#the lead pipe was so unexpected

[sabrondabrainrot]

AAAAAAHHH THIS IS SO COOLLLLL!!!!!!!!

FEBRUARY 28TH 10AM PST!!!!!!!

[dulcescorderitas]

𝓴𝓲𝓭𝓼? D.Winchester

you’re nursing a beer, your legs pulled up to sit cross-legged as you lean back on your palms. dean’s beside you, his own bottle dangling loosely in his fingers. his knee rests against yours, this simple, casual point of connection, but it’s enough to ground you. his shoulders are relaxed, his legs stretched out long, but there’s something... off. you can feel it in the way his gaze keeps drifting, how he’s not quite looking at you or anything in particular. he’s lost in his own head, and you’ve been with him long enough to know that’s rarely a good thing.

“you’ve been quiet tonight,” you say, finally breaking the silence. your voice is soft, not accusing, but the words seem to snap him out of whatever spiral he was falling into. he glances at you, his green eyes flickering in the dim light, and he huffs out a little laugh. it’s small, almost self-deprecating, and he looks away again, his jaw tightening.

“just thinkin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking a swig of his beer.

you tilt your head, watching him. “about what?”

he hesitates, running his free hand through his hair, and the gesture makes your stomach tighten. whatever it is, it’s big. he’s not usually this careful about his words—dean winchester isn’t careful about much, period—but right now, he looks like a man standing on the edge of something.

“can i ask you somethin’?” he says, finally, and his voice is quieter now, more raw.

“of course,” you reply immediately, setting your beer aside. you shift closer, your knee pressing more firmly against his, your hand resting on the cool metal of the car between you. “what’s on your mind?”

he exhales slowly, staring down at the bottle in his hands. for a second, you think he’s not going to say anything. then, all at once, the words come out.

“you ever think about havin’ kids?”

the question hits you like a punch to the gut—not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s so unexpected. you blink at him, your lips parting, and he finally looks at you, his expression guarded. like he’s bracing for you to laugh at him, or worse, to shut him down completely.

“kids?” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.

“yeah,” he says, his voice gruff, like the word’s hard for him to get out. “like... not right now, obviously, but... someday. you ever think about it?”

your mouth opens, then closes. you glance at him, searching his face for any clues about where this is coming from. it’s not like dean’s ever been the white-picket-fence type. hell, you’re not even sure if you’re the white-picket-fence type, given the life you lead. but there’s something in his eyes, something vulnerable and almost... hopeful, that makes your chest ache.

“i don’t know,” you say honestly. “i guess i haven’t thought about it much, with everything going on. it’s not exactly easy to picture that kind of future, you know?”

he nods, like he was expecting that answer, but there’s still this shadow of disappointment in his expression. “yeah. yeah, i get that,” he mutters, tipping back his beer for another sip.

you watch him for a moment, your mind racing. he doesn’t bring up stuff like this lightly—hell, he barely even talks about his feelings unless you pry them out of him. but this? this is something he’s been holding onto, turning over in his mind, and now he’s laid it at your feet like some kind of fragile offering.

“why are you asking?” you ask gently, leaning closer. “is this something you’ve been thinking about?”

he lets out a low laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah,” he admits, running a hand down his face. “i don’t know, it’s stupid. just... sometimes i think about what it’d be like. teachin’ a kid how to throw a football. takin’ ‘em for a drive in baby when they’re old enough. tryin’ to be the kind of dad mine never was.”

the confession is raw, almost painful, and you feel it settle heavy in your chest. dean’s voice drops lower, like he’s afraid of saying it out loud. “i mean, i know it’s a pipe dream, with the way we live. but... if it ever happened, you know? with you... i think i’d want that.”

his words hang in the air between you, and your heart stutters. with you. the way he says it, so quiet, so certain, makes something twist inside you. you reach out, your fingers brushing his arm. he looks up at you, his expression cautious, like he’s waiting for you to tell him he’s crazy.

“dean,” you say softly, “you’d be an incredible dad.”

he snorts, shaking his head, but you tighten your grip on his arm, making him look at you. “i mean it,” you insist. “you’re already so good with sam, and jack... hell, you take care of everyone around you, whether you realize it or not. you’ve got more love in you than you give yourself credit for.”

his jaw clenches, and he looks away, but not before you catch the flicker of emotion in his eyes. “you really think that?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“i know it,” you say firmly, leaning in closer. “and if that’s something you want... someday... then yeah. i think i’d want that too. with you.”

his head snaps toward you, his eyes wide, and for a second, he just stares at you. then, without warning, he leans in, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as his lips crash against yours.

the kiss is desperate, messy, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and finally let the dam break. his fingers thread through your hair, holding you close as his mouth moves against yours, hot and demanding. you gasp into him, your hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him like you need air.

his tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him, letting him in. he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and it’s like a switch flips. suddenly, you’re climbing into his lap, straddling him as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. the heat of him, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the sheer wantpouring off of him—it’s overwhelming in the best way.

he breaks away for a second, his forehead pressing against yours as you both catch your breath. his hands are still on your hips, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “you have no idea how much i love you,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down your spine.

“i think i have a pretty good idea,” you tease, your lips brushing against his as you speak. he laughs softly, the sound muffled as he kisses you again, slower this time, but just as consuming.

the future might be uncertain, but right now, with dean’s arms wrapped around you, his lips on yours, you think maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something worth holding onto.

[needlesslycryptic]

Commissions Open! :)

23.11.24 YO so i just been notified one of the pipes that leads out of my apartment ( out of my reach or control, so i can't fix it myself) is leaking and i need to fix it asap before it gets too cold, so i need to hire some people to do it and pay for materials!!! It's not a huge amount but, like always, these things come unexpected, so i will ask yall to boost this up if you can :)!

Payment via PayPal, Card, euro and usd payments are available. Completion depends on complexity (1-10 days usually depending on the number of characters)

Please follow the links below to access all options, if you don't see an option you want on the price list please dm me and we can discuss it.

23 usd portrait: https://app.lava.top/products/9bb87c46-34c5-4e84-8bc3-d4171ca132d5

27 usd portrait(with hand): https://app.lava.top/products/1754a674-b623-4af7-ad6b-9d5cbb2260dc

27 usd portrait (2 hair options): https://app.lava.top/ru/products/f7812bf0-7449-4d6d-b7cf-1b984f1276c7

40 usd shoulder-up portrait with bg: https://app.lava.top/products/9ae23011-ce20-4915-9edd-cdef64b04b6b

55 usd waist-up with bg: https://app.lava.top/products/b021e0f2-4640-4613-9066-748efee3e17b

60 usd 3 character portraits : https://app.lava.top/products/8d25eab0-5178-4b8d-b93c-4aed46bdbaa4

80 usd 4 character portraits : https://app.lava.top/products/d06695f0-86c5-49d8-9d78-67625a4cce6c

84 usd 2 character waist-ups: https://app.lava.top/products/033fc3a8-b3a1-4899-b5e1-1bcbc3eeaa8c

84 usd tarot card : https://app.lava.top/products/33b4c15f-28e0-418d-8d49-e4ab52dd7e0a

98 usd 5 character group: https://app.lava.top/products/0b36ef62-8e72-44c1-9b77-fb03b031c155

70 usd single character full body: https://app.lava.top/products/207d0503-e179-4b4a-bf90-cc2eaa679ee4

My TOS and other links are here, this is also my alternative backup shop if the ione above doesn't work for you: https://hipolink.me/needlesslycryptic

[11rosebunny]

hi! could I request bofurin boys getting patched up from their s/o after a fight?

Patching them up after a fight (BOFURIN)

Haruka Sakura

He's learned how to heal his wounds in the past years after spending majority of his life alone. He would rather die than to get yelled at by someone looking after him so he taught himself how to clean up his gashes and bloody bruises on his body.

Earlier in the day, he was caught up in an unexpected fight and his opponent managed to get a cheap shot on him when someone was distracting him. He's not going to lie—it hurt like a bitch when his fist made contact with his already wounded cut on his jawline.

Afterwards, when the fight is done, he apologizes that you had to wait for him a little longer than usual after school. But the moment you took in the prominent gash on his face, you nearly dropped your duffel bag to the floor.

You yelled at him for being so reckless to which he clicked his tongue and took away your bag to hold it for you when he walks you home. However, you ultimately refused to leave him like this, so now here you are in an alleyway cleaning up the wound on his face with bandages and hydrogen peroxide you two bought from the local drug store.

He already tried to stop you by saying he was going to take care of it home, but you were too persistent (and pissed) so you continued to heal him anyways.

The whole time, he can't look you in the eye, afraid he might give into his intrusive thoughts to bite the shit out of you. He's blushing and worrying someone might see the both of you.

"Hurry up...!" His foot is tapping up and down quickly out of nervousness.

He refuses to look you in the eye and remains staring at the opening of the alleyway where you two walked in.

In pettiness, you pressed the cotton ball on his gash harder than before making him jitter on the wooden crate he sat on with wide eyes.

"You be quiet and wait until I'm done!"

"Tch! Whatever!"

Hajime Umemiya

"Ah, seriously [Name]. You know I can do this by myself..." He smiled softly as he watched you bandage his thick fingers.

He was beaten up badly—not that he did a bad job in the fight he was in earlier but when going into combat, he does slip up especially if he's ganged up on, which is what happened earlier.

Usually, he doesn't mind healing his own wounds and is completely fine if someone else does it for him. He's even let a kid put a bandaid on him when he bumped into the little sucker which caused him to bump his knee on a metal pipe.

But when you two scheduled a stay at home date, he shows up to your house holding his jacket that draped behind his back, covered in scratches and cuts.

"Sorry I'm late, I was caught up earlier with something." He says with a weak smile.

You hold your door in front of him stupidly as he begins to sweat drop at your stare.

Eventually, you do let him in and you lead him to your bedroom. He explains that he was caught up in a fight as he placed his jacket on your chair then sitting on your bed.

You sigh not turning around to face him. It was obvious you were disappointed. "Yeah I can already tell."

He laughs with a regretful smile watching you go through your desk and find the bandages, cotton balls, and medical tape.

He's already aware that you don't have any right to be doing this, there's a hint of guilt shoved down his throat when you let out a sigh and bring your hands to yours to wrap them up. At the same time, you and him create small talk; forcing him to tell you why he got into a fight making him let out a throaty laugh.

But a part of him finds you cute for that. The way you're willing to patch him up, even when you're upset at him. He likes seeing the size difference with your hand and his. His fingers are extremely calloused from him gardening and throwing punches all the time—while your hands are smooth and gentle against his skin. He doesn't say anything to aggravate you more, so instead, he lets you heal him with a warm smile on his face.

Toma Hiragi

He's gone through multiple fights with not a single person laying a finger on him, so it's rare for you to ever see him come to you all beaten up.

Sure he has a rough exterior and sharp features, but even a sturdy guy like him can get knocked over. He's quite pissed that he let something like that ever happen and is embarrassed to say the least. When you ask him where he is and what's taking him so long, he ignores your messages and tries to patch up himself up quickly before returning to you.

He's rather die than to let you see him like this. When he finishes taking care of his wounds, you can tell with the way the bandages hang loosely, the cuts that peek out near the ends of the tape, and the way his clothing is all dirtied up, you can tell he tried hiding that from you.

"...You look like a mess."

He jumps at your accusation, "The hell are ya talkin' about?!"

You end up pointing out the poor job he did at putting the bandages on his body. He opens his mouth to cover it up right away, but in a second he stops himself, he knows he would be lying if he fought back.

He's embarrassed, way too embarrassed.

He shuts his eyes closed when you end up patching the wounds yourself. He didn't even clean them beforehand when he came to you. The entire time, he's felt like his ego is knocked down when you two went into a secluded field of grass with items to help with the gashes all over his face.

To you though, it's funny. The way he tries to fall asleep in hopes that your remarks will all be over soon. At the same time, he's blushing and looking away when you take his face with both hands.

"Yer' doin' too much."

"I'm doing too much?" You repeat looking into his eyes to which he quickly looks away.

"Tch. Gonna be the death of me..." He mumbled the last part.

Taiga Tsugeura

Dating him was probably the most responsibility you've ever had in your life.

It's happened before, the routine of you and him planning to meet up at your house turns into him coming home to you all scratched up and you taking it upon yourself to heal his wounds.

He still feels extremely guilty upon watching you roll your eyes at him and forcing him to sit down on your bed in front of you to clean up his wounds. While he's at it, he continues on to share about what happened to him and why he's all bruised. He explains it like a kid trying to justify why his clothes are all ruined. He's honestly scared if you start scolding him about being more careful.

Mitsuki Kiryu

After he gets into a pretty big fight, he returns to you as if he's prancing about his day.

You're shocked to say the least. The way his bluntness is plastered all over his face while you deadpan him when he goes on to talk about the melonpan that is currently on sale at the nearest convenience store. You blink at him repeatedly as if he's not aware of the state he's in right now. You have to be the one to point out the huge gash on his elbow that began to stain the white patterned button up shirt he was wearing.

"Oh! I forgot." He says as if the fight he was in earlier didn't mean anything.

He laughs at the way you yell at him for being stupid before you two make it back to his house. Instantly, he tells you where he keeps all his medical things and then you instruct him to go wash up first then meet you in his room.

He takes it as a reward after winning his fight. He can't really use his phone when you're practicing sitting on top of him to clean up the cut on his eyebrow that ended up bloodying his piercing. To you, it seems like he's enjoying this too much, even going as far to rocking in the chair he's sitting on and spinning it from side to side. He finds it extremely nice to see you like this—so worried and so scared for him.

There's a small part of him that wants to break a bone next time to see how you'd react.

Hayato Suo

There's really no way of arguing with him. Right off the bat, when you throw texts at him, angered at how he hasn't responded in the last hour, he comes back to you shortly after and texts back without much warning.

From: Hayato Suo

Sorry [Name] , I was out with Sakura and we got into a fight ヾ(＾∇＾)

Sent at 4:47PM

From: You

WHAT

Sent at 4:48PM

You rush to his school but when you're half way there, you bump into him on the same path that leads back to your house, meaning, he was going to you either way. You're in shock and out of breath at his state. You've never seen him that beaten up before and when he looks at you, he quickly changes his surprised expressions to his usual soft smile.

"That was quick—"

"Idiot!"

You drag him back to your house and disgracefully throw him onto your couch. The entire time, he finds it amusing watching your shaken character reach for your cabinets in desperation to heal him up quickly.

It was the first time he's ever been in a fight for that long. Usually, he's able to take down opponents within minutes and goes on to tell you about it afterwards. But the fact that it took him nearly more than one hour, you're terrified when it's the first time you've seen him the most beaten up.

You're frantic, basically begging him to tell you what happened when you're healing his wounds. At this rate, it turns into an interrogation while he answers every question you have with the right amount of explanation.

He seems far too happy when you clean up his wounds, normally it would be him healing you since he's able to go through fights without getting hit once, so when he feels your soothing touch and the way you clean every wound with precision and gentleness, he's shocked at how skilled you can be.

"I wasn't aware that you know how to heal wounds." He says raising a brow with curiosity. A small smile is formed on his lips watching you wince your eyes.

"No, of course not...! I was just worried for you!" You answer back feeling your ears go red. He surely knows how to make you lose your mind.

He stifles out a laugh, "Just teasing..." He says sticking out his tongue slightly.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Date at the museum with him ft. satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, megumi fushiguro, toji fushiguro

{ Forcing them to go to the museum with you. }

SATORU GOJO

Probably agreed mostly because he found your enthusiasm endearing and adorable.

But winds up legitimately engaged, using his Six Eyes to analyze the exhibits critically.

Jokes that the artistic techniques are "pretty neat, but not as impressive as my domain expansion".

Purposefully riles you up by loudly criticizing the "uninspired" modern art installations.

Yet has flashes of unexpected insight, wowing you with deeper meanings you missed.

SUGURU GETO

Maintains his typical cool aloofness as you excitedly lead him through the galleries.

Not overtly interested, but humors you by listening to your impassioned explanations.

Every now and then, he'll murmur a poignant counterpoint from his philosophical views.

Almost seems to dissociate at times into his own contemplative musings.

Until you grab his hand, instantly recentering his intense focus solely on you.

KENTO NANAMI

An absolute delight - he researched and planned the whole museum trip meticulously.

Guides you through at an unhurried, meandering pace with encyclopedic knowledge.

Completely enamored watching your face light up, hanging on his every word in wonder.

Occasionally draws you close to murmur intriguing factoids just for your ears.

His childlike glee is so infectious, you could spend hours lost in his effusive tutelage.

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

Initially seems more than a little apprehensive and out of his element.

But quickly soaks in the tranquil ambiance, finally able to relax his guard fully.

Studies each work in contemplative silence, absorbing their essence and nuances.

Surprisingly moves to your side, satisfied melding against your warmth without words.

It’s that a faint, contented smile you spy ghosting across those sharps features…?

TOJI FUSHIGURO

Just rolls his eyes and scoffs when you propose this big softie date idea.

But his gruff demeanor only lasts until you bat those big eyes and pout fetchingly.

Then the big lug turns to utter puddy, trailing adoringly after your every move.

Acts all nonchalant examining the exhibits, even pipes up with random trivia knowledge.

But there's no hiding that unbearably smug grin when he thinks you're not looking.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

☕️ CM Meet Cute Fics 📚

Hey friends! I want to start by saying thank you so much to everyone who participated - You are appreciated and the diversity only makes these events better.

Without further ado, here are all of the entries + recs for the Meet Cute Challenge! 🤗

@emberfrostlovesloki 's Masterlist of Entries: This lovely prolific writer has entered several fics, which include Hotch/Reader, Emily/Reader, and Spencer/Reader fics! Check out their page for even more!

P.S. At the end of this post, I included all my fics for this challenge!

SFW S.R./GN!Reader

Heart Language by @foxy-eva: Spencer has a crush on his doctor (and the feeling is mutual)

Warmth by @cecedownbad: A mystery man stumbled on to you, his gestures alone changing the dim scenery into a bright fantasy.

And in the Beginning... by @milla984: After spending a day at D.C.’s multifandom convention, Spencer spills his coffee on Reader.

(Not So) Stupid Things by @railingsofsorrow: Reader is a detective on a case the FBI is called to work on. While trying to make a good first impression, they forget that Spencer doesn't shake hands.

Frights & Fractures by @therealmsdelulu: Spencer accidentally gets hurt in a spooky attraction and Reader, a scare actor, breaks character to help.

Style Theory: Fashion student Reader meets their favorite scholar and teaches him a lesson in self-love.

SFW S.R./Fem!Reader

The Perfect Seat by @/foxy-eva: Reader's never liked crowded trains until a handsome stranger fell right into her lap.

Funny Thing Fate: Autistic!Reader is tipsy and lost in D.C. when she spots a man she thinks might be able to help.

Coffee Caramels by @007reid: Reader sits next to a stranger in the theater, but the two end up bonding when there's a technical glitch.

Every Single Day by @astrophileous: When his daughter demands to hear the story of how Spencer and Reader met, he must oblige.

War and Peace & Coffee by @drgenius-reid: Spencer meets a lovely stranger in a coffee shop where they read together.

NSFW S.R./Fem!Reader

In Full Bloom by @/foxy-eva: A random interaction between Spencer Reid and Reader leads to weeks of longing and yearning until they decide they have spent enough time being strangers

Get Lucky: It’s 3AM and a pipe burst in Reader’s apartment. She is soaked, angry, and forgot her wallet and phone. Her neighbor Spencer tries his best to make the night not terrible.

Elevator Pitch by @reiderwriter: Getting trapped in an elevator is never fun, but at least the attractive man sharing the metal box of death has an interesting idea about how to can pass the time.

And for my Next Trick... by @reidmotif: Reader and Spencer unknowingly match costumes at a Halloween party.

Assorted Fics (A.H., D.M., E.P., T.L., P.G.)

What a Ride by @alluring-andrayav: [SFW, Hotch/GN!Reader] Whilst on a bus ride to work, Reader gets knocked into a very handsome strangers lap.

Midnight by @foxy-eva: [NSFW, E.P./Fem!Reader] Emily is the most stunning woman Reader has ever seen, so she makes sure their night together doesn’t end anytime soon.

Falling for Me Already? by @alluring-andrayav: [SFW, Derek/Fem!Reader] It's Reader's first day of work, and her heel breaks. Thankfully, Derek is there to catch her.

Supervisory Special Agent by @alluring-andrayav: [SFW, Derek/Fem!Reader] Reader already met Derek, but neither of them realize it for a ridiculously long time because she has much bigger issues to worry about.

