their muddy shoes would ruin her parents’ favorite carpet and get them angry.

While arguing they fall through a portrait into a secret room where discarded furniture and other things are stored away. The ghost follows them in, ripping dust cloths off old paintings and knocking over boxes of silverware in its haste to kill Pacifica. Dipper finds a silver mirror in one of the boxes and throws it in the ghost’s path before it can finish her off. The impact blasts them out the window into the garden, but the ghost is captured and Pacifica uncharacteristically shows a fair bit gratitude to Dipper for saving her life.

The Northwest family thanks Dipper, none more so than Pacifica, and her parting with Dipper is adorably awkward. He leaves to make sure the ghost is exorcised properly, wondering aloud that maybe Pacifica isn’t as bad as he thought. The ghost laughs ominously, saying Dipper’s naivete reminds him of how he once felt when he was alive, and shares his tale:

Years ago the Northwests asked the lumberjacks of Gravity Falls to build them a mansion with the promise that, upon its completion, they would throw a grand party for the entire town once a year. Many hardworking folk died to ensure the mansion was built, but after years of labor the task was done. Yet the Northwests refused to let the common people who toiled away for them to be a part of their celebration and shut the gates to them permanently. As they trudged off, only the lumberjack remained behind to rail against the Northwests; but the deforestation around the mansion’s hilltop caused a terrible mudslide which resulted in his death. With his last breath the lumberjack cursed the Northwests, vowing to return 150 years to the day should the mansion gates still be closed, and spill the blood of the family who could never keep their promises. And not only did the ghost keep his word, but the Northwests knew he would…somehow.

Dipper is furious that the Northwests used him to avoid responsibility. Preston is welcoming guests, including Gravity Falls reclusive and ancient Mayor Befufftlefumpter, when Dipper storms back in. Pacifica is happy he returned but he tells her to can it and accuses them of not breaking the curse when they knew how to do it themselves all along and making him put his life on the line. Preston gloats that there’s no way he could hold a party for the richest, most powerful people in the world and have “his kind” mingle among them. Pacifica tries to apologize that she couldn’t tell him the truth but her father rings the bell again and she instantly shuts up.

This convinces Dipper that Pacifica is as terrible as her whole line and declines the invitation to stay at the party to finish exorcising the ghost. The lumberjack tells him that if he sets him free instead, they can both take revenge on the Northwests and their kind; but Dipper refuses only because Mabel is still at the party and he doesn’t want anything to befall her. He does however give in to the ghost’s final request to take one last look at the forest. Unsurprisingly, it’s a trick to get Dipper to drop the mirror. Once broken, the lumberjack is freed and it flies back to the mansion with Dipper in hot pursuit. He brings the taxidermied animals to life and begins turning all the terrified guests into wood.

Overhearing the lumberjack proclaim the only way to reverse the spell is for a Northwest to open the gates, Dipper searches the mansion for Pacifica and finds her in the hidden room in one of the most striking visuals of the episode.

In an episode that features some of the darkest imagery so far in the series, these are a few brief seconds that have resonated heavily with fans. Here we have Pacifica, raised from birth to act like an adult shown as what she really is – a lonely, scared, sad child.

Pacifica shows Dipper the reason why she’s so down and out with her flashlight. Surrounding her are portraits of every deceitful selfish act committed by her bloodline, things long covered up that she once believed were lies, now sneering down on her.

You wanna know why this room was locked up? This is what I found in here – a painted record of every horrible thing my family’s ever done. Lying, cheating, and then there’s me. I lied to you just ‘cuz I’m too scared to talk to my stupid parents. You were right about me. I AM just another link in the world’s worst chain.

Dipper promises her that it doesn’t have to be this way and they rush back to the great hall, which has become a forest of humans (even Mabel isn’t saved). Dipper confronts the ghost but it turns on him and leaves Dipper screaming for his life as he is transformed into wood.

“The last form you will ever take.”

For the coup de grace, the ghost begins to set the mansion aflame with the intention of burning everyone inside. Pacifica distracts him by promising to open the gates but the ghost calls her bluff. As she reaches for the lever, her parents pop up from a hidden shelter demanding she think of their reputation. Pacifica hesitates, but presses forward.

Then her father brings out the bell.

The tiny ringing drives Pacifica crazy, though to Preston’s annoyance she won’t give in.

And finally she jams down on the lever.

As the plebs pour in, the satisfied spirit gratefully tells Pacifica she is not like her family, lifts his curse and moves on to the afterlife. Preston is helpless as the masses turn his soiree into a uncouth but lively shendig. Even Pacifica and Dipper get in on the fun, messing up the carpet without a care. Pacifica thanks Dipper for believing in her. As for the girls, Mabel and Candy apologize to Grenda and the three reaffirm their friendship. Marius then approaches Grenda, confesses he’s taken by her boldness and gives her his phone number. Everything is going perfectly for nearly everyone…

  …until Dipper bumps into Old Man McGucket, who’s been looking for him. He just finished fixing the laptop and wants to warn Dipper that something crazy is about to happen soon, something that could very well mean the end of the world. Dipper’s not in the mood to worry about that kind of thing, however, and he goes back to the party, leaving the inventor to fret over their swiftly impending doom.

  This episode is easily among my top ten favorites. “Northwest Mansion Mystery” did to Pacifica what “Society of the Blind Eye” did to Old Man McGucket, taking a character we didn’t think could be capable of such depth and shining a light on them, with the added bonus that “The Golf War” helped foreshadow that. I’ve made no secret in the past that I wasn’t a fan of the one-dimensional valley girl bitch stereotype that Pacifica was in Season One – a sentiment shared by fans and the creators alike – so seeing her do a complete 180 while providing a peek at just why she turned out the way she did was certainly welcome. Those scenes with the bell, while not delved into, are pretty uncomfortable to watch; that on top of Pacifica’s repeated “You wouldn’t understand!” when Dipper asks why she’s so afraid of upsetting her parents brings up some unfortunate implications.