October by @gaelic-symphony: [SFW, Temily] The couple arrives in a couple's costume.

Adding It All Up by @masterwords: [SFW, Hotch/William LaMontagne Jr.] Hotch follows Reid and Jack into a haunted house. Inside he meets a ghost and stumbles right into some unexpected arms.

Collision by @codename-mom: [Gen Fic, Hotch & Penelope] A brand-new BAU is forming but there is still someone missing. The team masterpiece: a technical analyst.

Co-Creator NSFW Entries (S.R./Fem!Reader)

Devil in the Backseat: Reader is a little too much for Spencer (he’s into it).

Yellow Light: Everyone thinks Reader is dangerous. Probably because she’s Cat’s sister. But is that why Spencer likes her?

Big Bad Wolf (Part 1, Part 2): Spencer is overwhelmed by the apparent innocence of an elementary school teacher he meets on a case.

All Legs: Tall!Reader. Spencer meets a woman at an event and finds he really wants to be under her heels.

Co-Creator SFW Entries (S.R./Fem!Reader)

Serendipitous: Spencer’s pretty sure Penelope mixed up his blind date.

Dead Air: Professor Reid is hesitant to be a guest on his old student’s true crime video series, but is surprised to find it’s not so bad.

Porcelain: Autistic!Reader has a meltdown in the cafe. Luckily, there is a Dr. Reid nearby.

Baggage Claim: Autistic!Reader is having a hard time at the airport.

Mister Spencer: Reader has a crush on her child’s teacher.

Maddening One, My Goddess: Spencer has a one night stand… on February 13th. The next day, he is confronted with a familiar face on his pre-planned double date.

Studious Shadow: Reader’s crush won’t stop avoiding her at work and she thinks he might hate her.

Stranger Danger: Reader is a single mother having a very bad day.

Happy Reading!

Is your entry missing? DM me and I'll add you!

[loveharlow]

SEVEN - 006

PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[7.4k] based on 1x06.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mild violence, gun violence/graphic depictions of gun use, mentions of drowning, arguing, entrapment, references to mild bullying

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

A/N‧₊˚ Idk if y'all can tell but I be eatin the kie x sarah x reader drama up when i'm writing like it's too fun to write

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

“SORRY, YOU’RE STAYING WHERE?” Kiara asked grabbing a tray of food as John B leaned against the counter and you trailed behind her with a pitcher of drinks. The Wreck had opened for the day not too long ago.

“Tannyhill.” He said shortly, eyes wide and unexpecting as he leaned his forearms on the counter.

“So, you’re living with Sarah Cameron.” Kie said with a tight-lipped grimace. 

“Look, the only reason I’m living there is ‘cause her dad bailed me out, alright?” The Routledge boy reassured, following you both out to the table where JJ and Pope were lounging inside of The Wreck. “And it’s way better than foster care which, by the way, is where I was about to go.”

“So, do you have membership to the clubs now?” Pope perked up curiously, legs kicked up on the wooden surface. Kiara sat the tray of fries down while you poured the drinks into each respective cup before taking a stand behind JJ’s chair that was next to Pope’s, leaning your arms over it as you bent nonchalantly behind him, stealing a fry from his hand over his shoulder.

“I don’t know, Pope.”

“What about those golf carts they drive around? You get one of them?” He questioned again, amusement in his brown eyes. “Does it come with a sweater vest or do you have to buy one of your own?”

“Look, you promised.” Kiara cut in disappointedly, returning back to the original topic of conversation. “You said you weren’t with her…” John B just shrugged as if he wasn’t caught in a lie.

“Bro, just own it. She’s got you.” JJ scoffed. 

Kiara just ignored the blonde. “If you wanna hang out with her, that’s fine. But I’m letting you know that I’m not doing anything with Sarah.” She continued on, affirming the boy. 

“Do you guys see her here?” JB cut in shortly, annoyed. “No? Right, okay. A little focus would be fantastic. We’ve got the map, right?”

“It’s out of whack ‘cause the guy was ganja’d when he drew it.” JJ piped in. 

“It’s more so due to the fact that the coast has changed.” You offered, looking down at the blonde. “But it deffo looks like he drew it after ingesting a whole eddie and downing half a bottle of Everclear.”

“We just have to look for the landmarks that haven’t changed.” Pope spoke to no one in particular as he surveyed the map. 

“What about the old forts?”

“Battery Jasper.” Kiara threw out with full confidence. Pointing to a clear spot on the map in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Looks were shared around the table before everyone shrugged, you all hopping up and heading outside of The Wreck and into The Twinkie.

“WE’RE IN BATTERY, RIGHT HERE.” Pope had the map pressed up against a rock, still reading it as the remaining four of you looked out at the expanse of land in front of you. Nothing but grass and trees for miles. “So if this is parcel nine, then it’s somewhere northeast of here. Over there.” He concluded, pointing ahead.

“That’s not Tannyhill,” JJ began, squinting his eyes. “That’s a subdivision.”

“Tannyhill Plantation was the entire island.” John B told him. “Over time, it got sold into smaller pieces.”

“So we’re looking for an old stone wall…” Pope pondered, heading back into the van without a word. The rest of you simply followed, loading into the van with JB as the driver and following Pope’s verbal lead. “The road should split up here. You’re gonna take a left.” He said after a few minutes of driving.

John B made an unnecessarily sharp left turn, sending the three of you in the backseat flying against the wall of the Twinkie. After a few curses and groans, you looked to see what was stone wall. “This is it.” Pope claimed.

“Are you kidding me?” Kiara exclaimed, hopping out of the van as the rest of you followed. Looking up at the house, it was immediately recognizable.

“The Crain House?” You asked incredulously, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“Worst-case scenario.” JJ quipped. “I heard that Mrs. Crain buried her husbands head on the property.”

“Honestly, I don’t really believe the stories about this place.” John B shrugged, taking the first step and leading the group through the thick mess of greenery that led up to the house itself. You were constantly swatting leaves and branches out of your field of vision as you walked.

“Which stories did you hear?” JJ inquired.

“The one where she killed her husband with an axe and that she’s been holed up ever since.” Kiara replied. “On certain nights, when the moon is full, you can see her in the windooow.” She teased, wiggling her fingers in a spooky motion. 

“Okay, it’s not funny ‘cause it’s all true. I swear to God, guys, this is all real. I knew Hollis.” JJ preached. 

“Hollis Crain? The daughter?” You asked, tilting your head in his direction as you dodged a branch. 

“Yeah. She was my babysitter.” He told you, holding up the next branch for you to walk under, releasing it just in time to swat Pope in the forehead. “She told me all about it. About her mother, what happened in the house. As a kid, she heard all these stories about how her mother had killed her father. Hollis didn’t believe it. Until that night…” He trailed off.

You groaned at his dramatics, stopping in your tracks to cross your arms and shift your weight. “What night?” You asked, feeding into JJ’s theatrics.

“When Hollis was six years old, she heard her parents arguing downstairs. So, she goes down there to see her mom washing her hands in a sink full of blood. Her mother says she just cut her finger. Next morning? She says her father and her split up. But then, Hollis noticed something — her mother going in and out of the parlor constantly, hands full of plastic bags. Weeks pass and Hollis decides to use the outhouse. And as she’s using it, she looks down, and there, in the outhouse, is her father’s head looking straight back at her.”

“...You are so full of shit.” John B protested, throwing his head back and walking off.

“Wait! Dude…” JJ grabbed his best friend by the shoulder. “You sure you wanna do this? She’s an axe murderer and… you got a cast on.” 

“I don’t give a shit, JJ.” John B said angrily. “I’ve got nothing to lose, right?” He threw the blonde’s words back at him. “You guys comin’ or what?” He spat before continuing his journey further onto the Crain property, the rest of you reluctantly following.

Stopping in what seemed to be a garden just a handful of feet from the front door, John B turned around. “Here's the plan. We need to look for the wheat near the water, like it said in Denmark’s Letter.”

“What kind of water? Like, pond water?” Pope replied.

JJ chuckled. “Bong water?” He tried to joke. John B just twisted his face and ignored at his childish tactics.

“Look, I don’t know, just look for water.” He demanded before continuing to lead the group. He crept around the foundation of the house, crouching in front of a small entrance that led under the structure. “C’mon, it’s the only place we haven’t looked.” He urged the four of you, turning on his flashlight and crawling through the entrance as the rest of you piled in, single-file behind him.

You coughed as you stood to your full height and dust filled your lungs. The crawlspace was filthy, smelly, and festering with mosquitos. You clicked on your mini flashlight, scanning the space. 

“There’s not even water on the pipes.” JJ judged, rubbing his palm against the pipes that were so dry, the interaction sounded like nails on sandpaper. 

“There’s not a drop of water here...” Pope said, irritated.

“Know why we didn’t find it?” Kie sighed, turning her sights to John B. “Bad karma.”

“God, here we go…” JB rolled his eyes.

“We had a good thing going. And then you decide to rope in Barbie and now, trail’s gone dry. Coincidence? I don't think so.” The brown-haired girl mouthed-off. 

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you about Sarah. What the hell’s the deal with you two?” Then his eyes landed on you, standing a few feet behind Kie between Pope and JJ who were also listening in on the not-so-hushed conversation. “You three.”

“I just got bit by three fatass mosquitos, I’d like to opt out of this particular conversation-” You spoke with a snarl, swatting another mosquito that flew across your vision as Kie’s voice sounded out again, cutting off yours.

“Nothing’s the deal.” She spat, offended.

“Is it because I kissed you? Is that your problem?” John B’s head whipped to the side when Kiara’s palm made harsh contact with his cheek, the remaining three of you making simultaneous ‘O’ faces of shock from the sidelines. 

“Stop treating me like I’m some girl who’s obsessed with you instead of your best friend who’s actually trying to look out for you.” She reprimanded sternly.

“Did you, uh, hit me?” John B grimaced, turning back to face her. Kiara simply held up her right hand, her backs to the three of you.

“Skeeter.” Was all she said.

“Skeeter?”

“Yeah.” Then John B was slapping her back. You threw your hands up in the air as Pope exclaimed and JJ chuckled at the two.

“Woah, hey!” Pope threw out, then John B was holding up his right hand, this time with his palm on display since he was facing you all, presenting a flattened mosquito stuck to his palm. 

“Skeeter.” He retorted firmly, eyes squinted. They started playfully slapping each other’s faces and arms back and forth as the remaining portion of you went back to looking once the show had ended. You flashed your light up and down, side to side but still nothing. And the mosquitos were eating you from the inside out…

Mosquitos. 

Why were there so many mosquitos in a basement? 

Aiming your flashlight down, you started tapping the toe of your foot lightly against the ground, catching a certain blonde’s attention.

“Tap dancing, are we?”

“No. Mosquitos.” You dismissed him in your focus, stepping up onto a wooden platform and tapping your foot on top of it. It sounded hollow. You paused, kneeling on top of the structure and knocking on it, still hearing that same hollowed-out echo. 

“Yes, princess, there are mosquitos everywhere.”

You sighed, shining your light through the crack in the planks but it was pitch black. “Mosquitos swarm near water.” You told JJ. “Still water. They need it to hatch eggs. So, why would so many mosquitos be in a basement with seemingly no water?” You almost sounded like you were talking to yourself with the way you were mumbling, looking for something small, your sights landed on a small pebble in the gravel under the house, picking it up before dropping it through a space between the wood. Planting your ear against the ground, you waited, until seconds after dropping the stone, you heard water splash.

“You find somethin’?” JJ asked, you being unaware that he was still watching you. You turned to him with your full attention now.

“Help me move this.” You whispered to him, already starting to pull the planks up in a frenzy. The other three pogues seemed to notice that the two of you had found something and started to help move the planks until a good chunk of them were out of the way.

The five of stared down as a well stared back at you, a least a couple dozen feet deep. 

“Well, well, well…” Pope muttered in the ring of silence.

“That was a good dad joke.” John B told him, never taking his eyes off the well, a smirk breaking out on his features. “We’re gonna need a really big rope.”

“NO FUCKING WAY.” Kiara spat, pacing the patio of The Chateau — Sarah Cameron was sat next to John B, presenting as unbothered as ever. You sat on the farthest cushion right across from JJ and Pope. “You brought her here? So what? She’s in on this now?”

John B looked to his two guy friends for help, Pope simply shrugging his shoulders and muttering an ‘I dunno’ before JJ threw his hands out. “All I care about is her cut coming out of your share.” He directed at JB, pointing his finger for emphasis. 

“This is our thing.” Kiara scolded, pointing to everyone but Sarah to further prove her point. 

“I’m just a tad uncomfortable with this…” Pope added. 

“When are you not uncomfortable?” John B tried to defend the blonde girl.

“I rode here on the back of JJ’s bike pretty comfortably.” The curly-haired boy sassed back from JJ’s side. 

“It’s true. Most relaxed I’ve ever seen him.” 

“We were all comfortable until you brought her.” Kiara shot out, not making eye contact with Sarah, who had finally had enough.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Was the first thing the blonde girl had said since her arrival.

“I mean, you could always go home. Just a thought…” You spoke nonchalantly, shrugging from your seat across the patio. Sarah eyed you meanly before looking at John B, scoffing.

“I told you.” Your eyes squinted and your head tilted to the side.

“Told him what, exactly? That your a liar?” Kiara argued before Sarah’s attention whipped around to her.

“No, that you’re a shit-talking bitch.” She told Kie, turning to you next. “And you’re a lying slut.”

Chaos broke out — voices over voices, JJ and Pope betting money as the three of you argued over one another.

“When have I ever lied to you, Kiara?!”

“You get somebody close to you for like a month and then completely turn your back on them-”

“I’m a slut? I’m sorry, how many boyfriends have you cheated on? This year alone?-”

“Everybody, shut up!” John B stopped the arguing. “Kie, Y/n, you are my best friends, right?” Both of you just looked away, giving him his answer but not the satisfaction of hearing it. “And Sarah, you’re…”

“...Say it.” She said, a sly smile on her face.

“...You’re my girlfriend.” John B proclaimed, a boy-ish grin on his face. You couldn’t help but groan and throw your head back, all eyes turning to you as you brought your angry gaze back down.

“You met her like three whole days ago, John B.” You fussed, crossing your arms over one another. “What happened to using her for information? And I quote ‘getting what we need and cutting her loose’?”

“...You said you were using me?” Sarah asked her “boyfriend” sadly. 

John B shook his head in the smallest of motions, avoiding her eyes at all costs. “No.”

“Yeah, you did.” Pope refuted his claim. “You said those things...”

“Look, love just walked in, okay?” He tried to reason with you all but you couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

“Three days!” You laughed out. 

“I didn’t expect it, it just kind of happened. And I’m not gonna deny it.” He continued, ignoring you. 

“Well,” you got up from your seated position, hands slapping your knees. “If Clueless is in, count me out.” You told him, hands in your back pockets. 

He shrugged like a child. “I’m not choosing, if that's what you're getting at.” He stated bluntly. You nodded your head, biting the inside of your cheek and looking around before deciding to walk off, heading for the dock.

“JUST CONSIDER IT.” JJ threw out the idea from his place beside you, leaning against the wood of the pier in front of The Chateau, Kiara and Pope having a separate conversation in front of you.

“I’m not considering anything, JJ.”

“You don’t have to like it. None of us do. But John B isn’t willing to choose and we can’t do this without you.”

“John B clearly can. He knew how we felt about her and he did everything we advised him not to do.” You snarled, looking out at the water. “None of you know her, not really. You think I just up and decided to hate Sarah Cameron one day? No.” You scoffed. “She creates a false sense of security and then when you start to rely on her, she uses it all against you.”

You both sat in silence, JJ not wanting to question you any further for the moment.

“What if he chooses her?” JJ asked you after a couple moments passed. You brought your eyes back to his, wind blowing your hair in your field of vision, voice small as you spoke.

“Then he’s a worse friend than I thought he was.”

YOU DECIDED TO MAKE YOUR WAY HOME AFTER WHAT WENT DOWN WITH JOHN B. You didn’t intend on making him choose between you or Sarah but you felt as if this whole thing had spiraled out of control. Maybe the biggest part was that you felt lied to. He promised there was nothing happening between them and when it came down to it, he couldn’t even make a decision between two of his life-long best friends and a girl he met less than a week ago. Something behind his logic, or lack of, struck a nerve within you. 

Opening the front door to your Figure Eight home, you were greeted with two muddy paws against your thighs.

“Aww, Marley!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands out to the sides. “What did you get into?” You shook your head, patting the stains on your denim shorts as you kicked the door closed behind you and walked to peer out of the patio door, seeing holes galore in the backyard. You looked down at the animal, hand on your hip. “You know, she’s gonna flip.” You told the dog as if she could reply back.

Her fur was covered in brown and black, muddy paw prints left behind by her pattering feet. You just sighed, bending down to scratch the top of her head as she leaned into your hand. “Guess it’s my fault for leavin’ you. I’d go crazy if I was stuck here alone with her, too. C’mon,” You threw your head out in the direction of the garage door. “Let’s hose you off so I can cover your tracks.”

You started walking but stopped when you didn’t hear Marley trailing behind you. You peered back over your shoulder to see her sitting patiently. “No, absolutely not.” Was your reply to her pleading puppy-eyes, a whine leaving her closed lips. “I am not picking you up, Marley. You’re a big girl, c’mon.” The golden retriever made no move. “I’ll give you a treat after. You wanna a treat, girl?” 

Her ears perked up in the slightest of motions and suddenly the medium-sized dog was sprinting towards you, basically running into the garage door that was still closed. You just giggled, opening the door for her to run out and hop into the metal tub in the parking space that was bought especially for her. Tying your hair back and grabbing the length of the hose, you started to hose down your mess of a dog.

YOU WERE SOAKED BY THE END OF MARLEY’S BATH. You smelled of Pumpkin Spice pet shampoo and wet dog, strands of golden hair stuck to your arms and legs as you rinsed out the tub and let it flow down the driveway. The dog in question was probably running a muck in your room where you’d locked her so you could clean up in peace — covering up the holes in the backyard to the best of your ability and mopping the floors. 

Once the dog-tub was water-free, you kicked it back to it’s original position in the corner of the garage. The sound of your mother’s SUV pulling up into the driveway could be heard as you turned the hose off and put it away. She must not have seen you in the dark of the garage as she got out of the car, heels hitting the concrete as she slammed the driver’s side door shut. Her cell phone was pressed between her shoulder and ear and she fought to get her purse up onto her arm.

“I don’t care what you do, Cameron. Or how you do it for that matter. Just do something because this is both of our asses on the line.” She spat to whoever was on the other end of the line — Cameron? Maybe it was a new hire at the office.

Her eyes shot up and seemed to finally register your presence, a look of shock filling her features for a moment before it faded into something else. Something more irritated. “We’ll talk about this later. Hopefully, you’ll have gotten rid of the problem by then.” Was all she said before hanging up.

You had turned back around at this point, focused on putting Marley’s bath supplies back into their respective cabinets and shelves. 

“I didn’t expect you home.”

“Neither did I.” You replied bluntly.

“You know, it’d be nice if you could be home more often. You still have responsibilities, and that dog does whatever it wants.”

You stood to your full height, facing her now as you crossed your arms. “I could say the same for you.”

She scoffed, shifting her weight. “I have work. A job. You just run around with your delinquent friends all day and night. Your room is empty for days on end.”

You shrugged, jutting your bottom lip out. “What are you lonely, or something? We barely talk when I am home.”

“You want to talk? Let’s talk.” She crossed her own arms, staring you down.

“Not really-”

“I heard John B had a pretty nasty fall from The Hawk’s Nest last night and you and your friends were there.” You veered your neck back at her statement, a look of offense written across your face.

“What’re you keeping tabs on me now?” 

She just shrugged and shifted, pointing her chin towards the ceiling as if she knew she had you cornered. “Word travels fast on the island. The real question is what were you kids doing up there in the middle of a thunderstorm? Everything I hear about that little posse of yours is dangerous.”

All you could was laugh humorlessly, pushing yourself off of the garage wall and heading for the door back inside of the house. “I’m not doing this with you.” You told the woman, shaking your head. 

“Answer the question, Y/n!” She called after you, following you into the three-story house and slamming the garage door closed behind her.

“No! I’m covered in mud, water, and dog hair and you’re pissing me off!” You were practically stomping up the stairs. “Everytime I come back to this house you interrogate me. Calling my friends delinquents as if these aren't kids you’ve known for years!”

“Well, clearly I have good reason to-” You stopped at the top of the stairs, turning and staring down at your mother who was still at the bottom, making no moves to follow you up. 

“Maybe it’s time I question you because I have a fair few of my own.” You spat. “How did you find about the Hawk’s Nest because there were only six of us there when it happened? When did you and Shoupe get all buddy-buddy? Or better yet, how’d you manage to scrape up the money to buy a house on Figure Eight so suddenly? And don’t think I’m dumb enough to believe my father’s life insurance was enough to cover it.”

She didn’t say anything. Anything at all. Your mother just stared up at you with a look on her face that you’d never seen before it. It was angry, dark — borderline evil. It made your heart thump out of your chest and your knees get weak. It was a look that a parent should never direct at their child. 

With one last glare, you turned your back and went into your own bathroom to clean yourself up, not neglecting to slam the door behind you.

YOU SIGHED AS YOU HOPPED FROM THE HMS POGUE ONTO HEYWARD’S BOAT. After your shower, Pope had picked you up from the short pier in the back of your house with Kie lounging in the boat. He said something about JJ and John B needing a tow after conking out in the middle of The Marsh.

Approaching Heyward’s boat that was still in the middle of The Marsh, you and Kie edged towards the front of the HMS Pogue, preparing to step off. Extending your legs, you made it onto the other boat without fail, Kiara following you into the Alp where the two boys in question were.

“What did you do?” You asked annoyed, still reeling from the events of earlier — both of them. 

“The alternators not…alternating, anymore.” JJ told you, throwing his hands out. 

“Did you check the plugs?” Kiara suggested, stepping in front of you and approaching the boys as you leaned on the entryway. 

“No, you should check ‘em. Give ‘em whirl.” They handed her whatever tool they’d been using, stepping away.

“You guys are useless…” You let the two guys walk by you, stepping further into the space with Kie. “Uh, is this a joke? There are no plugs, like at all.” She muttered.

Suddenly, you heard water splashing, turning around and walking back out to see that JJ and John B had jumped into the water and were swimming towards the HMS Pogue that was getting farther and farther away.

“What’re you-” You started, cut off by the sound of banging coming from below the deck of the boat.

“John B! John B, let me out!” Came an unmistakable voice. In a haste, you lifted the hatch in the floor, coming face to face with Sarah Cameron. Not giving her time to speak, you just huffed and ran towards the edge of the boat.

“What the fuck?!” You yelled at the three boys across the water, Kiara and Sarah on each side of you now. Both equally as angry as you. “Are you serious?” 

“Get your asses back here!” Kiara demanded.

“We can’t!” Pope shrugged with a sly smile. “Not until you three work out your issues!”  

“You can’t just leave!” Sarah tried.

“There’s food in the cabin and JJ rolled a blunt!” John B shouted back. The three of you ignored them, kicking off your overalls and stripping down to your bikinis.

“This is ridiculous…” The blonde girl muttered under her breath, kicking her shorts off of her ankles.

“Well, I’d rather drown than be here with you, so…” Kiara retorted, taking her shirt off. 

“Fine. Be my guest. Maybe you’ll finally shut the hell up.” Sarah shot back. 

“You don’t even know where you’re going.” The two girls continued arguing as the three boys drifted farther away.

“I don’t care.” Was all the Cameron girl said back before jumping into the Marsh water, just as Pope revved up the engine on the smaller boat and they sped away. Sarah cursed them before turning around and swimming back to the boat, screaming and going under before popping back up.

“Ah! I got stung by a jellyfish! Shit!” She cried, still swimming back to the boat.

You rolled your eyes and turned away from her, fixing the ties on your swim suit. “Maybe next time don’t jump into The Marsh.” You reprimanded meanly.

“Thanks for the advice, after the fact.” She retorted, climbing onto the boat and sliding against the side.

“It’s not like you listen anyway...” You shrugged, leaning against the boat. 

“Kiara, you know what they say about curing jellyfish stings,” Sarah ignored you, talking through heavy breaths and looking up at the brown-haired girl. “You have to pee on me.”

The girl simply cringed. “I have a better idea.”

NIGHT HAD FALLEN AND YOU WERE SURE THE GUYS WEREN’T COMING BACK FOR THE THREE OF YOU ANYTIME SOON. The night air was cool and Sarah was high off of the weed left behind, courtesy of JJ himself. She’d been laughing and talking about nothing non-stop for the last hour.

Kie was sat next to her in the cockpit of the boat while you sat on the hardtop, swinging your feet.

“Hey,” Sarah piped up, interrupting her own giggling. “Would you rather…have, I was imagining you like this just now, it was pretty funny.” She was directing the question at Kiara. “Would you imagi- would you rather…have nipples for eyes or have eyes for nipples? Imagine if you get really old and your nipples, your boobs get saggy, your nipples, if they were your eyes, you could see if your shoes were untied.” 

She attempted to laugh it off in her impaired state but took the hint when Kie gave her a side glance, no humor present in her expression. “Is this like your first time smoking or something?” 

“...No.” Sarah said lowly, looking down.

“Could’ve fooled me.” You muttered, annoyed by the girls incessant laughter and talking. 

After a couple moments of tense silence, Sarah attempted to speak again. “Hey, Kiara…”

“Oh my God.” She cut her off. “Enough the ‘Hey, Kiara’ bullshit.” She turned her entire body to face the blonde, a hard look in her eyes. “Why’d you do it?”

“...Why’d I do what?” Sarah played dumb.

“We were best friends.” Kiara started solemnly. “We stole beers from your dad’s fridge, we watched movies together, we cried about boys...” She reminisced. “And the next thing I know, the entire school thinks I have a crush on you because you started a rumor that I did.”

“It was just a joke.” Sarah tried to dismiss, rolling her eyes.

“To who? Because it wasn’t funny for me. And when it spun out of control? When it went from people saying I had a crush on you to saying I tried to kiss you? To saying I was stalking you? That I had a shrine? Was it still just a joke then?” She reprimanded. “You never even bothered to clear it up. Just fed into it. You just cut me off like nothing happened. I mean, really, what did I do?”

You continued watching the interaction happen from the hardtop of the boat. “You liked me.” Sarah blurted. “...When people get close to me, I feel trapped. And…I bail. And then I blame them for it.” She got out, turning to look Kiara in the eyes. “I’m really sorry…And I miss you.” Then her eyes were on you. “Both of you. Do you think there’s a chance that we could be okay again?” She was looking at Kiara again.

“Honestly. I don’t know.” Sarah simply nodded and bit her lip, accepting the answer before turning her sights to you once more. 

“Y/n?” She called. You assumed she was waiting for your answer to the same question, all you could manage was a huff of air to leave your lips. 

“What a bunch of bullshit.” You breathed out, an incredulous smile on your face as you looked away for moment. You could hear Kiara sigh.

“Y/n-”

“No, Kiara. If you want to forgive her, by all means be my guest. But me and you?” Your eyes were on Sarah, glaring at her. “We will never be ‘okay’ again.” You mocked.

“What do you want from me?” Sarah spat out. “I apologized-”

“You apologized to Kie. Not me.”

“Well, I’m sorry. For…whatever I did.” She slurred, slouching further against the inside of the boat.

“Whatever you did?”

“You were the one sneaking around with my brother, Y/n!”

“And you're still downplaying the situation! That’s not what happened nor is it why our friendship ended and you know it.” You disputed, anger filling your tone.

“Our friendship ended because you tried to make the situation into something it wasn’t.”

“You never even considered the possibility that what I told you was true. You called me a liar, turned me into the school slut-”

“He’s my brother.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not a bad person, Sarah!” You said with finality in your voice. “And if you can’t see that, then maybe that makes two of you.” Was the last thing you said before hopping down from the top of the boat and disappearing around the corner, away from the two girls. 

THE THREE OF YOU SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE BOAT, WATCHING THE BOYS ARRIVE AS THE SUN CAME UP. You’d slept in the helm of the boat while Kiara and Sarah slept out in the open. You hated to admit how lonely you felt hearing them giggle in the middle of the night but it was quickly overshadowed by the memories of what was said between you and Sarah. A small part of you wondered how Kiara could forgive her so quickly. So easily.

“Let’s not give them the satisfaction of thinking this worked.” Kiara whispered to the blonde next to her. You simply kept quiet. Because for you, it didn’t.

“So, did you guys, you know…” Pope led on as the smaller boat parked next to the bigger one. You said nothing as you hopped off the edge, from one boat to the other. 

“Reconcile our differences?” Kie finished for him.

“Nope. Not even a little.” Sarah shook her head. “But we’re…willing to work together?” She said, turning to Kiara who nodded in agreement as they both stepped onto the HMS Pogue. 

“You know what? That’s victory.” JB cheered, dapping up Pope. “You guys ready to jack some loot?”

YOU ALL WAITED UNTIL IT GOT DARK ONCE MORE TO RETURN TO THE CRAIN PROPERTY, FULL PREPARED THIS TIME. Rope, pulley, flashlights. You were equipped with the gold-mine starter kit and ready to throw John B down into a well beneath a murder-house.

Parking in front of the house but still out of sight, John B hopped out of the driver’s side to round the van and open the side door, pausing. “I wanna say thank you guys. Seriously.” He told the five of you whole-heartedly. “It means a lot to me that you’re here tonight.”

“Of course, man.” Pope assured him softly, giving him a special handshake. 

“All right, we done with this circle jerk?” JJ cut in. “Can we go do this?” 

“Let’s go get that wheat in the water.” Pope exclaimed, jumping out of the van first, followed by Kie, then Sarah.

“Weed? I’m up for weed.” JJ said, letting you get out before him. You rolled your eyes, a small smile breaking on your face as you climbed out of the van. The first one in hours.

“Wheat, J. He said wheat.” You corrected. You all formed a sort of single-file line, hopping the fence one by one. You all walked as quietly as you could through the tall grass and bushes, sticking as close together as possible. Out of the blue, a light in front of the house lit up your frames, the six of you scrambling to duck and hide, turning your flashlights off.

“Why would a blind lady need motion sensor lights?” You hissed frustratedly confused. 

“Let’s throw a rock at it.” John B offered. You all looked at him stupidly.

“That’s a really good idea. Let the axe murderer know that we’re here.” Kiara said sarcastically. 

“Do any of you have a better idea?” 

“What about the breaker in the circuit box on the porch?” Sarah asked. “We used to play hide-and-seek here as kids and if we were brave enough, we’d go all the way up to the porch.”

“No, no, you’re not going into the house alone.” John B protested.

“I’ll go with you.” Kiara volunteered herself before turning to you. You simply raised a brow as if to ask ‘what?’. Only then did you notice that the rest of the group was staring at you as well, then you got the hint, smacking your teeth.

“Christ, fine, I’ll go, too. Just… stop looking at me like hungry orphans.” You mumbled, getting up and walking towards the house, slightly crouched.

“We’ll wait for your signal!” Pope whisper-shouted as the three of you disappeared into the thick of the bushes. You let Sarah lead the way, seeing as she had an idea of where you were going and what you were looking for.

“She must have a generator plugged into the main power supply.” Sarah informed from the front of the line. The three of you crept up the porch steps, the wood creaking ever so slightly as you did. You aimed your flashlight at the circuit box in question, using your empty hand to open it. You quickly noted a problem.

“Where are the breakers?” Your face twisted in confusion, visually following the wires that were connected to the box. “It goes inside.” You said annoyed, pushing the circuit box door back closed. You turned back to the two girls behind you, a weary look shared amongst the three of you before Kie took it upon herself to carefully open the gate in front of the back door, twisting the knob quickly but quietly.

Pushing the door open, the three of you slid inside swiftly as the door creaked, making your face twist. You all treaded carefully through the dark home. You nearly jumped out of your skin when a cat yowled beside you.

“Shi- get out of here you mangy thing!” You whispered, pushing the feline away with the toe of your shoe. You follow the wires on the ceiling to the location of the breakers, Kiara wasting little time in switching the generator off, the house and surrounding areas going pitch black as she did.

You all let out sighs of relief, small victorious smiles breaking out on each of your faces. “We should probably get out of here now.” You advised, the other two agreeing. You hadn’t even lifted your foot to step away before a whirring sound echoed throughout the house, the three of you throwing yourselves against the wall and out of sight of whatever was around the corner.

You could barely hear one another breathing, contemplating whether you should stay put or make a break for it. It wasn’t long before you heard the sound of heavy-breathing and what sounded like a cane hitting the floor accompanied by delayed footsteps. 

You could feel your heart in throat as you tried your hardest not to move a muscle, the footsteps growing closer by the second. Fear rushing through your veins when you heard a voice call out.

“It’s late, Leon.” An old, raspy, elderly voice spoke — Mrs. Crain. “Too late...” She coughed, cane still hitting the floor ferociously with every step. You swore you could’ve cried when the woman in question rounded the corner, standing right in front of you three with no clue. “I can hear you, Leon. I’ve been waiting all night!” She screeched, whipping her head in your direction so fast you were surprised her neck didn’t snap in the process.

Her teeth were yellow, her hair was dead and gray, and her eyes were white. Pure white. The three of you screamed simultaneously before booking it in the direction you came. You don’t know how you ended up splitting from each other but you did. You ended up in some old dusty study-type room, the only exit being a window. You ran over to it, using all your strength to pull it up but it wouldn’t budge.

“Where are you, Leon?!” Her voice scratched your ears with the way it echoed. You cursed as you continued pulling at the window, eventually giving up and running out of the room. Fortunately, you ran in just time to find Mrs. Crain swinging aimlessly at Kiara with a fire poker. You took the opportunity to grab the object when she swung it back once more, snatching it and throwing it across the room.

Sarah entered just as the old lady turned around and gripped you by the arm, the blonde grabbing Kiara as you pushed Mrs. Crain off of you and ran into the room with the other two. Sarah closed and latched the door shut, Mrs. Crain banging from the other side. 

She’d managed to find the stairs the led under the house where the guys were, you and Kiara following her down in a hurry. 

“Guys!” All three of you called, sprinting through the crawlspace. 

“Woah, what’s goin’ on?” JJ asked as you accidentally ran into him, the blonde stabilizing by your upper arms.

“Mrs. Crain is up there. She’s trying to kill us with a fire poker.” Kiara breathed out. 

“We locked her in the parlor but we have to go. Like, now.” You said frantically. 

“Okay, code red.” JJ said, releasing your arms and heading back towards Pope. He leaned over the well, shouting down. “John B! Get back on, man!” The rest of you grabbed the length of the rope, using all of your man power to pull the boy back up when the you all fell, the rope pulling up nothing.

“Where is he?” Kiara panicked, crawling to the well to lean over it. “John B?!” His voice came back up but no one could tell what he was saying. It was just a faint echo. His next words were clearer, however — he was calling your names.

“He’s drowning! We gotta pull him up!” Sarah assumed the worst as you scrambled to grab the rope again. 

“John B? Get back on the rope, we’re gonna pull you up!” Pope called down into the well. Once JB affirmed that he was secured, the five of you began pulling once more, much more synchronized this time. You were using all the strength you had to pull him up when a gunshot made your ears ring.

You ducked, as did the rest of the group, your grip on the rope loosening. Pope and JJ hurried to tie the rope so it wouldn’t drop any further as you all scurried around the crawlspace, hoping the blind woman would think you were gone.

Only problem? None of you knew how to shut the hell up. Another shot rang out and that’s when you all decided you had to make a run for it. You saw John B’s muddy hand gripped the edge of the well before you bolted, knowing he’d be a little behind but just fine. You sprinted out into the yard, practically launched yourself back over the gate and threw yourselves into the van.

JJ started the van without John B inside as more gunshots sounded, the boy running behind his own van for dear life. 

“John B, come on!” The boy caught up, launching himself into the back of the van and sliding the door shut as JJ sped off. 

“Everyone okay? No bullet holes?” JJ questioned from the driver’s seat.

“I think I’d know if I was shot, right?” Kiara asked, hands patting her frame. 

“You look disgusting.” Pope breathed out, the statement directed at John B who looked more like a mud-man than a teenage boy.

“And you smell even worse, my God.” Your face winded with disgust. 

“What the hell just happened?” Sarah ran her hands through her hair, throwing her head back.

“All-time Pogue Hall of Fame, baby!” JJ cheered, giving you a high-five as you basically sat back to back as he drove.

“That bitch is possessed.” Kiara said.

“How can she move that fast?” John B breathed out, and you wondered how he could talk without minding the substance all over his face, including his lips.

Suddenly, John B pulled something from his pocket or under his thigh, it was hard to tell when he was the same color all over. “What is that?” You asked, squinting your eyes as he used his thumb to wipe away the debris on the object, revealing the unmistakable color of gold. “...No motherfucking way.” You scoffed.

“We did it, baby!” He whooped, holding the gold bar up in the air. “I did it!”

“Oh, my God!” JJ supported him as he drove, eyes looking back when they should on the road. The van was filled with cheers, so loud you were sure any houses you passed on the road could hear. 

“You guys were gonna be rich!” Kiara broke through the cheers. “Like Kook rich!”

“Full Kook!” Pope started, the rest of you joining in joyously. The Twinkie had never been more lively or celebratory. After days of being chased, shot at, arrested, jumped, and targeted — you all had done it.

You had found the gold.

next chapter >

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

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©loveharlow.

[stop-talking]

You're his ex, but he's desperate for a babysitter. (pt. 4)

Mike Schmidt x fem reader

2.4k words + 300 word epilogue

Tags: 18+, mike x fem reader, no use of y/n, exes, enemies to lovers, slowburn? sassy mike, sassy reader, pet names, banter, angst, fluff, comfort, happy ending.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

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Mike sits at his kitchen table, trying not to nod off into his cereal. Today is a quiet day. A lazy day. His one day off.

Except, not really. There's always work to be done. He just has to figure out what today's work would be. He's caught up on laundry and dishes, the house isn't too much of a mess... Hm. Maybe he should finally fix the dripping pipe in the bathroom. Or the living room window that's been stuck for years. Or one of the million other things wrong with his house.

He sighs and goes to take a bite of his cereal, only to realize he forgot the milk. Damn it. When he opens the fridge, he stands face to face with a little blue dolphin stuffed animal. Right... Abby's still testing him. He leaves it alone, she'll see it when she gets home from school and assume her "spell" still works. Pfft.

Mike nearly drops the milk mid-pour when he hears the phone ring.

*click.*

"Hello?" He mumbles groggily, a little annoyed to have his morning brooding interrupted.

"Hey, Mike? You free at all today?"

He immediately perks up at the sound of your voice. It's been two days since he last saw you, and he honestly wasn't sure if you'd ever speak to him again.

"Yeah, uh... It's my day off, actually."

"Good. I'm using that 2nd favor."

Mike's heart races. If this favor is going to be anything like the last one, he was definitely up for it.

"Oh? Missing me already, sweetheart?"

"As if. I need you to build me a shelf."

A shelf? Well, that was unexpected. Hm. Better than nothing.

"What, like build it from scratch? Are you expecting me to buy the boards, or-"

"No. I have all the pieces. It just needs to be assembled."

"You can't assemble a shelf?" Mike scoffs, but secretly he's pleased. Sounds like you just want an excuse to have him over.

"Mike. You know I'm no good with tools."

No, he didn't know that actually. Liar. You definitely just wanted to see him again. God, he felt giddy.

"Mhm. Sure."

"Just get your ass over here, Schmidt."

"Woah, what's with the attitude, Princess? I'm here to help." He can't help but let some smugness seep into his tone. Okay, more than some. He's a cocky bastard and he knows it.

"I've been working on the damn thing all morning. Almost three hours now. Not in the mood, jackass."

Shit. You sounded sincere. And really pissed off. Then again, what kind of a shelf took three hours to assemble? The fuck was it? A jigsaw puzzle?

"Alright, alright. I'll be over soon. See ya."

Mike slumps against the counter as you grumble something incoherent and slam the phone down. Damn, what is he getting himself into this time?

Only one way to find out.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

When Mike finally arrives at your apartment half an hour later, he feels a bit silly. He put on a nice shirt and trousers to come see you, and here you are in sweats and a baggy t-shirt. Figures.

"Call for a handyman?" He greets you with a teasing smile, holding up his old rusted toolbox as he makes his way inside.

"Pfft. Someone's happy to see me."

Mike can't really say anything to that, so he doesn't try. He is happy to see you, even if you have attitude problems and dress like a bum.

"So, I bought the damn thing from a friend-of-a-friend, who got it at a garage sale. I swear, it has to be missing some parts or something, because-"

He nods as you rattle on and lead him to your bedroom, but he's only half-listening. He looks around your apartment, taking it all in. It's been at least six months since he last came over, probably longer. It doesn't look to have changed much. He likes your apartment. It's cozy.