Speaking of Dipper and Pacifica, I never really took the fans shipping them seriously until this episode. In fact…it kind of made me ship them too. Their banter is fun to listen to, there’s some good chemistry, and they end up bringing out the best in one another. Sadly this is as far as a possible romance gets between the two of them, but you need only look as far as the internet if you’re not fully satisfied (just be careful when you do).

This is actually one of the very few episodes where Mabel’s subplot doesn’t really hold my attention; when it goes back to the girls arguing over pursuing Marius I just patiently wait for the scene to end so we’ll return to Dipper and Pacifica. Kevin Michael Richardson does a menacing turn as the lumberjack ghost, though there’s not much of a difference between his voice and the one he does for Sheriff Blubs. And I don’t know what it is about Nathan Fillion and douchebags but he plays them so well. As for the rest of the episode, there’s a lot of great spooky atmosphere, from the colors and strong shadows to the ghost’s haunting, which like I said is very reminiscent of Evil Dead. Much like the episode itself it manages to be both funny and scary, and like the best Gravity Falls’ adventures, is tied together with a lot of heart. And of course, there’s that ending which hints at greater and more terrifying things to come…

  And the Internet Went:

End Credits Craziness: In the midst of the ghost’s chaos, a couple hides inside a closet. That couple is none other than… Agents Powers and Trigger in disguise! Powers reports that the bureau is detecting increasing readings from the Mystery Shack, and it’s time for them to act. Then they bicker like a married couple over where Trigger put his cell phone before Tambry stumbles upon them and makes things even more awkward.

Callbacks: Now that the Society of the Blind Eye is no longer a thing, supernatural happenings are gaining more attention as seen by the newspaper in the opening. That same giant vampire bat was featured in the Journal in the very first episode. Mabel and Pacifica are still on good terms after the events of “The Golf War”. Dipper casually rubs in the fact that Pacifica’s family lied about being the town founders as discovered in “Irrational Treasure”. McGucket has kept his word to look into his past and fix the laptop as a result of “Society of the Blind Eye”, though he keeps up the kooky old hillbilly act to throw off suspicion.

And then there’s the way Dipper is frozen into wood, as prophesized by the Shapeshifter from “Into the Bunker”…

  There’s also the matter of a book I’ve failed in my duties as a Gravity Falls aficionado to mention, a large oversight considering I own a copy signed by Alex Hirsch (yes, really.) It’s called “Dipper & Mabel’s Guide to Mystery and Nonstop Fun!”, and it’s a cute little book full of activities and jokes aimed mostly for kids. Why I bring this up, however, is the inclusion of hidden messages sprinkled throughout that foreshadow certain events that were brought to light in this episode: Grenda will marry rich, the mayor of Gravity Falls is not long for this world, and the end of the world will come quicker than the end of summer…

Crowning Line of Hilawesomness: In an episode so full of good ones it’s hard once again to choose, but I think I’ll go with a tie between Pacifica’s confession and what she says to Dipper once she breaks her cute-awkward thank you hug –

“…Can I pay you to pretend that never happened?”

Mabel SWatch (Sweater Watch): Mustard yellow with a cartoon moose and hot pink pine tree border on the sleeves and hem. The pink dress she wears to the party just barely counts as a sweater since she knitted it herself.

Dear Princess Celestabelleabethabelle: Our family’s past and upbringing are not what make us, it’s what we choose to do in spite of it.

Have You Seen the Agents?

“…We really should have picked a better place to hide.”

Where’s that wacky triangle at?

  Next time on Gravity Falls –

Hey, I just realized Grunkle Stan wasn’t in this episode. I wonder where he could be…

“Hey Shelf, you finish the review yet?”

(gasp) Kitty!

“Ugh, it’s me, Cynicism. I’m trying out my Halloween costume. I’m going as Optimism. What do you think?”

Wow, I didn’t even recognize you. Nice work.

“Yeah, yeah, save it for the actual holiday. Are you done yet or not?”

Just finished.

“You made any progress with the…you know…”

I wish I could say I did but –

“Oh come ON! It’s been a month since we last talked and you did NOTHING to get ready like you told us?!”

Don’t blame me, I’ve got a life outside this blog you know.

“Yeah, some life. Some life that isn’t even gonna exist with the rest of us if you make one more slip-up. But hey, what do I know? You’re the one sitting around working on your dumb little picture books while ordering everyone else to prepare for the -“

All right, all right, I’ll see what I can do for November!

“You’d better. I know we don’t have that many readers but there’s a fair few who’ve been looking forward to what you’ve had planned since last year.”

You think I don’t know that? You think this is the first time I’ve let my readers down? Listen to me you adorable little abomination, I may be stuck right now when it comes to doing movie reviews, but no matter how long it takes, I always finish what I start.

“Good. Now quit yappin’ and get crackin’.”

I will.

But you know, since I’ll most likely be too busy to go out on Halloween, I might be more motivated to finish quicker if someone were to bring me back some candy…

“…Fine. But I’m gonna throw out the junky ones so it can form into a giant child-eating monster.”

I wouldn’t have it any other way. Gravity Falls Review: “Northwest Mansion Mystery” (S02E10) If you're new to the blog or just want to revisit from the beginning, click HERE…