"Anyways... can you fix it?"

Mike pauses in the doorway of your bedroom as you give him a sheepish smile and gesture to something in the corner.

Holy hell. Is that supposed to be a shelf? Mike can't help but think that the hideous agglomeration of boards and screws would only be good as a fire-starter. It looks more like a pile than a shelf.

"Uhh..." He bites his cheek, desperately trying not to burst into a fit of laughter. Maybe you really weren't lying about the whole "no good with tools" thing.

He finally loses it when you groan and flop down on the bed, hiding your face in a pillow.

"Ughh... Laugh at me, whatever. Just fix it."

"Jesus Christ. This has to be the sorriest excuse for a shelf I've ever seen. Sure you don't want me to haul it to the junkyard instead?" He snorts, sitting down on the edge of your bed and looking with disdain at the half-assedly assembled shelf.

Mike immediately shuts his mouth when you glare at him. Oops, right, you're in a bad mood.

"I mean, uh... you tried?" He laughs, shaking his head in amusement. He still can't believe you're actually this inept when it comes to assembly.

"Get to work, Schmidt."

Mike yelps as you kick him off the bed, but doesn't bother retaliating. He just grabs his toolbox and sits on the floor, examining the so-called "shelf".

"Well, the first step is going to be un-doing everything you did."

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

You lie on your stomach in bed, chin propped up on your hands as you kick your feet in the air and ponder the sight before you. Mike's back is turned to you as he quietly works away taking apart the monstrosity you assembled.

"How long is this gonna take?"

"Well, If it wasn't so..." He trails off, glancing at you and choosing his words more carefully.

"...sturdy, it'd be a lot easier to take apart."

"Hm? What do you mean?"

He gives you an incredulous look and gestures to a series of nails in a corner where two boards meet. It does look pretty ridiculous, the sharp ends pointing out the other side. Not your best work.

"You put nails in it, sweetheart." He scoffs.

"How else was I supposed to keep it together?" You give him your best pout, and gloat internally when he has to turn away. He's absolutely infatuated with you. Even the back of his neck is pink.

"It comes with screws for a reason, ya know."

"There's a difference?"

He turns and gives you a flat look, and you laugh. Damn. You can play dumb with him, but maybe not that dumb. Noted.

Still, it's a little boring just laying there and watching him grumble and pull nails from wood. You can't really mess with him too much either, because you really do what him to fix the stupid shelf.

"You want something to drink?" You finally break the silence, under the guise of trying to be a good hostess.

"Pfft. Need some whiskey to deal with this bullshit." He snorts, pulling yet another nail free. He'd almost gotten one board off. One. This was gonna take a while.

"I was thinking more along the lines of soda or tea."

"Jack and Coke, then?"

"Mike. It's hardly past noon."

"So?" He scoffs. "For me, this is like... evening, or something. I dunno. Sleep schedule's fucked with this new job."

That answer makes you pause.

"What is it you do now, anyway?"

He groans, finally prying one of the boards free of the clusterfuck.

"Night guard. Told you already, remember?" He tries to shrug the question off, but you're nosy.

"Where?"

"Uhh... Freddy Fazbear's Pizza..."

"Speak up."

"Ugh. It's this stupid rundown hellhole pizzeria. Honestly dunno why anyone would wanna break in there anyways. It's a dump."

"What kind of a pizzeria needs a night guard? Or any guard?"

"The haunted kind."

You decide not to ask about that, simply shaking your head as you walk to the door. He's truly a loon. A loveable loon, unfortunately.

"Just tell me what you want to drink, Mikey, or I'm getting you water."

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

Mike sits on the floor of your bedroom sipping his glass of water and wondering how he got here. If you'd told him a week ago he'd be building his witch of an ex-girlfriend a shelf, he would've gagged. Now...? Well, he just wants to go join you on that bed.

"So are you really just gonna sit there and look pretty while I do all the work?"

"Aww, you think I'm pretty, Mikey? You smile, lying on the bed with your feet kicking in the air, giving him a look of pure adoration. It wasn't hard to do.

"Pretty annoying, yeah." He turns away with a scoff, returning to his work. If only he could get this stupid nail untangled from the other two... why would anyone use this many nails?

"You know, I think I liked you better gagged."

"Oh I know, sweetheart. I could see it in those evil eyes of yours." He can't help but smirk a bit at the comment, though. Sometimes he liked himself better gagged, too. He shakes the thought away and keeps working.

"Why can't you just get on hands and knees and beg me to take you back already?" You huff dramatically and roll over onto your back, letting your head fall over the edge of the bed. He looks silly from this angle. Upside-down.

That question nearly makes Mike drop his tools. Were you serious?

"Why? So you can laugh me off again?"

Ouch. It was true you'd turned him down the last time he'd tried it, but that was six months ago.

"Maybe if you used those big brown puppy eyes of yours on me."

That only earns you a grunt, so you verbally prod him again.

"Besides, why can't I do both? Laugh at you, then take you back? Sounds fun."

"Pfft. Fun? To toy with me? You'd probably break up with me all over again just for shits and giggles." He responds bitterly, still refusing to turn around.

"Mikey. Look at me." You roll back over onto your stomach and rest your chin in your hands as he slowly meets your gaze.

"I didn't break up with you just for shits and giggles. You know that. I'm not letting you sit there and wallow in self-pity."

Mike goes stiff from your words, but your tone is soft, and your eyes even softer. You're still giving him that adoring look. Damn it.

"Well maybe I'd rather wallow in self pity than admit you were right all along."

"You've had six months to wallow. Grow a pair and come kiss me."

He can't say no to that. Not when you look at him that way. He shuffles over, kneeling by the side of your bed. On his knees for you again, damnit.

You kiss him. It's different from the lustful, sloppy kiss you shared last time. This one makes you feel warm. You kiss him again. And again.

Mike really doesn't want this to end, but the knot in his stomach forces him to pull away. He has to ask.

"Why? Why are you doing this, I mean? Do you really want... to take me back?" He sputters, looking down at the floor.

"I'm not completely sure yet." You answer honestly, shifting and lying back on the bed.

Damn. That's not the answer he wanted to hear.

"Are you-"

"Come here."

When you pat the spot next to you in bed, Mike melts. He's a wreck right now, but still wants nothing more than to be with you, in every sense of the word. He silently complies.

"It's not about right and wrong, you know. As much as I love being told I'm right." You give him a soft smile, breaking the silence and placing your hand on top of his as you both lie on your sides.

Damn it. He'd done this with you before, this and so much more. Why was such a small touch turning him to goo?

"What isn't?"

"The breakup. It's about growing as a person. As people. Both of us." You lace your fingers with his, and can't help but laugh as his face reaches a level of pink you've never seen before.

"And what exactly am I supposed to be growing out of?"

"Pfft. I don't know, the emotional unavailability? The way you never made time for me? Constant irritability?" You start to dramatically list off his flaws, using your free hand to count on your fingers.

"Okay, okay. I get it." He huffs, and grabs your hand before you can make fun of him more. Instead, he guides it to his side, pulling you in a little closer.

"And you're miss perfect?"

"No. 'Course not. I have flaws too." You give him a sly smile, and start listing your own "faults".

"Too hot and sexy, too intelligent, too kind, amazing, sweet and caring..."

That's as far as you get before Mike scoots closer, burying his face in your neck and giving you a playful nip.

"Too arrogant." He adds with a laugh, wrapping his arm around you and letting himself melt further into you.

"My arrogance is one of my best qualities, thank you." You reply haughtily, sliding your hand up his back and into his hair.

Mike couldn't speak, even if he could somehow find the right words to say. Everything in this moment felt so right. His arm around you. Your fingers in his hair. He lets out a soft groan instead.

You aren't exactly eager to let go of this moment either, and just hold him for a few minutes. It feels nice to play with his soft brown curls.

"I'll do better. Please." He finally mumbles something to you, not bothering to move his face from where it's buried in the crook of your neck.

"Please what, Mikey?"

"Take me back."

He finally pulls back, just enough to give you a glimpse of those puppy eyes of his. Damn it. How could you even think of saying no?

"Yeah. Okay."

You both lean in for another round of soft passionate kisses, and Mike feels himself relax completely. His stomach unknots and his mind goes numb. For the first time in months, he feels completely safe.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

"So does this mean you'll babysit for me again?"

"Go finish the shelf, Schmidt."

"Yes, Princess."

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♡ Epilogue ♡

Over the past few weeks, you and Mike had fallen into a sort of rhythm.

He never did end up finding a new babysitter, and besides, you're the only one who could ever get Abby to finish her dinner. You had to graduate her from daily witching lessons to weekly ones, though, convincing her she needed to study for the more advanced spells. Secretly, Mike was just losing track of which objects in his house were supposedly invisible. It was quite amusing to watch.

Mike's favorite part of the day was coming home to you already asleep in his bed, and waking you up with a kiss. He'd then either lie down in bed while you shower, or hop in there with you, depending on how you felt. Either way, he loved the view.

The conflicting schedules made things complicated, but you were able to work around it. Mike slept better with you holding him, and consequentially, was a lot more agreeable. He did his best to make more time for both you and Abby.

He even started to open up to you for once, letting you take on some of his burdens. This man sure had a lot of guilt. You were certain he hadn't yet told you everything, but he told you enough. At least you finally knew what the fucking NEBRASKA poster on the ceiling was for. Now you kind of felt bad for all the times you teased him about it the first time you dated.

As for the damn shelf... well, he finished it. It was still hideous, but it was functional. There were holes in it from the nails, and the wood had even started to splinter in a few spots. You couldn't bring yourself to get rid of it, though. Not after how much work you both put into it. Even if most of Mike's work revolved around un-doing yours.

It definitely wasn't a perfect relationship, not by far. But Mike never promised to be the perfect boyfriend. He just promised to be better.

And he was, bit by bit, every day. Better. ♡

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Author's note:

Thank you all for the love!! This was my first time writing a fanfic of any kind so I'm really happy so many of you enjoyed it. Feels good to bring the story to an end.

Feel free to send me a request, I'd love to write more fics about Mike. Or any other J-hutch character for that matter, Mikey is just my favorite <3

[a-yellow-van]

Wish You Were Here | Part 3

You and Joel get stuck in a blizzard during patrol. It leads to something unexpected.

Series masterlist

Pairing : Joel Miller x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, some smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, jackson joel, joel is a good parent to ellie, protective joel, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC : 8.9 k

Warnings for part 3 : Minors DNI! swearing, drinking, mentions of trauma and PTSD, mild violence, explicit sexual content (masturbation, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough-ish sex, praise kink, pet names, limited aftercare), more hurt than comfort I'm sorry

Writing this one hurt a lil. But I'm happy with it. So please enjoy.

It’s been half an hour. Thirty minutes of riding side by side in complete silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Old Beardy and Willow’s hooves rhythmically crunching in the snow.  It seems like an eternity. The tension is so intense it’s almost palpable. Your presence, a blur in Joel’s peripheral vision, is putting him on such an edge that, at any given moment now,  he could turn around and gallop back to Jackson, or start saying things he’d better keep to himself, or get you off your horse and take you by the waist and…

No. Nope. Stop it. 

His grip on the reins tightens and he bites his inner cheek until the stab of pain rips his mind off that absurd train of thought. He stares straight ahead at the deserted highway, the stretch of the 191 carved in a broad valley. The landscape is lost in a sea of white, the concrete below  invisible, crashed cars resembling large animals sleeping in a snowy den. Joel’s face is numb from the cold, rugged skin humid, a few wild strands of hair on his forehead pearling with ice. The brim of his insulated cap isn’t enough to shield his eyes from the stinging wind, but still, he stares, almost unblinking. His neck itches with the urge to turn and glance at you; he has been actively fighting it ever since leaving. He has to remain collected, he has to concentrate on the job. That sentence is playing on loop in his head like a mantra, so much so that the words are getting jumbled, barely making sense anymore. 

He doesn’t understand why it’s been so difficult to just move on from what happened. Not one day during those two weeks has passed without his thoughts drifting back to that brief intimacy he shared with you, without wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing. And he loathes it. Hates being confused, hates not having control, hates that you’re having such an effect on him. So, before he drives himself crazy, he decides to start counting the cars until the both of you reach the first checkpoint on the Hoback route. Joel has calculated about five miles since Jackson, only around three to go until the job gets more active. There are two cars on the right, their shapes stuck together in a permanent collision, and one on the left. Joel can make it. 

Small, repetitive rituals like this always helped him focus; back when he was working construction, a lifetime ago, he’d recite stupid ad jingles to himself, trying to remember as many as he could and associate them with the correct brand. There was a famous one that Sarah used to sing just to annoy him, delighted when it worked without fail every time. He’d be reading the newspaper in the morning, or watching a game, or driving her to school, and she’d pipe up out of nowhere. And then it’d be stuck in Joel’s head for days. Some annoying rap about credit reports. How did it go again? F-R-E-E, that spells free…something something dot com, baby. Sarah’s mischievous giggles, after he begged her to stop, echo around his mind. Less than a year back, it would have sent him down to a dark, sunken place with slippery walls nearly impossible to climb out of. Not anymore, after Ellie. The memory’s still stained with grief, but it doesn’t feel so crushing to carry. He’s accepted it as part of him. Joel tries to recall the rest of the lyrics to that damned song; he thinks Ellie might get a kick out of it. She’s always so eager to learn about even the most meaningless things that existed before the outbreak. 

It does the trick to distract him from you. It works so well, in fact, that he nearly misses the turn to the checkpoint. He pulls on Old Beardy’s reins suddenly, steering him in the right direction. The horse neighs in protest. 

So much for concentrating. 

You’ve certainly noticed the mishap, but you don’t comment on it, much to his relief.  

Get a fucking grip. 

Joel begins down the side path to an abandoned gas station, the tension rising. Maybe, if one of you were to point out the obvious, it would make this whole situation a bit less miserable. But Joel isn’t going to be the one to do it. It would come out all wrong, anyway. 

The place is small, a few pumps decaying under a canopy that’s barely holding on to four crumbling steel rods. The convenience store isn’t in better shape, its windows shattered, the signboard crashed by the entry. You take initiative and move towards the back of the building; Joel takes it as a cue for him to check out the front. The advantage of being an experienced patroller is that you can do your job without much communication; at least there’s that. He jumps off Old Beardy and walks up to the building, unworried but readying his weapon nonetheless. If there were infected around, he’d have spotted them already. Just as he thought, the interior is empty, what’s left of it is covered in a thin film of dirty snow. Just for good measure, he checks the storage and the restrooms in the back. Still nothing. He jogs back to his horse just as you turn a corner, you and Willow coming back into view, calm, unperturbed. 

You don’t wait for him to leave. He scrambles to mount Old Beardy, and you’re already back on the highway. It sustains Joel’s growing irritation; he almost yells out for you to slow down. Sure, ignoring each other is one thing, but being unsafe and disrespecting patrol rules is another. So, as a punishment, Joel spurs Old Beardy into a run and catches up before overtaking you, almost knocking you off Willow. He hears you gasp out in surprise. You try to swerve to the right, but he blocks the move. He wants to make you crack. Because he can’t be the one to do so first. You try the same move, to the left this time, and again, Joel is faster. He takes things a step further and lets out a dry, arrogant scoff. 

That’s it. You’re about to rip into him. But only the whistling of the wind responds; you keep stubbornly quiet. You don’t even give the man a glance when he finally lets you pass and get back on his side, your expression set in stone. 

Damn it. You’re good. 

Joel doesn’t attempt anything else, deciding it’s wasted energy. You both continue on the road, status quo, for another hour. You stop at a few other checkpoints around the highway : an old RV park, a fire station…Warm, sheltered places that would draw in people, or things, at this time of year. But there’s no sign of life anywhere. By this point, Joel would usually have had to take out at least a stray runner. It’s almost unsettling. Like the calm before a storm. That little seed of concern plants itself inside his mind, heightening his senses. You must feel it too, because you guide your horse closer to his, and he notices your right hand leaving the reins to rest on the rifle hanging from your shoulder. 

Sombre clouds are accumulating in the sky, hanging low, menacing. The wind increases as you both reach the highway exit to the small village of Hoback, carrying sharp snowflakes that cut Joel’s exposed cheeks. The path is narrow, flanked by tall conifers that grow denser, their branches drooping down from the weight of the snow. You’re forced to get behind the man, your gaze on his back piercing, nervous, uncomfortable. The both of you still don’t talk, but the atmosphere has shifted, the unspoken conflict momentarily forgotten. 

Joel moves forward cautiously on trot, alert, scanning his surroundings. The first cluster of residences comes into view, simple log cabins settled at the foot of a hill a couple yards away. From the distance, nothing looks out of place. He signals for you to follow him, and you patrol up and down the short street, hastily inspecting the houses on both sides. They’re frozen in a dead silence, immobile, ravaged by years of negligence and harsh elements. Instead of being reassuring, the absence of movement only causes Joel’s foreboding feeling to develop. Something is very off here. The both of you repeat the process through the village, falling into calculated, practised gestures. And, while patrollers have the habit of checking some key places for supplies to bring back to Jackson, this time, your pair instinctively works as fast as possible, not entering a single house. There’s an unwritten agreement to get the hell out of here as soon as you can. 

You’ve cleared out most of the village and, at last, you reach Snake River, the sounds of its turbulent waters mixed with the wind is tumultuous.  There’s a bridge ahead, just large enough for a car. Its wooden structure is unstable, some slats have fallen, the rest are icy and split in places. This next part has to be done on foot; the horses would collapse through the bridge and drown if they even took one step on it. Once you cross the river, you’ll need to walk a couple miles to the outskirts of the village, finishing off the route at an old golf course. The clubhouse is a great lookout to the area; it holds the patrol logbook. Joel halts Old Beardy before the river, and you stop next to him. The animal shakes his head, freeing his mane from the layer of snow. Joel hesitates, not quite ready to leave the protection and speed horseback offers. He’s debating if an acute gut feeling is reason enough to turn back and leave patrol unfinished. 

That short moment of doubt is precious. Because a second later, nature seems to fall completely silent around you. As though a predator is roaming nearby. Sudden, horrible snarls erupt from the woods stretching to your right. The ground trembles beneath fast, uneven footsteps. A lot of them. Too many. Time stops as Joel looks in your eyes for the first time in hours. They’re full of fear. 

And then a runner stumbles onto the trail about three hundred feet behind, twitching, its mangled head snapping in your direction. Followed by another. And another. It jolts the man right into action. 

“COME ON!” He urges you, spurring Old Beardy to a gallop. 

There’s no way to go, but forward. Joel barrels around the bridge and down the slope, reaching the riverbank. You don’t leave his side, thighs clenched around Willow’s flanks, arms straining with the reins. And as your horses hooves hit the ice, the horde has crossed the distance, pouring down the embankment. There’s at least twenty. Some of them fall into the water, the current seizing them immediately. But it’s not enough to stop them. Joel’s heart is hammering out of his chest, his body rocking with the movement as Old Beardy pushes on, fueled by the danger. Joel lets go of the reins, expert fingers grasping his rifle. He swiftly points it at the first runner that lunges at his left, and lodges a bullet in its brain. The next one steps on the corpse, ready to attack. It meets the same fate. The gunshots coming from your side clearly indicate that you’re handling yourself. Before long, Joel has emptied the chamber, not one bullet wasted. 

“RELOADING!” He shouts. 

You cover him, taking out an infected, mere inches before his claws dig into Joel’s ankle. He doesn’t have time to thank you, however, pulling the trigger the second he readies the rifle again. You both maintain the rhythm up for what seems to be hours, the horses snorting through the effort, runners dropping like flies. Joel has lost all sensation; he doesn’t feel his lungs burning or his muscles pulling; the adrenaline has completely taken over. He keeps riding. Shooting. Reloading. And…Yes, there.

Only two of the fuckers left. 

One on your side, one on his. He fires. Perfect shot. He thinks the two of you might make it out unscathed. 

But then, something happens. Your weapon is pointed at your own runner, about to shoot. But you hesitate. Joel watches as the creature strikes. Willow panics. She rears up. And you are thrown to the ground.   

——————————

That runner. 

It looks so much like her. 

Your body hits the riverbank, head bouncing on a rock, wind knocked out of you. A sharp pain erupts in your skull, high-pitched ringing explodes in your ears, stars appear in your vision. In a fraction of a second, the creature is straddling you. You weakly push an elbow against its chest, keeping its jaws from locking around your neck. It twitches, screams, clacks its teeth. 

And you just…accept it. Twenty-one years of surviving, and this is how it ends. 

You close your eyes. 

And you’re back in the forest. That day. You’re running, faster than you’ve ever done in your life, branches grabbing at you, slicing your skin, like they want to prevent your escape. You glance over your shoulder. She’s gaining on you. Her eyes have turned a milky white, her clothes are ripped, her skin bloodied. But she still looks so much like herself. She still sounds like herself. Your baby sister. Her discorded weeps fill you with a gutting terror. You can almost make out the repeated word. Your name. Tears fall down wildly as you dart between trees, your breathing erratic, throat on fire. 

“PLEASE! ANI! STOP!” you howl. But she’s gone. She can’t understand. So she chases, and you run. 

Until your foot catches on a large root, sending you tumbling through the underbrush. Your gun clatters away from you. You lay there, stunned, dirt in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, ankle bent at the wrong angle. 

She pins you to the ground, broken nails digging in the skin of your arms. You flail around, kick at her, trying to free yourself from her impossibly strong grip. 

“STOP IT! ANI! STOP!” you cry out again, voice raspy, hollow, desperate. 

Your right hand pats around blindly for the weapon, your left is pushed against her forehead, forcing her mouth away from your exposed shoulder. Your heart is beating so fast it seems like it’s stopped. Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve died, and this is just a flash of your last moments as you drift into peaceful, eternal rest. Or maybe it’s a horrible nightmare, and you’re about to wake up, a hand laced in your sister’s soft hair, light snores escaping her lips. She always looks so innocent when she sleeps, like all worries have washed off her, like she’s been sent back to a happy childhood in her dreams. 

Your fingers brush against cold metal. You close them around the handle. 

Bang. 

The shot echoes, in the past and in the present. 

You’re still alive. 

The runner’s corpse slumps down against you, coating you with gore, a foul smell making you gag. You’re paralyzed, trembling, chest rising and falling erratically, gasping for air. You look up at the angry grey skies, the snow plummeting down, catching in your eyelashes. Everything stands still for an instant. 

It all comes rushing back as the dead infected is ripped off your chest, discarded to the side like a rag doll. You sense a presence crouching down next to you, and Joel obscures your view. 

He calls out your last name, loud, snapping you back to reality. You focus on his face; it’s flushed, expression tight with stress, eyes darting, searching for yours. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” he yells. 

Joel takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a sitting position, the sudden movement making you dizzy. You stare back at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, unable to answer. Stunned.

“HEY! Did it bite you?” he continues, shaking you. 

You move your head side to side in response, causing it to throb in pain. You wince, raising a hand to your occiput. Your glove comes back crimson. Joel’s eyes fall to the blood, and he mutters a curse. He reaches into his coat pocket to take out a rag, balling it up and pressing it to the back of your skull. 

“Keep that there for me. Can you do that?” He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s an edge to it you pick up on. You nod and execute yourself. Willow comes over and nudges you with her nose; her way of apologising. You pat her with your free hand, reassuring. It was your fault.

Joel runs back to Old Beardy, the poor beast trembling from the fright. He takes something out of his pack’s front pocket and brings it back : a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He twists the cap off with his teeth and kneels behind you, taking the rag and pouring some of the liquid on it. He rubs it on your wound, eliciting a shriek.

Holy shit that hurts. 

Joel inspects the injury, parting your hair to expose it, the rough fabric of his gloves like sandpaper on your scalp. 

“Cut isn’t deep. But you’re gonna get a mean bump.” Joel explains, applying more pressure. He stops the bleeding, aided by the cold, and wraps the rag around your head, securing it with a tight knot. “We gotta keep moving. Can you stand up?” 

This version of Joel, assertive, protective even, catches you off guard. It’s such a stark contrast from his attitude earlier in the day. It nearly makes you forget how close to death you just came.

“Uh, I-I think so-” you reply, regaining your voice, before attempting to push yourself off the ground and falling back down. Your head spins. 

Joel offers you his hand, which you take to pull yourself up slowly, your whole body protesting. Bile rises up to your oesophagus. You lean over, breathing through your mouth. 

“Shit. I think you have a concussion,” you hear Joel say, from far away.

And, then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the storm picks up. The snow gets so dense you can barely see five feet in front of you. The man takes the lead, urgently guiding you towards Old Beardy. He helps you mount, taking you by the waist, and you don’t even think to resist. There’s no way you can ride by yourself in this condition. Joel gets on and takes the reins while you hold on to him, chest pressed against his back. He whistles for Willow over the wind. She follows right behind. 

Joel leads his horse out of the riverbank and into the surrounding woods, visibility getting even poorer. You’re blinded by snow, breathing it in, wheezing. You put all trust in Joel’s sense of orientation, praying that somehow, he gets you back onto the road. He presses forward, a hand raised in front of his face to protect it. 

What a stupid fucking way to go out. Lost in a blizzard. With Joel Miller. At least the town would have something to talk about. 

But then, miraculously, the trees begin to thin out; ahead, you can make out the faint outline of a trail. 

He did it. 

You squeeze Joel’s torso tighter, as if to thank him. Old Beardy perseveres, pushing one leg in front of the other. Your head is getting heavier, the concussion pulling you towards a dreamless sleep. 

“Hold on. We’re almost there.” Joel affirms. You’re not sure who it’s destined for : himself, you, or the horses. Maybe all four. But it’s all you need to let go, and you pass out, head slumping on Joel’s shoulder. 

——————————

You wake up to the sound of snow pelting against glass. Your skull feels like it’s being drilled into with a jackhammer. You pry your eyelids open and try to get your bearings, vision foggy, as though you opened your eyes in a chlorine pool. You find that you’ve been laid out on a frayed, deformed couch, springs digging into your back, a quilt smelling of mothballs thrown over you. Your winter attire has been taken off. You push yourself up on your elbows and look around the room. It seems to be the small living area of a cabin; there’s a rustic coffee table where both packs lay next to the bloody rag that acted as your bandage. To your left is a large, frosted-over bay window; the outside is an infinite, oppressing white. Two sets of jackets and ski pants hang from antler-shaped hooks next to the front door, a puddle forming underneath. A stone hearth takes up the wall in front of you, fire crackling inside. And, to your right, a plaid armchair. Joel is sitting in it, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you intently with knitted brows. His expression is hard, severe, unfriendly; he’s back to his normal self. You hold his gaze, your sight slowly getting clearer. 

“Uh. Hey,” you speak hoarsely, throat dry. It makes you cough, which prompts Joel to get up and rummage through your pack to retrieve your canteen. He tosses it to you carelessly, and you fail to catch it. It lands on your lap with a thump. Joel plops back into the armchair, huffing. He is very transparently upset with you. 

Great.

You take a long gulp of water and wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, the day replaying in your mind like on a movie theatre screen, pausing on your near-death experience. And you’re baffled, ashamed of your own actions. You can’t believe Joel had to step in and save your sorry ass, like you’re some kind of damsel in distress.  

Fucking rookie mistake. And now you have a goddamn concussion. 

You massage your temples and suppress a groan. “How long was I out?” you ask instead. 

“About an hour.” Joel answers, tone glacial, deprived of any sympathy. 

“Did you try calling Jackson?” You nod over at the small radio sitting on the ground by the window. 

“Couldn’t get a signal,” Joel answers, gruff, as if it’s an obvious fact. 

You roll your eyes. You know he’s right, but still, you stand up despite sore muscles, and go over to the device, cranking it a few times before trying the channel knob. You’re met with static. Joel mumbles something under his breath; it doesn’t sound pleasant, or polite. You put the radio back down and return to the couch, avoiding eye contact with the older man.

You glance at your watch. It’s right after 3PM, and the blizzard hasn’t let up. You’re going to be stuck here a while. You rest your head on the arm of the sofa, staring at the beamed ceiling, lost in reflexion. About how genuinely worried Joel seemed when you got hurt, how he jumped right in to take care of you. It makes you seethe. He tucked you in so you’d stay warm. He even changed your socks; the wet pair is drying by the fireplace. How dare he? You shift on the cushions, stiff, ill at ease. And Joel chooses that moment to break the silence. 

“What the hell was that back there?” He questions, his tone accusatory.

You tense up. The blame you’re putting on yourself is more than enough. He doesn’t need to twist the knife. You ignore him, your jaw clenching. 

“Hey. I’m talkin’ to ya,” he nags. 

It makes your blood boil, and you sit up to glare at him. “Won’t happen again,” you grumble.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” He continues, harsh. 

You take a deep breath. “Look, I-”

He interrupts you. “You don’t freeze up like that. Ever. You understand me?”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea!” You strike back, not missing a beat. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miller,” You spit out. 

Joel lets out a chilling chuckle. “Oh, you’re welcome, by the way!” He barks, “You know. For keepin’ you alive an’ all.”

You spring to your feet, heat shooting to your head, exacerbating the migraine. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help,” you utter. 

Joel gets up too, towering over you, hands balled up into fists. “Right. Next time I'll just let you get infected. That what you want?” 

“I told you. There won’t be a next time!” You shout, holding yourself back from punching him in the gut, or kneeing him where it would hurt most, or pulling him down to the couch and pushing your lips to his neck and letting him- 

No. Nope. Not again, not here, not now. 

You desperately need some air. You move towards the front door, but Joel strides up to you and blocks the way, arms crossed. 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” he warns. 

“Let. Me. Out.” You command. Your head is so painful you think it might explode. 

Joel chuckles again. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Settle down, girl.” He talks down to you as if you were a child, smug, condescending; but that word makes your heart skip a beat. 

You try to make a pass for the handle, but he grabs your wrist and shoves it backwards effortlessly. You’re seeing red. So you opt for the next best thing; you spin around abruptly and storm off to the other side of the cabin, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. 

“Oh yeah. You do that. Real mature.” Joel yells out. 

You hear the creak of the floor under his steps and the rustling of fabric as he sits back down. You take your frustrations out on the shower curtain, displacing thousands of dust particles, before biting down on your hand to muffle a scream. When you’re done, you climb into the bathtub and curl up against the lime-scaled cold porcelain, forehead on your knees. The space is dark, stuffy, suffocating. You wonder how you’ll be able to make it through the storm without ripping Joel’s head off. Or doing something exactly opposed to it. How easily that man is able to just get to you is incomprehensible. Enraging. And, worst of all, despite how reluctant you are to admit it… 

Arousing.  

It must be the concussion dysregulating you completely. But the feeling grows, and you extend both legs to squeeze your thighs together, trying to release the pressure building between them. It’s no use. There’s only one thing that would satisfy it, and he’s right outside the door. Without your control, your right hand moves to the waistband of your jeans, undoes the button and goes down, past the elastic of your underwear…Fingers reach down to your entrance, already slick, and glide back up to the hardened nub, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through your body. You rub clumsy circles around, slow at first, mind filling with Joel, his calloused hand there instead of yours, stretching you out, whispering filthy things in your ear. You increase the speed, biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning, cheeks flushed, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. You push two fingers inside, curling them to stimulate that sensitive spot, bucking into your own palm to deepen the sensation. In a matter of seconds, you’re unravelling, free hand gripping the side of the tub, your walls clamping down on the other, come seeping in the fabric below. Your lips part and you can’t help a low squeal from escaping them. You immediately clap your left hand over your mouth, heart racing. 

Fuck. 

Did he hear?

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. The reality of what you just did comes crashing down. It only worked to heighten your desire. And your anger. You button your pants back up and step out of the bathtub, wiping your hand on a scratchy towel you find in the linen closet along with a colony of spiders. 

You’ve been in here for too long. You have to go back out. It would raise suspicion if you didn’t. 

——————————

Joel is oblivious, too busy sulking over the events of the day as he tends to the fire, flames illuminating his face in a flickering glow. 

That was too fucking close. 

The image of you, frozen up under the runner, keeps snaking its way into his thoughts. It infuriates him. How you just gave up, like your life was worthless, like you deserved what came to you. And yet, the sentiment is so familiar it makes his chest ache in a burst of empathy. He can sense the burden in you, the intense trauma you endured. Most people have, in this unforgiving world, but you…There’s something more. It was the look in your eyes when you saw that infected, as if it reminded you of something so vivid it stole you away for an instant. He knows because it’s happened to him. It still does, sometimes, although less frequently. They’re these moments of sheer panic, where he’s choking, the world blurring around him. He has to count things he can see, or touch, or hear…He feels so miserably weak after it’s passed, as if he’s just a small, scared old man. Maybe it reveals his true nature. 

And he’s so angry at you for making him care. Because for some reason, he does. Ever since that night at the tavern. Maybe even before. How scared he got when he thought you might be done for is direct proof of it. 

He can’t afford to have another person to protect. 

A quiet cough brings him back to the present. He peers over his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, seemingly troubled by something; you fiddle with the hem of your sweater, gaze glued to the ground. 

He turns back to the hearth, sighing, and forces out an irritated “You good?” The thing is, he actually is concerned with the answer. 

“Fine.” You reply, your tone not an ounce more affable than his. 

That is as far as the conversation goes. Joel eventually gets tired of rotating the same log with the fire poker, pretending the action is crucial to keep the flames alive. He goes back to the armchair, glancing at you. You’ve reclined on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly chewing on a piece of dried meat. He decides to imitate you, because he needs something to do with his hands. So he digs in his bag for the sandwich he’d packed; it’s mushed, tasteless. You both eat in thick, loaded silence. 

The sunlight is starting to decline, and the storm rages on, casting the room in an eerie shadow, the cold seeping in through every tiny crack in the cabin’s foundation. Joel shivers despite himself, shoving both hands under his armpits in an attempt to preserve his body heat. 

A second later, you’re out of your seat. Joel watches as you climb up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft bedroom. You shuffle around the space, partially concealed by the railing, and come stomping back down, carrying a crumpled blanket. You hold it out to him at arm’s length. Joel cocks a brow; the sudden kind gesture leaves him completely confused. You jiggle the blanket under his nose, impatient. He decides to take it, and drapes it around his shoulders, the relief immediate. 

“Uh. Thanks,” he mumbles. 

You give a shrug in response, dismissive, wrapping yourself in the quilt and retreating to the sofa.  

What the hell? 

An hour ago, you were fiercely arguing with him. Now this. The flip-flopping is giving him whiplash. 

Time passes, excruciatingly slow, nor Joel or you daring to say another word. The sun fully sets; the darkness outside is opaque, as if the little cabin is drowning alone in an abyss. There’s no way around it, you’ll both have to spend the night here. Around half past 5PM, Joel can’t stew in the tension anymore, so he goes to check on Old Beardy and Willow, confined to the veranda at the back of the house. They’re cramped, but otherwise fine. Joel risks a short trip to the yard to fill an old, warped bucket with snow for the horses to drink. As he shines the beam of his flashlight around, he notes that the blizzard has weakened slightly. This mess might be over in the morning. Just a few hours. He can last until then. It’s not like he has any other choice. 

He feeds the animals with a pile of straw forgotten in a corner of the veranda, behind some gardening tools. At the start of the outbreak, he couldn’t help but imagine who inhabited the places he used as shelters, what their daily lives looked like, if they were still alive. Sometimes, he’d come across evidence of the contrary. It used to disturb him, he’d feel like an intruder, but he’d quickly grown desensitised. Cordyceps didn’t spare anyone. It made suffering the new normal. It’s useless to dwell on what was or wonder what could have been. So, he doesn’t pay more attention to the objects scattered around the space as Willow eats from his hand. 

Once he comes back inside the cabin, he finds you exploring the kitchenette that’s crammed underneath the loft. You’ve opened the cupboards, revealing stacks of chipped, dusty dishes. You’re going through a drawer, a few utensils clinking inside. You haven’t noticed Joel, too focused on your search for something of value. He observes quietly as you move on to the second drawer, when he decides to make his presence known. He clears his throat before speaking. 

“Don’t bother, I already checked while you were sleepin’.” 

His words only make you search harder, meticulously inspecting the contents of the drawer, bent over, your back turned to him.

Goddamn it. You’re exasperating. 

And yet, his eyes are drawn to a specific part of your anatomy, the curves made obvious by your position, your jeans hugging them so well he could just-

“Or do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, the hostility compensating for the sudden surge of lust. 

He plants himself in the armchair, once again, the noises of your continued investigation grating, setting his nerves on fire. After a few minutes, they stop. And you come walking back to the living area with a subtle, conceited smirk on your lips, and a bottle of very nice, before-the-apocalypse whisky clutched in your right hand. 

“Didn’t check well enough, Miller,” you say, failing to hide your satisfaction. 

“Where was it?” He asks, upset at himself for missing the item. 

“Back of the sink cabinet,” you answer smugly. “Quality stuff,” you add, reading the label. You’re absolutely right, but Joel isn’t going to recognise it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky,” he grumbles. You don’t waste time and unseal the bottle before raising it to your mouth. 

“Don’t think that’s smart,” Joel cautions, making you pause mid-air. “Y’know. Concussion,” he continues, his tone more unpleasant than he anticipated. 

You don’t listen to his advice, staring at him tauntingly as you sip. He’s quickly learning that you thrive in defiance. And this audacity you possess, it’s…Attractive. Joel inexplicably likes that you’re provoking him. Your expression remains neutral as you swallow, even when Joel knows for a fact it must sting like hell. You offer the bottle to him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had liquor that didn’t have an aftertaste of battery acid, and the sight makes him crave a good drink. It’d certainly make the night pass by faster. He knows it’s a terrible idea, considering where getting drunk with you led him last time, but it’s so damn tempting…

He takes the whisky from you. 

——————————

You’ve made a considerable dent in the liquor. It’s dulling the pain in your head, reducing it to a distant ache. You’re sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth, and Joel has joined you on the ground, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without having to stand up. His back is resting on the bottom panel of the couch, legs spread out casually. The fire, as well as the whisky, is enveloping you in a calming warmth, eating away at your inhibitions; you’ve taken your sweater off as a result, stripped down to a tight thermal shirt. There’s silence again between you and Joel, but this time, it doesn’t make you want to claw out of your own skin. It’s strikingly comfortable. And you find yourself wanting the man to come closer, longing for contact, connection. You haven’t forgotten your little adventure in the bathroom; in fact, the liquor is feeding those feelings,  and they’ve risen to a nearly overwhelming level. 

You take another sip, and, during the exchange, Joel’s fingers graze yours, sending your heart in a frenzy and a burst of flustered heat to your face. You jerk your hand away. 

Idiot. 

You play it off by brushing it through your hair. Joel’s mouth twitches upwards before he drinks. 

“What?” You ask, defensive. 

“Nothin’.” Joel passes the bottle back to you with a faint air of amusement. You decide it’s a good time to stop, and you set it down on the floor. 

“Done already? I was expecting more from ya,” he teases. 

You hate how well it’s efficient in riling you up. “Like you said. Concussion,” you retort, pointing at the site of injury. 

“Hm. So now it's a good enough excuse,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“Yup,” you answer simply. 

“Really? That’s all you got?” His smirk is more assured now. 

You give a drawn-out sigh in response, studying the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Damn. I was startin’ to like the snark,” he says. It seems like the liquor has taken a toll on the man’s reservations, too. 

“Don’t wanna waste my breath on you,” you reply, unable to resist the banter. 

Joel chuckles. “Ah. There she is.” 

You had forgotten how lovely Joel’s laugh is. How natural it feels to talk to him like this. Funny how booze seems to have that impact on the both of you. And, after a tortuous day of being at each other’s throats, you welcome the change of mood. “Did I just hear you say you like me?” You turn to gaze at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Nah. Must be your concussion.” He answers, deadpan, unfazed. 

You can’t hold back a smile as you reply. “Hm. Sure, Miller.”

He pauses and appears to consider something, chewing on his bottom lip. “Uh. Joel,” he finally lets out, voice deeper, more serious. “Just- call me Joel.” 

You’re taken aback by that sudden request. 

His first name. It feels informal, intimate even, as though you’ve moved past the status of coworkers, into murky, foreign territory. You know you should refuse. You’ve dropped too many of your principles with this man already. 

“Alright. Joel.” You gulp. “Uh, same goes for you.”

He gives a short nod, and mirrors your sentence, only with your name instead.

It’s significant. This moment. It feels like the two of you have reached a point of no return. Like from here on out, things can’t just go back to the way they were. 

“Man, this isn’t how I was planning to spend the night,” you revert to humour to diffuse the returning tension. 

“Yeah?” Joel follows your lead. “Got somethin’ you’d rather be doin’?”

“Pretty much anything else,” you quip. “I was gonna work on this painting I’m late on.” You’re not sure why you’re opening up about that aspect of your life, but it’s the direction the whisky has picked. It’s futile enough. Still safe. 

“Oh. Right. Painting,” he says. “I knew you did that.”

He does?

“Didn’t you do one of Tommy and Maria?” He continues. “For their wedding?” 

The man truly is full of surprises. And to think you were convinced he was completely indifferent to you, at least before today. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was me,” you reply after a few seconds. 

“It’s good work. You managed to make Tommy look half-decent. That’s talent right there,” he jokes. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I tried.” You chuckle, and your stomach flutters at the compliment. You’d shoot those butterflies one by one with a tiny gun if you could. “What about you? What’d you have on the schedule?”

“Hm,” he answers, “not much either. Was gonna ask Ellie to join me for dinner. And get rejected again.” 

“I don’t blame her,” you comment, a teasing grin forming. “What teenager wants to hang out with a grumpy old guy?” 

“Hey. Rude.” Joel feigns offence. “I can be fun,” he adds. 

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” you push further. 

“Okay then. Just you wait.” He glances around the room for inspiration, until he is hit by a stroke of genius. 

“Truth or dare?”

You snort. “Are you twelve?”

“Truth or dare?” Joel repeats, voice raising in pitch. 

You shake your head in disbelief. 

Joel fucking Miller.  

“Fine. Truth,” you capitulate. 

Joel smirks. “Okay. Uh,” he concentrates, “What’s your favourite colour?”

You take a second to process the words that just came out of his mouth. And then burst out laughing. 

“Come on,” Joel protests, a grin brightening his eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. “What’s wrong with that question?” 

It makes you double down in laughter. You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, and Joel joins in with a few low chuckles. The stoic mask has vanished. Why does he look so sweet? 

“That-that- was the best you could come up with?” you get out between deep inhales. 

Joel doesn’t back down. “You gonna answer it or what?” 

“Okay, okay. Uh-” 

You realise you haven’t thought about that tiny aspect of yourself in about two decades. Cordyceps has had that strange effect of destroying souls, personalities, the little things that used to make one human. By infecting some, and coercing others into survival. You’re not sure which fate is worse. 

“It’s yellow,” you finally reply. Yellow like the sunshine. That was your sister’s nickname. And you were Moonbeam. Opposites who completed each other. And now there’s only one left, lonely, broken.

Joel nods. “Fitting.”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” He gestures at your exposed collarbone, where a sun made up of a multitude of ink dots is etched into your skin. Joel is scarily on point; that was for her, too. 

“Yeah.” You don’t linger on the topic. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Joel replies instantly. 

You’re not prepared. “Uh- I dare you to-” Your mind is sluggish, moving in slow-motion as you try to come up with something. “I dare you to sit next to me.” It comes out without your control. 

Shit. 

“Easy,” Joel brags. He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt and takes five steps before settling back down so close that your legs are touching. He doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes on the fire ahead, and neither do you. But it sends a chill up your spine and your thoughts to a dangerous place. You determine you’ve taken a long enough break from the whisky and take a swig of the liquid courage. Joel does too. 

“Your turn,” he reminds you. 

“Truth.” You still have enough wits left to be worried of what he’d make you do as a dare. 

“Takin’ the coward’s way out?” He teases. 

You drink again, ignoring the remark. 

“Alright. Uh, tell me about- your first time,” he says, glancing over at you with a sly smile. 

That’s a huge jump from the innocence of his first question. You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You’re gonna have to be more precise.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now start talkin’,” he playfully orders. 

You sigh. “I was seventeen. With a friend I had in the QZ. Nothing special to it.” Your teenage years aren’t a period you like to reminisce about; you had to grow up much too fast. 

Joel stays quiet for a moment, and bumps your knee with his, in a movement that could be passed as accidental, or as an attempt at comfort. You’re not certain which is the truth. “D’you love him?” He asks, his tone genuine, devoid of mockery. 

“Her,” you correct. “And…I don’t know. It was years ago. Doesn’t matter.” It’s a lie. You remember it like it was yesterday. And you did.

Joel’s expression is one of surprise, and embarrassment. He turns a shade of red deeper than he was the second before, the temperature having nothing to do with it. “Oh. Uh. I- Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to assume- That’s- Good for you- I-” 

You’re very entertained by his reaction. People usually fall into one of two categories when you tell them; awkward ally or plain bigot. You’re glad it’s the first one. You cut him off before he digs the hole deeper. “It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up. Your turn.” 

He seems rather grateful for the change of subject. “Uh. Right. Truth,” he replies, regaining his composure. 

You give him a taste of his own medicine. “Same question.” 

Joel is unbothered, and tells the story nonchalantly. “Okay. It was my date at senior prom. Back of my car in the school parking lot.”

It makes you laugh. “Wow. How very original. I gotta know what kinda car it was.” 

“My dad’s busted old Wrangler. I put that car through a lot of shit.” he replies, chuckling. 

“I could have guessed that.” 

For a second, you and Joel look at each other, smiling. He almost appears timid. And for a second, the horrors of the world retreat into the shadows that birthed them. For a second, everything is alright. You could stay here forever. 

——————————

Joel could, too. He wishes time could stop here. Because he’s confident that the night will inevitably end in something he’ll regret. No way around it. It’s taking an enormous effort already to keep himself from reaching over and closing the distance between your lips and his. The booze isn’t helping. You’re not either, with that radiant smile that’s melting his hard shell little by little, and your eyes that keep wandering around his face, his chest, and lower too, though you try to be discreet. He’s doing the same, and he’s certain you’re aware of it. Now, it’s a matter of who will succumb to the temptation first. 

You speak up again. “One last thing, Joel. Did you get the girl?” The question is lighthearted, but the memories it brings back certainly aren’t. 

He sighs. “Yeah. I did.” Sarah’s mother. They’d been high school sweethearts. Young. Dumb. A tale as old as time. “Got married. Had a kid. The whole nine yards. Then she wasn’t ready to be a parent. And, well-” He trails off, the words slipping out, motivated by the liquor. He’d never have confessed such a thing in a different context. Especially not to you. And just like that, he’s ruined the mood. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock, before your expression softens, as you realise what must have happened to said child. Pity? Compassion? Joel can’t be sure. “Oh. Uhm. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know-” 

“‘S’okay. It’s, uh, it’s been a while. And I got Ellie now,” he reassures, slurring the words slightly. 

“What-what was their name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Sarah,” he answers after a pause. He’s only recently started being able to talk about her out loud without breaking down. He doesn’t know if that still applies when he’s inebriated. And he’s not willing to test it out. He drowns the sentiment in more whisky, before giving you the bottle. 

“Uhm. That’s pretty.” You take a swig and hesitate. “I, uh, I- know what it’s like. To- to lose someone like that,” you say, softly. The pain the words cause you as they escape is evident. Joel believes you.

And then something happens. Your right hand leaves your lap, moves to the side and comes to rest on his. 

His gaze travels from your hand, up to your face. It’s full of doubt, eyes wide, as though you’ve just made a horrible mistake. 

It’s all it takes for the floodgates to open. 

——————————

Joel grabs your forearm and pulls you into his lap. His mouth collapses on yours. You don’t protest, accepting the kiss immediately, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, knees on both sides of his thighs. 

A rugged hand goes to the small of your back, pressing your chest to his, while the other slides up to the back of your head, carefully tilting it to deepen the kiss. Tongues collide, hungry, eager. He sucks on yours, stifling a moan.  

You’ve been pent up so long you’re soaking already. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips across your jaw, before going down your neck, biting and swirling his tongue on your pulse point, not mindful of the mark he’s undoubtedly going to leave. He earns a gasp, your fingers interlocking with his hair, holding him in place. You grind against his growing bulge to try and alleviate the fervent pressure rising at your core. He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, the friction sending sparks of electricity to your hazy mind. A hand wanders to your breast, fingers groping the soft flesh, flicking the nipple raised through your shirt. But you need more. Need him inside of you. Now.

And you tell him so, voice quivering with desire. “Please,” you add in a whimper.

It isn’t long before your clothes are ripped off, his lips refusing to break apart from yours for more than a few seconds. He lays you down right there on the floor, bare, trembling, aching for his touch. He sits back on his heels and admires you for a moment, eyes darkened, intense, reflecting the flames as if they are blazing behind his pupils. You watch, mesmerised, as he undresses in the dim, dancing light of the fire, casting him in an aura that’s almost ominous.  He stands up to take off his underwear, cock springing free and hitting his lower stomach.

The sight makes your mouth water. God, he’s big.

He climbs on top of you, your legs encircling his torso, granting him access to your entrance. And he pushes into you. Hard. You’re so wet his cock slides in without resistance, filling you completely, nearly hitting your cervix, the jab of pain delicious. The act isn’t kind, or tender; and it’s exactly what you want. For him to use you, to ruin you. And he does. He fucks you senseless, each stroke bringing you closer to oblivion, to forgetting who you are. The sounds he’s letting out are outright sinful, grunts laced with dirty sentences that could make you finish on the spot. But you’re holding on. Until he lifts you up by the waist, angling himself to hit that bundle of nerves over and over again, making you cry out in ecstasy, clawing at his back. You’re almost there, your walls pulsate around him, driving him deeper inside. 

“Think you should come for me, darlin’,” he hums into your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

You obey. 

The orgasm ripples with such force it blinds you. You can’t even scream. You’re gone. Not a person anymore, but a being of pure pleasure. Joel coaxes you through it with a few more thrusts, erratic, uneven, as he reaches his own release. He pulls out of you at the last second, painting your belly with spurts of the thick, warm substance. Your entire body spasms before going limp. 

All the fight has been drained out of you. You’re reduced to a panting, throbbing mess on the floor, arousal pooling out of you, coating your inner thighs. 

“Did so good for me,” Joel praises, hands cupping your face, left thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. “So fuckin’ good,” he repeats.

You stay still, eyes closed, brain shutting down your functions one by one. As you’re about to drift off, you feel strong arms carrying you to the loft, carefully placing you on the bed, cleaning you off with a soft cloth. He climbs in and embraces you, limbs tangled with yours, and you nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. His fingers gently brush the hair from your face to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

“Sleep tight, darlin’,” he whispers. 

It’s so vulnerable it makes your heart ache. 

Because you know this’ll all be gone tomorrow, along with the alcohol evaporating from your system. 

——————————

You’re right.

The sky is clear by the next morning, harsh sunlight brutally waking you. You’re alone in the bed, shivering, sore, his scent all over your skin. You get dressed, head pounding, filled with excruciating remorse. 

Joel is waiting for you by the front door. Glacial. Austere. Haunting. The person that you went to bed with a few hours ago has been torn to shreds. As though he never even existed. Maybe he was a product of your imagination.

And, once you’re outside, standing side by side on the horses, ready for the return trip, Joel utters a sentence that reverberates in your head all the way to Jackson, its echo deafening as you ride in silence.

“What we did. It meant nothing. Understand?”

You keep the tears in until you’re back home. 

To read on AO3

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I have no idea what's going on with this house. Firstly, on top of the listing, it says "Get Flood Insurance Quote." The 1966 home in Manchester, NH is on the Piscataquog River, that must overflow. Has 4bds, 6ba, $1.375M and the house has some totally unexpected features.

The guest powder room in this cylinder.

How spacy is this? I'm obsessed with that sink.

Now, here's a sunken living room with a stone fireplace. Did you notice all the swirling staircases?

Behind the fireplace is a family room. House has vaulted beamed ceilings and this is quite a long wall of built-ins.

They've got a pool table in this area.

The kitchen's nice- big, open, fits 6 stools at the counter (but that's too tight for me, I wouldn't put more than 4).

Plus, it also has an eat-in area. So, what we've seen looks pretty normal.

Check out this home office, though. I mean, this is elaborate- It's 2 stories high and look at the ceiling. Plus marble floors and a marble built-in desk.

Note that the guest powder room door is closed. It must slide.

Primary suite is so plain.

Has a whole living room.

Foyer w/cabinet leading to the en-suite.

Then, we go down to the cave. Now, you're talkin.' This looks like a rec room with a bar.

Very unexpected. I wonder if they even use it- how would you clean this porous looking white stuff?

And, then you have the wine cellar that looks ancient. What is that piping? I see stairs at the far end that must go to the upper tier so you can get the wine.

And, lastly, there's a sauna.

A large enclosed porch outside. This is very nice.

The pool area has a covered pavilion.

The home is surrounded by 9.20 acres of land.

[philtstone]

juliet/shawn | bandaging an injury and/or falling asleep on a shoulder pleaseeeeee

i spent way too much time on this considering im still not sure how i feel abt the end result? i know in fantasy psych land concussions are a fun and easy trope but for whatever godforsaken reason i kept thinking "but the REALISM". like an idiot. anyway, set at some point in the second half of s3, but before the finale. enjoy!

Juliet is officially miserable. 

Her head hurts. Her ankle hurts. And, in between the stale Clorox fumes of the supply closet she’s currently wallowing in, creeping tendrils of embarrassment have wafted their way into her mental bubble and are sedimenting around her ears. 

This is so mortifying.

She’s supposed to be a good cop. She’s supposed to be beyond this kind of silly mistake. She’s not supposed to be knocked out and locked up in an ancient janitorial cupboard while the unexpected cabal of burlier-than-average plumbers (electricians? Air conditioning repair men? Juliet couldn’t quite catch the uniform logo) panic in the next room over whether the rest of the SPBD have wised up to their shockingly well-hidden gun smuggling ring.  

It was supposed to be an easy lead that she could follow up on all by herself, without Lassiter's overbearing, well-meaning interjections in her ear. His ability to trust her input has definitely grown, but sometimes Juliet gets tired of being ordered around. He was all wrapped up in the Rosenbaum case, anyway, and she was only dealing with a single teenage girl, alone and helpless against the world, worried about her idiot boyfriend’s midnight activities. Not five large men who got the drop on her in that alley way faster than Juliet is comfortable admitting. It wasn't even a particularly nefarious attack or anything – they panicked and knocked her behind the head, and Juliet was so surprised she tumbled down the back alley steps, like an idiot. Now she has a twisted ankle, a scraped up cheek, and is smack in the middle of a truly pounding headache that’s been around since the second she woke up. Now she's stuck here, unable to call for backup and with no idea when and how anyone's going to find her. Worst of all, now her favorite orange top is stained with whatever all-purpose cleaner was spilled onto the floor of this gross supply closet, now she’s scuffed the backs of her heels when wiggling them off so her swollen ankle throbbed just a little bit less, and now the flowery glass beads from the chopsticks in her hair are poking uncomfortably into the back of her neck. 

They haven't even tied up her hands. Her lame injuries and the comically large lock on the door are all the explanation necessary for why she’s not breaking out of here anytime soon. The only silver lining is the vent beside the closet door, which is probably the only reason she hasn’t yet suffocated on the cleaning supply fumes.

To add insult to injury, her stomach is growling loudly.

It’s all so unfair, she thinks. Lassiter’s going to be insufferable if he ends up having to come and rescue her, and half the progress they’ve made over the past year will be out the door. So long to him trusting her to do things alone. She’s dangerously close to feeling tears prick her eyes and just starting to wonder if she shouldn’t have put more stock in Shawn's two-days-prior vision about the new Nintendo Wii version of Mario Party when a muffled shuffling sounds abruptly from outside the thin closet door. 

Juliet stiffens.

It could be anything. It could be the plumbers returning; it could be a rat; it could be Candace -- that insufferable little snitch -- here to gloat about pulling the wool so successfully over a well-meaning Juliet’s eyes. So much for girl power, Juliet thinks uncharitably. She really hopes it’s not a rat. The shuffling turns into a faint scraping noise, then a clicking. Maybe it’s the vents. Maybe it’s the pipes, and these plumbers should spend more time plumbing and less time dealing arms. Maybe –

"Jules?"

Juliet blinks twice. This is it, she decides. The hunger and chemicals and possibly-a-concussion have gotten to her. She's started hearing voices. Not just any voices, but a-crush-that-it-is-absolutely-unwise-for-her-to-have voices. So what if in her knocked out delirium she considered, briefly and for a second only, what it would feel like to have him sitting here beside her, wrapping her up in a warm and secure hug that would make the dizziness and sprained ankle go away? That was a daydream that took place under psychological duress and was exclusively between Juliet and her god. There is no reason why –

“Juliet?” sounds Shawn Spencer’s unmistakable whispered tenor for a second time from behind the locked door. Juliet gasps. She sits up against the bucket digging into her back and ignores the wave of dizziness that washes over her. 

“Shawn?” she hisses in reply.

“Ha!” responds his disembodied voice. “I told Gus you’d be in here. Hang on, stand back.”

She watches, wide-eyed, as with a very faint click, the doorknob of the supply closet door turns an inch and the door pops open with a faint creak. Yellow light spills in from the old hallway and frames a grinning, familiar shape. She knows the t-shirt (characteristically green) and the jeans (uncharacteristically dirty) and his styled hair, which is mussed and flattened at the top like he’s been shimming through tight spaces, concerningly well. She’d just recently been ill-advisedly fantasizing about him, after all. Juliet blinks twice to make sure she isn’t dreaming. 

“Is that – a lock pick in your hand?” she hears herself say.

Shawn looks down at the unmistakable lock pick very obviously in his hands. 

“... No?”

Juliet has so many questions.

“And I have many answers,” Shawn says, shoving his tools into his back pocket and shuffling to her side on his hands and knees (he only just avoids knocking over a mop), “mostly to other, unrelated questions that you will not be asking. How’s your head?”

“H-how – how did you –”

He grins a little crooked grin at her and waves two fingers in the air. 

"Shawn,”  she whispers, frowning and not buying it, “what are you doing here?"

"Finding you, of course," Shawn whispers back. The cramped dimensions of the closet require him to fold himself closely against her, his dusty knees against her own. The muffled voices of their perps float down the hallway. Of course. Shawn is close enough that she can see the earnest curve of his eyebrows and smell the weird musty metallic tinge clinging to his clothes.

“Shawn,” she whispers again, “did you crawl through the vents?”

“Would you be into it if I said I did?”

The honest answer would probably be a little, but exclusively from the part of her who hallucinated hug action while unconscious. Consequently, "Oh my God," she hisses, ignoring him and the faint white spots dancing in front of her eyes. "How did you -- where's Lassiter?"

"Camped out outside and still trying to figure out how to bust into this place without starting a firefight. Those carpenters are packing some mean heat, Jules."

"You're a civilian!"

"That word has so many syllables. Here, hold these.”

She splutters as he pulls a battered cardboard shape from his jacket pocket and presses this into her hands.

Shawn’s always been the kind of good looking that takes a second or third look to notice. This frustrates her, like so many other things about him do, because it means the handsomeness sneaks up on her in quiet moments, like this one, where he’s looking at her with an expectant expression of genuine concern that her head hurts too much to dodge neatly. She’s still dizzy. He’s still here. Colorful cartoon shapes look up at her from the front of the Band Aid box. 

“You just … happened to have this on you?” Juliet asks weakly.

“These,” he agrees easily, “a taser. A sample of Gulligan’s Sweet and Salty Almond Butter that’s probably gone bad in my breast pocket. Jules, you’re bleeding.”

“I fell,” Juliet begins. The closet is dim, but there’s just enough light from outside that she can see the serious flutter in the back of his eyes. Suddenly she feels the need to explain. “Not on purpose,” she says. She knows her own eyes are wide. She hopes it isn’t obvious that she’s pleading. “I – I had to follow my hunch.”

“I know,” Shawn says simply, and nothing else. Her heart jumps dimly in her chest, and maybe that’s why Juliet doesn’t say anything when his hands move up to cup her jaw. He tilts her head to the side and brushes his thumb carefully under the bruising scrape that’s been stinging for the last thirty minutes. The pads of his fingers are warm and dry and the pinch between his brows is frustrating the same way his looks are; it sneaks up on her. She didn’t think Shawn was capable of being so gentle. He reaches down, one hand holding her face, and peels the paper off of a little butterfly bandage with Velma’s goofy grin on it. 

He’s talking again, easy and breezy and still in that whisper, like they do this all the time.

“Trust me. When you’ve been friends with Gus long enough, having Scooby-Doo themed first aid on you at all times is a legal requirement absolutely pursuable in a court of law. I’d say for twelve states, including the great nation of Puerrrrto Rico, which deserves independence, don’t you think?” The soft gauze in the center of the Band Aid presses soothingly over her cut face. She forgets to be mad and embarrassed and dizzy, just for a second. “Hm,” says Shawn. “I should’ve given you Daphne. The purple would’ve complimented your shirt.”

“For Gus,” she finally manages in a whisper, responding to his first point. “Because he’s so accident prone.”

“Definitely.” Shawn doesn’t miss a beat. “Gus is the one who broke his arm twice in tenth grade -- didn’t you know?” 

“Shawn,” she says. He squeezes her empty hand. 

“What say you and I get outta here?”

It’s her line. She knows how to do this. “I wouldn’t say no to a moonlit stroll.” 

Shawn grins. Despite the frustration, it’s easy with Shawn. It’s always been easy, with Shawn. He waggles his eyebrows.

"Sounds romantic."

"I was thinking ... haunting. Halloween." Juliet has to search for her words. "Oh! Spooky. No kissing allowed."

“Okay,” he says, again, simply. “C’mere.” 

She blinks a few times to focus. When she does, she looks at him as seriously as he’s looking at her. “Oh. Shawn. You’re going to … carry me?” she asks finally.

“Yes,” Shawn replies, with that expectant solemnity that always makes it sound like he’s waiting for everyone else to catch up.

"Why?" she asks, confused.

“Because your ankle’s on vacation, and your beautiful brain seems pretty scrambled. And because you are the approximate size and weight of a small bird.”

She probably shouldn’t be as flattered by this phrasing as she is. “Hmmm,” Juliet says. She reaches for him anyway and finds the back of his neck to be very warm – slightly damp with sweat. They only fumble a little bit in the half-dark trying to fit their limbs in the right places as the voices and footsteps in the next room continue. “I’m not fragile,” she informs him in a comically belated way, while Shawn picks her up in short, practical movements that only require a small grunt of exertion and his knee under her ass for leverage. Her feet dangle. Juliet didn’t realize her ankle was that swollen.

Like a little stockinged balloon, she thinks. Ow.

“I never said the small bird couldn’t totally judo flip my ass,” Shawn mutters. He looks kind of silly, Juliet decides, as far as rescuers go. From this angle she can sort of see up his nose while he cranes his neck to peer out the closet door. Her ankle throbs, but probably less than if she’d tried to stand on it. This is the most intimate they’ve ever been. She can feel his heartbeat against her shoulder and the strong shift of his arms against her back. His shoulders are very solid. And warm. Her hug delusions weren’t all that wrong after all, which might be a worst development than Juliet expected. Juliet doesn’t want to deal with that right now. She lets her forehead drop against his neck while he continues to chatter, presumably for her benefit, at the lowest possible register. She pretends he doesn’t smell good under the lingering strands of possibly-eau-de-vent. They creep out into the hallway, staying close to the wall, and Shawn’s feet are eerily, concerningly quiet. The yellow overhead lights spill over onto Juliet’s face. She winces, closing her eyes.

“... beyond a caboose design. I think that was when Gus discovered he was into clowns, romantically speaking. You can tell him I told you that, by the way.” 

“Ow,” she says, aloud this time.

Shawn’s steady stream of whispers die in the space above her head for only a second. Then he speaks again, soft and murmured:

“Hey, keep it together, Jules. You can’t go giving the small birds a bad name.”

It’s such an inane bit to commit to, the way all his bits are, and suddenly Juliet begins to feel the fuzz creep properly into the edges of her consciousness while her body inadvertently starts to sag. Relief, maybe? She’s not sure. She wonders again how he knew where to look for her. The spirits, her foggy brain supplies. That’s probably it. The only explanation. Like clockwork, Shawn appears on the scene only after she’s handled the situation first, even if she’s handled it poorly. She doesn’t always handle it poorly. Sometimes she handles it really well. Shawn loves to tell her so, and does things like take axes out of her shaking hands or very nearly almost kiss her late at night or ply her with homemade crab cakes while she puts regular, non-Scooby-Doo Band Aids on the gross roller skate blisters on her feet in the Psych office. He does stuff like that no matter how capable or incapable she was on her own. 

“Shawn?” she whispers, as they creep slowly against the wall in a direction she can’t really make out.

“Yeah?” he whispers back immediately. 

“D’you … do you really have’a taser?”

“Sure. Nicked it off Buzz.”

“Tha’s illegal.”

“What? Nah. Tasers are totally pickpocketable items in the state of California. Just ask Gus.”

“Gus’s a pharma … pharmaceutical salesman,” Juliet mumbles.

Is Shawn holding his breath? He's kind of tensed up against her. Juliet’s mind suddenly feels like it’s wading through molasses. Her cheek smushes against his warm collarbone as her head starts to nod. Someone’s talking from a long distance away. The plumbers, maybe. Or were they landscapers …?

A door bangs open and shakes Juliet awake. Footsteps again. Not Shawn’s. Where –

“Jules,” she hears, whispered urgently over her head. “Jules, sweetheart, you can’t fall asleep with a concussion. Just hang on, okay? We’re almost there.”

She’s not asleep, she wants to tell him. And she likes that he called her sweetheart, but she doesn’t like that she likes it. He should know. She likes him. He would be a worse idea than her little jaunt this afternoon, though. She hopes that doesn’t hurt his feelings. It kind of hurts hers. Juliet wants him to call her sweetheart more, even though she doesn’t, and he just has really comfortable arms. It’s embarrassing, but not any more than being stuck in a supply closet with a twisted ankle was. 

When she blinks her eyes open again, it’s harsh and sudden and awful, and she’s sitting in the back of an ambulance groaning at the blinding white light around her. Carlton sits across from her, looking pale.

He reaches out and grabs her arm to steady her. She thinks blearily that he looks scared.

“Don’t be mad,” she blurts out.

“Ju – what the hell are you talking about?” Carlton rasps.

Juliet isn’t sure. The last couple hours are kind of a blur.

“Did we get them?” she says, after a long moment of silent mutual staring. His eyes widen imperceptibly. He coughs. His shirt is open at the neck and his tie is rumpled and he smells like a shooting range. Then he laughs.

“Jesus, O’Hara,” he says. “Yeah, we got ‘em.”

Juliet nods absently. She can see Shawn standing slumped against a cop car through the open back door of the ambulance, over Calrton’s shoulder. He has a split lip that she can’t remember from before – she supposes it was pretty dark in there. Gus, standing beside him, seems to be furiously whispering at him about something, but he waves when he catches her watching. He doesn’t make a move to come over. That’s fine, she thinks. She’s happy just waving back. 

For once, Carlton doesn’t complain.

[eleni-cherie]

a thief's origin✨ || bts • kth - chapter 0.4

"you're afraid I won't wait." "I'm afraid you will."

a criminal and a doctor should be as different as the sun and the moon - but unexpected things happened every day. like him finding his safe haven in her.

© 2024 | eleni_cherie

»»»

masterlist: here

— genre: thief au, gangster comedy, adventure, romcom, humour, angst, fluff, sexual tensiON, slowburn, mutual pining, strangers to friends to lovers s2f2l

ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE. CHARACTERS NOT NECESSARILY LIKE THE REAL PERSONS. ALSO VERY UNREALISTIC PLOT LOL - JUST PRETEND READING A MANGA/COMIC OR WATCHING A FILM, REALLY.

SUGGESTIVE THEMES. MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE & BLOOD (BUT NOTHING TOO GRAPHIC, IT'S STILL A COMEDY!)

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age 26 // 2nd year - assistant physician

13th August

Macau, China

"One, two - check, check. Can you hear me?"

Taehyung rolled his eyes hearing Jimin's dramatics in the in-ear as he was easing his way to the back of the extravagant casino. He walked behind a group of intoxicated men - who judging by their suits and platin watches were business men having come there to gamble a few hundred thousands just for fun - to cover himself from the cameras.

Reaching one of the secured doors leading to the back area, he smoothly placed a small button-like device behind the security scanner in the matter of a second while passing by.

"Yeah, I do," he eventually responded to his pestering friend with a grin. Earning an annoyed groan on the other line.

"Took you long enough!"

"Guys, don't start again," Yoongi piped up in a bored, yet warning tone. And Taehyung snickered under his breath.

Without showing any suspicion, he continued walking among the drunks until reaching the card tables. Creating eye-contact with Yoongi who gave him a brief glance from the dimly lit bar, focusing back on the whiskey in front of him. The two pretending not knowing the other.

"Bug is set," he announced in a hush, approaching one of the empty seats at the Blackjack table. "Gonna start the distraction now."

"Joining in ten."

"Good. I'm counting on you guys."

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21st August

Barcelona, Spain

Despite the evening hour, a drenching warmth laid around him. Taehyung was in fact internally dying.

After arriving from the layover in Doha, another unbearably warm place, he took a nap at their hideout outside the city first - feeling more drowsy than anything. Only then deciding to go check out his friend's apartment, out of boredom but also because he had genuinely missed her. However, she wasn't there, which in eighty percent of the time meant one thing: she was at work. 

So half an hour later, he found himself at the back of the hospital, lingering around the emergency entrance out of habit.

The late shift would finish soon he assumed - if she didn't have a double one, which he hoped wasn't the case. Eager for her to see the small succulent he had secured as a redemption for the one he'd accidentally knocked off the last time there.

It had been months ever since, but he still felt bad about it knowing how much her plants meant to her.

After awhile he got tired of walking around the sparsely illuminated area though and instead settled at the wall next to the entrance. Propping himself against it and stretching his neck as he watched people come and go.

He exhaled deeply when the automatic door slid open once again. Only this time he could hear raised voices nearing him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Pretty sure my shift's over and Dr M warned us not to exceed our hours, remember?"

Taehyung's ears perked up at this. He instantly recognised the second voice despite the annoyed undertone. He didn't recognise the other one though. His foot setting to the ground and he straightened himself while listening intently.

"You know exactly what I mean. Don't act dumb, doll."

Cassandra turned around at this, crossing her arms as she faced her colleague with a raised brow.

"What did you just call me? Doll? Since when are we on that level?" she laughed, but Taehyung could tell she was surpressing an upset scoff.

And it certainly didn't go unnoticed by Pavlo, one of the bigmouths in the hospital, either. "Since you humiliated me in front of the fcking chief physician. Seriously, what's wrong with you?"

The way he raised his voice and accusing her of things that were his own fault, only made her temper bubble right underneath the surface. Trying her best to give him a blank stare instead of a nasty eye. 

She never liked Pavlo. She found him somewhat attractive in the right angle, but couldn't say anything positive about him otherwise. Frankly, she hated him. And no, not in a hot 'enemies-to-lovers' way. Rather in a 'the-world-would-be-a-better-place-without-him' way.

"I wasn't the one humiliating you. I only corrected you by stating facts," she spoke up, surprised by her own calmness, "The one humiliating you was your big ego. Who'd ever think to use activated vitamine C to treat a septic patient with such low thrombocytes? Everyone knows it'd cause brain heaemorage. Well, -" Pausing, she folded her lips. Failing to balance out the mocking judgement in her tone. ".. everyone but you, apparently."

Her male colleague clenched his jaw and she could swear seeing a vein popping up on his neck.

He couldn't care less about anyone hearing him, everyone knew to better not get on bad terms with him. So the fact she dared provoking him after always staying in line just like the rest, didn't sit right with him.

"Look, smartass," he said through gritted teeth and stepped forward. 

Cassandra instinctively taking a step back at this. Trying not to flinch and keep a stern face instead when internally she was beginning to shake.

There was a part of her fearing that she was pushing him too hard. She didn't know him well enough to know how he'd react to that.

She had heard rumours, unsettling ones, though which only added to her dislike towards him. And she wouldn't be surprised if they were true to some extent. But there was also another part of her clenching her fists and standing firm. 

"I don't have time for this, my shift ended five minutes ago."

She was ready to walk away when she felt a firm grip on her arm. Preventing her from leaving the spot.

"I'm talking to you though."

Her breath hinched and she looked down at his large hand, then back at him with what was probably the angriest glare Pavlo had ever witnessed on her. And that coming from a usually quiet and harmless person like Cassandra did take him off-guard for a second. Although he quickly found his demeanor again.

"Let go of me," she said, threateningly slowly. Voice low but only because she was trying her best not to jump him right there.

"No, first you -"

"I think she said to let go."

Both their heads abrubtly snapped towards the unexpected third voice. Seeing Taehyung appearing from behind the wall, stepping behind her.

The waves of chocolate brown, straight and and silky , was the first thing she noticed about him as she studied his face. She was startled to see him there.

Taehyung was arching a brow, staring blankly at Pavlo. His piercing glare neither mad nor threatening, rather judgy while staring straight into Pavlo's hazel eyes. Not even blinking once, which made the assistant physician gulp in irritation over the tall stranger. His grip around Cassandra's arm loosening.

"I don't know what you two were arguing about," Taehyung began then, pretending he hadn't eavesdropped the whole conversation. He glanced down at Cassandra before redirecting his glare to the male doctor, "But trust me, you don't want to upset her." And all of a sudden he cracked a grin. Taking them both aback. "Seriously, she looks innocent but she's got a mean upper-cut. And her kick..." He dragged out a whistle. "You don't wanna experience that."

Cassandra stifled a laugh at his acting, quickly understanding what he was trying to do. So she puffed out her chest and threw Pavlo a sinister look instead to play along with Taehyung's white lies.

"Listen to him. He knows what he's talking about," she smirked widely, leaning towards him to add, "From experience."

Pavlo immediately yanked his hand away and let go of her completely. His eyes alternating between Cassandra and Taehyung, shifting bewilderedly.

At one point his lips parted, as if he wanted to retort something, but shut just as fast again. Giving up, not seeing a point anymore.

And without further ado, he trotted back inside. Muttering something incoherent under his breath, clearly embarrassed and upset about the humiliating blow his ego had taken.

Cassandra and Taehyung immediately broke into a fit of laughter as soon as he disappeared.

"Who was that idiot?" The thief huffed then, glancing down at her with a scowl.

She sighed, shaking her head. "Dr. Pavlo Romero Diaz. First class jerk. Low class doctor."

He snorted at this, his irises lingering on the door her colleague had disappeared to before falling back to her. "You okay? Did he hurt you?"

"Nah, I'm fine." She waved him off. However, his eyes caught the clear red mark Pavlo's grip had left on her bare skin and something inside him boiled. Suddenly feeling the urge to go inside and find Pavlo, when her voice interrupted his train of thoughts.

"Huh, what?"

He saw her smiling at his confused face, clearly not having heard anything she'd just said. "I said thanks for the support."

"Oh, that.." he shrugged nonchalantly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You didn't seem like needing my help anyway."

She wanted to argue, but then again she appreciated how he didn't let her appear as a weakling. "Still, thank you. I might've ended up doing something irrational like kicking him in the balls," she giggled, half-embarrassed about her confession.

He huffed out a chuckle, knowing she'd have probably done it if that jerk wouldn't have let go of her. Giving her a nod then. "S'alright, don't mention it. You know I got your back."

Her cheeks blushed all of a sudden. It was a nice feeling, to know that someone backed her up.

They shared a small smile before Taehyung went behind the wall only to reappearing with the small plant. And he observed her brown eyes widening, a small squeak leaving her lips.

"A jade plant!" She instantly rushed to grab it from his hands, beaming with joy like a child getting a bag of candy.

"Ah, this is what it's called. So you like it?" he asked, amused about how gleeful someone could be over a small plant.

"Yeah, of course! Why wouldn't I?" she grinned, marveling over the random gift. Her eyes then narrowing on him. "Why did you buy me a jade plant though?"

He shrugged as they made their way out of the emergency area and into the parking lot. Catching her tripping over a protruding stone and almost dropping the plant, quickly composing herself. And he tried not to laugh not wanting to embarrass her. "Didn't want to appear with empty hands and besides.. I felt sorry for last time. You know.."

She giggled when recalling the accident of him knocking off one of her succulents, nodding understandingly then. "You didn't have to, but thank you."

The plant had survived back then, but it'd never been the same ever since. Something she still felt sad about it since she really tried taking great care of her plants. However, when the incident had happened, she hadn't said anything because of his apologetic expression. He hadn't done it on purpose after all. 

Peeking at him, she couldn't help but smile. She was glad he was there. Not only because of the scene with Pavlo, which who knew how it'd have ended without Taehyung intervening - worst case would've been her indeed punching Pavlo's smug face and getting fired. Taehyung's lie wasn't a complete lie after all. 

But she had also genuinely missed his charming grin. More than she liked to admit.

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"So, why are you here?" Cautiously, she put the plant aside not to distress it, making space for the drinks he brought.

Taehyung hadn't promised too much. Inconspicuous from the outside, the door at the narrow alley hid a cool tapas bar in its basement. Cool both, in the colloquial and literal way. A needed escape from the lingering heat outside. The atmosphere still needing several hours to warm down.

He shrugged, taking a tentative sip from his red wine to hide his bashful smile. "It was the furthest away from Macau."

"Huh, so can I expect a postcard from there, too?"

"Of course," he nodded firmly, "Already on its way."

She grinned, still admiring the small plant set in front of her. "What did you do there?" she curiously asked then and folded her hands on the table top to lean in closer. Looking at all sides, seeing themselves getting accustumed to going there whenever he was in town. Whispering excitedly and with a lot of mischief then: "Was it for a heist?"

Her unapologetic curiosity for his profession amused but also worried him. And breathed out before chuckling. "A curious cat as always, Doc," he smirked, "But you know I won't feed into it."

His response made her groan in frustration and she sat back. Giving him a sulky pout. "Oh, c'mon, cool guy. Give me something. You know I like stories of you and the guys robbing filthy rich people. It's entertaining and fun."

The reason he tried avoiding telling her too many infos was so she wouldn't get dragged into this world. Even if, for some absurd reason, she didn't mind his workfield and even held some kind of adoration for it, Cassandra was still a normal person, an overall good person. So he'd keep trying his best to keep her away from this other part of his life. Even if she herself would probably not even mind it, he did. Because selfishly enough, he also did it for that illusion he lived when being with her.

Besides, his main concern remained that by visiting her, she'd sooner or later get in interpol's sight. So it was better when she knew as little as possible.

Yet, when those big brown bambi eyes were sparkling so inquiringly at his direction, he rarely could resist. He exhaled deeply, setting the glass of wine down.

"All I'm gonna say is that Macau is known for its casinos."

Her brows rose at this, her excitement returning. "Please tell me you robbed a casino like in Ocean's Eleven."

"It wasn't like this," he rolled his eyes, "Seriously, you need to stop with these films."

Cassandra, however, simply dismissed him with a beaming face. "You didn't deny robbing one though.."

Pursing his lips, he grabbed his glass again and took a sip. Making her grin only wider.

"Wow.. how did you do it?"

"Surely won't tell you."

The pout found its way back onto her lips and he laughed under his breath. A whole medical doctor, ready to fight her colleague but now sitting there in front of him pouting like a child. She was something.

"Fine," she sighed then, giving up. Her eyes catching the guests at another table playing a boardsgame then. An idea popping up in her mind. She got up and before Taehyung could ask her where she was heading to, she walked to the bar. Returning a minute later with a pleased smile and a stack of playing cards.

Taehyung looking at her with suspicion.

"Let's play a game," she announced then as she started shuffling the cards in her hands and he stifled a laugh at the way she did it. Shoving one half into another and almost dropping some in the procedure. She was struggling a little, it was obvious. There were way too many cards for her smaller hands and she didn't have much practice either. It was cute. So he played along.

"Okay. What game?"

"Whatever you want, I know many."

His eyebrows arched. "Is that so?"

"Mhm," she smiled as she continued her painful looking shuffling. "But have in mind, whoever loses the round has to truthfully answer the winner's questions."

Of course, he snorted, it was a trick to get more details from him. He pitied her though, after all he was good in card games. That was how they robbed casinos after all, by playing and cheating. Although, he didn't think he'd even need to cheat this time.

"Are you sure? I'm pretty good."

"So am I."

His lips folded and he bit down on them. It was adorable how certain she seemed to be, believing she'd have any chance against him. So full of herself. However, he knew not to insult her pride so he decided to go with it.

"Alright. You know how to play Blackjack?"

Quite to his surprise, she nodded virgoriously. Placing the stack down in front of him. "Cut."

He did so, deviding the stack into two. Cassandra taking the one that was underneath, beginning dealing the first open card to him and herself. Then she dealt another open one only to him.

Six and a queen. Sixteen in total. Against her ten.

He looked at his cards, then at her. Determination was set on her soft features and he had to confess, he liked that look on her. 

If she drew a six, it'd be a draw. If she drew a seven, eight, nine, ten or an ace, she'd win.

He tapped his fingers on the table top, signaling he wanted another one.

"You sure?"

"I am."

A three. Nineteen in total.

A smug smirk growing on his features as he began playing with his necklace. "Try beating that."

Cassandra's lips moved from side to side, glancing up to see him smile at her with a pitiful look. She huffed. She knew only a ten, face card or ace could save her, but she knew there had to be one in the following cards. Her fingers laid on the deck dramatically before in a swift move, she revealed the top card.

And the corners of her lips curled up.

"King of hearts. I win, cool guy."

He clicked his tongue. "Beginner's luck," he said unimpressed and reached over to shuffle the cards this time. "But fine, a deal's a deal. What do you wanna know?"

"You know what."

Dragging out a sigh, he cut the stack in two to skillfully merge the cards. "While me and Yoongi distracted security by winning constantly and very obviously in the front, Jimin followed the staff bringing the money from the tables to the safes in the back."

Her eyes widened in awe. "That sounds so cool."

"It's not, it's very bad," he chuckled, eyeing her with a wink. "You forget I'm one of the bad guys."

Cassandra only smiled at this though, looking at him fondly before reaching for her own drink and averting her eyes from him.

"You aren't a bad guy, Tae, even if you tried."

He dealt them each one card, before giving her another one.

She had two sevens against his jack of spades.

She tapped her cards and he slid another one to her, but before he could open it, she grabbed his wrist. Giving him an amused smirk.

"What will you give me if I get another seven?"

Taehyung pursed his lips before shaking his head amused about her confidence of getting a Blackjack that quickly. "Don't try pulling a Bugs Bunny on me, there's no way."

Rising one of her brows, she accepted the unspoken dare and let go of his hand. Gesturing for him to open the dealt card. And he did. Observing how surprise drained off any smugness from his face.

A third seven staring back at him.

"Blackjack."

His brows furrowed and he blinked, trying to process what just happened. Eventually nodding then with folded lips. Trying keeping his cool. It was a mere coincidence, surely. "Fine, go ahead. What else do you wanna know?"

"Your necklace.." she said then, catching a glimpse of the golden chain peeking above his collar, "Is there a special reason it's a tiger?"

His eyes went round, following her gaze when his lips tucked into a faint smile. "Ah," he said then, while reminiscing the past for a moment. His eyes finding hers again. "When I was a kid my grandparents used to call me 'little tiger', or something like that. I don't remember exactly anymore, it's been twenty years after all."

"And you're wearing it ever since?"

He nodded, fumbling with the necklace shyly.

"That's sweet." Her voice quieter then she intended, "It must mean a lot to you."

".. yeah, I guess it does."

And she gave him a soft smile, understanding the sentiment behind it now and why he always wore it. Reaching over to get the stack of cards then.

Thirteen rounds and another round of wine later, they set the cards aside.

There were significantly more people around them now as an hour ago.

But Taehyung only had eyes for the young woman who was happily humming another victory tune. Not even trying hiding her joyous grinning anymore.

And he stared at her in admiration but also with a new found respect, feeling much more humbled than before. "How.. how did you do that?"

"Do what?" Cassandra innocently asked as she chunked down the last bit of her second glass of sangria.

She felt the alcohol beginning to kick in as she'd been mindlessly drinking too quickly, once again getting fooled by the sweet taste. She had to be careful if she didn't want to fall asleep or blurt out her deepest secrets. She'd already had to spill some embarrassing things tonight. Like her writing a love letter to her crush in middle school or almost getting caught cheating in a French test, also in middle school.

Taehyung scoffed as they left the table and walked out the bar. A pleasant fresh breeze brushing past their flushed cheeks the moment they exited. "You know what. You won ten out of fifteen rounds."

"Beginner's luck," she shrugged with a teasing grin, making him wet his dry lips before chewing on it musing.

It wasn't like she had persistent on hearing more details of the heist. Despite her liking the stories, as undetailed as he usually kept them, and as much as it was entertaining her to tease him, she respected the fact he didn't like or wanted to talk about them. Instead, she'd asked about other things, more general. Like his first crush or which one was his favorite place they'd been to. And he appreciated it. Hence why he wasn't mad that she beat him in most rounds. More the opposite, he found her beaming face cute whenever she did. He was rather astonished.

"Again, how did you do it?"

Cassandra, holding the small plant securely in her hands, only folded her lips to suppress a sassy remark. Instead she only hummed, pretending being clueless.

They walked down the street towards the beach. The streets glowing under warm lights of lamps and shops surrounding them. Loud laughs erupting from a group at one of the tables of a restaurant they passed by.

"C'mon, tell me," Taehyung pouted then, nudging her arm. His almost whiny tone making her giggle.

"Well, you shouldn't underastimate me next time," she said in a sing-song voice then. And he observed her for a moment with a fond smile.

This girl was full of surprises and perhaps not as pure as he made her out to be after all, he realised.

"I really shouldn't, you're right. So what's your secret, Doc? Are you a secret gambler?"

"Hm.. remember I told you growing up with my grandparents?"

He nodded.

"My grandpa was and still is a highly gifted card player," she explained then, "That's how we mostly passed our time together, so he showed me a thing or two. And as fate willed, we always play Blackjack on New Year's. So Taehyung, I don't wanna hurt your pride, but your skills are nothing compared to my grandpa's."

A nostalgic smile crossed her face as memories of endless summer nights spent playing cards with her grandparents flooded her mind. 

He laughed out at this. "To be honest, I'm relieved. Thought you'd tell me you got these skills from one of your films."

She puffed out a breath at his anew teasing of her love for the crime genre. "Oh please. I don't need films for that. My grandpa's the only person I've never beaten in any of these games unless he let me. So really, it wasn't hard to beat you."

"But Blackjack is pure luck, you can't win all the time unless you count cards."

"Was that what you guys did in Macau?" she smirked.

"No, I'm not good at it. I used a-" He abruptly cut himself mid-sentence. Grinning back at her. "Nice try."

She simply shrugged though. "I didn't count cards. I don't even know how to do that."

"Then how -"

"There are some other tricks which help giving you better chances."

"Like what?"

"Family secret."

And he rolled his eyes. "So your family's full of gambling geniuses?"

"No. Just my grandpa."

Cassandra was a book with many chapters, each one of them more thrilling and surprising than the other ones and he began to see her in a slightly different light.

She was still the kindhearted, smart, fun friend he knew. But there was more to her. Way more. He always knew there was more to her, but he couldn't say what. Now he found out one new facette of hers.

"You tricked me," he plainly stated then, making her laugh out.

"How so?"

"You never said you're a card playing mastermind. I feel betrayed."

She faked pity. "Aw. Can I somehow make it up to you?"

"I'll think of something and let you know."

Their gazes met, holding each other's with soft smiles.

Usually, he didn't have an issue looking someone directly in the eyes. In his job, he had to be able doing that without batting an eyelash. However, when it came to her and her gentle eyes, something inside him twitched. 

"Well," she slowly began then, letting her eyes wander to the water in the distance. The Mediterranean sea peeking between the building. "Think quickly. When you leave there's no way for me to make it up to you anymore. You'd have to wait till randomly visiting me again.."

Her tone was teasing but he could see a flicker of something more in her eyes before blinking it away. A secret she didn't want to speak out loud. Like the fact it was a pity and sad she couldn't stay in touch with him when he wasn't around.

She knew it wasn't possible. They didn't use phones except if necessary and even then, it was burner phones - untracable for interpol. And yet, she couldn't help but find it an undeniable pity. And he agreed with that.

"I'll hurry up, promise."

»»»

29th August

A week had passed by since Taehyung had stopped by and Cassandra was getting ready for her shift at the hospital. Getting mentally prepared to see Pavlo again after having been spared of his presence for two days. She was tying her shoes when her phone on the side table next to the entrance door lit up. A new text notification appearing on the screen.

[message request]: finally came up with smth :P

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next chapter: 0.5 here

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[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter four

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, wriothesley, clorinde, sigewinne ⌗ warnings : a lot of blood?? ⌗ word count: 6.6k (a little longer this time teehee)

“I never knew entourages were your thing.”

You tilt your head. “How’d you know I had someone with me?” The image of the Chief Justice flashes through your mind for a moment.

Clorinde shrugs. “Some people from outside the Pankration Ring were babbling about seeing someone with the head of civil affairs. Were you always such a high reward person? Fame catch up with you yet?” She says this as she deepens her voice, posture straightened with her hands on her hips. Your eyes wander around the fortress, at the brass that graced every corner, seeing a few puddles pooling under a number of leaky pipes. 

Playfully nudging her arm, you snort at her jab. “You’re acting as if I’m some textbook rags-to-riches story. And no, fame has not caught up to me. I am no snob,” you tell her with a chastising look, but the attempt to steel yourself breaks when you feel your lips unwillingly quirking upwards into a smile, before you begin to shake trying to restrain your laugh.

It is not long before it infects Clorinde, too, and she falls victim to your foolish sense of humour. You lean on each other like two girls who’ve had too much to drink, afraid to let go lest one of you falls over; and you fail to notice the chiding looks of the people around you, but Clorinde shakes herself off before flicking your forehead causing you to stop your fit of laughter. 

“Gosh, remind me why I’m here again?”

“Oh I’ve seen you in your office, working away like a lifeless machine—” Clorinde feels at your arm. “What a pity. All that muscle is now reduced to flab.”

“Okay, ouch.”

Someone clears their throat from the other end of the room, and a manly voice sounds. “Hey. Clorinde. Get your friend over here so you can finally get to sparring.”

“Alright, alright,” Clorinde groans before dragging you by the arm to the ring; you stumble on the heel of your boot, stride broken by the unexpected force.

She chuckles at your clumsiness, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Come on, don't be such a klutz," she teases, her grip firm as she leads you towards the sparring ring. You shoot her a playful glare, feigning annoyance.

As you approach the ring, the shouts of brutes and the scrape from blade against blade pierces the air in a dissonant choir. Clorinde releases your arm as you stand at the very base of the stairs leading to the ring, and you square your shoulders — drawing in a long, sharp breath. Acutely aware of their eyes on you, you smirk. You are knowing how their eyes follow you — others, a bit more indifferent in the ‘affairs of the ‘overworld’’ so to speak. If you were any younger and naïve as you were,  you would’ve crumbled under their watchful eyes, but you know better than to have your weakness out for show, to be an open book. 

A man clad in a dark grey coat and haphazardly bound black bandages stands in the centre of the ring, eyeing your every move, and you see him smile to the duelist next to you. From description alone, you surmise that this is the Duke; and you take in how he is a lot more different in appearance than you last saw him: a little bulkier in frame, the pinch of boyish recklessness now discreetly tucked under the guise of responsibility.

A cheeky grin plays on his lips, before he gives you a bow. You return the courtesy with a light curtsy. It is a lie to say you aren’t a little intimidated, but you play it off by avoiding his eyes, afraid that he might see right through you and immediately think you an idiot. And you are not an idiot, you tell yourself over and over like a broken record.

“It is a pleasure to meet you again, Your Grace.” Your eyes stay trained on the floor before a chuckle breaks the silence.

Bewildered, you look up to face him and he waves a gloved hand in jest. “There is no need for such formalities. If anything, it should be me doing all of that. And plus, a friend of Clorinde is a friend of mine.” 

Clorinde sees right through his facade and dismisses it with a derisive ‘pfft’. “You certainly didn’t act like that when you first met me.”

“Oh come on my dear, dear Clorinde,” he places a hand on his chest in faux distress, a pout forming on his lips. “You know it isn’t like that.”

The duelist rolls her eyes before he puts his hands up in surrender and steps backwards.

The ring awaits, and you take a deep breath, ready for the impending spar. The crowd's anticipation adds to the pressure, but you push aside any lingering hesitation. Clorinde smirks, sensing your resolve, and steps into the ring beside you.

The announcer from the side announces the start with a rumble. “Let the sparring begin!”

The duelist bows her head, and you follow suit. Instinctively, you reach for the pellet gun at your hip as Clorinde does for her sword; it is an odd selection for a spar, and the crowd seems to raise a few eyebrows at this. Dejected as you are at the pellet gun resting in your fingers instead of your normal musket, you take this as an opportunity to give yourself more of an advantage with a slowing factor. A mere practice of skill, it was, really. 

Clorinde rushes in with a burst of speed, her blade flashing downward in an opening diagonal slash at your torso. You slip left of the weapon’s reach and step backwards, barely missing a cut by a finger’s breadth. You and Clorinde possess different skill sets: she requires a closing of distance whilst you have to create distance. 

A space separates the two of you and you slightly duck before firing a shot at her shoulder blade. The gun recoils against your arm and sends the bullet ricocheting against the wall and you stumble. Frustrated, you palm the holster of your gun and wriggle your hand to loosen your muscles. Can’t blame me for this, you think blindly, giving yourself a petty excuse for your blunder. Clorinde springs forward at the brief seconds of your imbalance and slashes at an angle. Rather than trying to escape backward or sideways, which you cannot do in time, you draw your gun as you drop to the ground on your back and you fire upwards. You cannot help but smile as the bullet hits her in the torso. 

She grimaces in stinging pain as the bullet falls to the floor. Rolling onto your stomach, you fire again from a crouch. From all the spinning, your vision swirls in a blur and your head is clouded. Without thinking, you stand and attempt to create more space, but realise you have unequivocally cornered yourself against the restraints of the arena. Before you can manoeuvre your way through the ring, the duelist comes in at full speed and you are given a mere few seconds to react. Clorinde slams her own blade into the path of your weapon with the intent of disarming you with so much force that you feel the impact reverberate through you like a shockwave. You fully expect the impending pain to come at any moment, but it never does. Instead, a resounding clash sounds from metal against ice echoes throughout the ring. You do not even realise the sword that comes to manifest through your fingers until you notice the gleam of light blue shielding you from the overhead lights.

A still silence fills the air as both of you widen your eyes in astonishment. Amazed gasps sound from the onlookers, and they are now eyeing you with more intent. You do not dwell on it for long before you bring your sword down at a speed, sending Clorinde staggering.

You cannot help but laugh. “And you called me a klutz.”

The look in her eyes almost shouts a flippant: 'I am totally fucking you over,' and it makes you instantly regret even speaking. 

Clorinde’s left hand seizes your hand, gripping hard. You let out a grunt of pain. With a light twist, she forces your makeshift weapon downward, and the numbing pain that grows in your wrist knocks the blade out of your arm, and you barely catch the glint of your own gun at the base of your feet. One final cry to win was you squirming in her grasp to reach it, but your fingers hover helplessly, unable to grab the grip of the gun. 

The next move you make is miscalculated, an oversight. You jab your elbow into her shoulder, overlooking the blade that she left hanging in the little space between the both of you. Adrenaline pumps through you like a vice, and you push further, forcing another blade of ice spiralling through your fingers, ignoring how you are completely stripped of your energy and the sudden humidity of the room. The crowd gasps, and for whatever reason, you do not pay it any mind — until you see Clorinde stopping too, stepping away.

Your eyes flicker haphazardly and notice that her eyes trail slowly to your abdomen, and you absentmindedly comply. At first you do not notice anything, but then the hand that had come to rest over your stomach comes away red, and you stumble in horror at the wetness flowing down your pants as if your intestines had given out. Your blouse blooms red too, clinging to your skin like a lifeline, and the forearm that clutched your stomach is now stained with blood, diluting further as it trails down the sword swirling with the condensate that rests on the ice.

Clorinde steps forward, but you hold out an arm to command her to stop. You can handle this, it is nothing you can’t bear. You take a few steps backwards, your free arm reaching for the rope that lines the ring.  Sweat beads on your forehead and suddenly everything is burning and your stomach is catching fire. Your heart thumps furiously against your ribcage and you greet the feeling like a friend; it is a familiar one, the same heart that beats whenever you are huddled in the corner of your room blocking out the shouts from the other end of the door along with other more unimportant things.

No. You can already vision how this would turn out for you. You cannot emerge from the depths of the sea injured and dead weight for the contract that stands. How will Neuvillette push through without you to serve as a catalyst? This was no one-man act, and this, you have come to terms with. 

With your blade still held and your resolve unchanged, you advance with a futile step. Might as well push forward now; it would be pathetic to surrender in a friendly match against your own best friend. 

Clorinde’s eyes flood with worry as you show no sign of yielding. “Name, stop. Let’s get you to the infirmary.” 

You are wordless as the pain festers to your upper chest and you feel as if you cannot breathe and all the air is knocked out of your lungs. People are going to think you’re weak, unable to defend yourself: a delicate worse-for-nothing figure. But I’m not weak, you want to scream at the world. If they think otherwise, so be it. The thought teeters precariously before ultimately shattering into the void of the unspoken.

The duelist looks over at Wriothesley pleadingly as she stabilises your weakened figure and eyes the audience with a sort of disdain. “I concede,” she says, before repeating: “I concede.” She also doesn’t fail to shield you from them, and you wish to thank her later for it. 

“Wriothesley, help me out here?” She manoeuvres herself so she can wrap your right arm around her neck and, expectantly, waits for Wriothesley to take your left.

“Yes ma'am.” 

Though you do not hear it, you see the silhouettes of many receding from around the ring in a blur. Black spots form in your vision and you barely catch Wriothesley taking your left arm over his neck before your consciousness lurches what it feels to be a sudden moment. A brief thought is pushed to the forefront of your mind before everything swarms black — and the question is as mundane as the person it concerns:

Just what exactly could the Chief Justice be doing right about now?

____

“Ah, my dear Neuvillette. Don’t you just love the taste of fame?”

Neuvillette’s eyes do not leave his paperwork and the last thing he wants right now is to be pestered by the lady in front of him. “Now’s not the time, Lady Furina.”

She steps forward, the thud of her heels growing increasingly louder in an act of taunt. “And when is the right time, Chief Justice? This is a breakthrough for your career, and you’re sitting around your office like a nobody when you’ve quite literally stolen the hearts of the whole populace.”

Neuvillette taps in rapid succession at a blank piece of paper, subconsciously counting the dots that spray from the quill in his hand. It is not everyday that the Chief Justice loses his temper. But today is not everyday and nor is it anything normal. He still feels your warmth against his ear, and he lightly ghosts his hand over it.

Furina snaps her fingers repeatedly. “Monsieur Neuvilletteee! Earth to you?”

He responds with a darkening glower. Looking away, he makes out the shape of her pout through his blurred peripheral vision, and hears her sulk. “I need to talk to you about preparations for the proposal! This is very important — go too long without one, and the people will think the two of you are simply an affair. Oh, I bet you don’t like the sound of that.”

“The proposal? We’ve barely gone a day with the approval of the contract, and you’re already pressing me for the proposal? Give her a rest, she is out with a good friend of hers. 

“Well obviously the proposal isn’t for today, I’m talking about preparations. You need to purchase a ring, she needs her hair done — perhaps a new dress tailored — I think the dress she wore yesterday was rather tattered and worn…” she tuts, finger on chin. “Oh! And I don’t think it would be much trouble to have the Melusines involved, would it?”

The silver-haired man sitting in his seat is being pulled from all his limbs like a puppet. He subconsciously notes all the things she had just listed, and his mind hiccups at the idea of purchasing a ring.

“Can’t it just be simple? Such exaggerations of a mere profession of romance shan’t be necessary.”

“But that is exactly the point! Don’t forget that I have my own duties to attend to in the dark, you are hot news. I saw how you two were this morning — everyone did!”

The flashing of cameras and the unwavering look on your face rushes through him like a deluge and his stomach pits. When he returned from his trip to the Fortress of Meropide, he had washed his face in a nearby restroom earlier and noticed the touch of lipstick on the very point of his ear. He found no point in removing it.

“So you want me to purchase a ring and propose to her in front of every breathing Fontainian, is that right?”

Lady Furina's smile widens a little too much and becomes a pain to look at. “Why yes, it is a statement of love and devotion, after all. Make sure what you pick makes her eyes pop. No woman wants a ring that dulls complexion.”

He does not care that it is him that has to oblige — but subjecting you to unwanted fame is beyond him.

Not wanting any further arguments, he caves. 

____

You are in and out of consciousness, but not so much that you cannot make out the panicked conversations the two are having in hushed voices. Funny enough, you're unsure if the fact that they can't find Sigewinne anywhere troubles you a little or if you're simply just drained and want to go to sleep.

“Can’t you walk any slower?” Wriothesley grunts.

Clorinde snaps back with a glare .“Can’t you realise we’re dealing with a gash that could tear open if you keep up this pace?” 

“Can’t you both,” your voice breaks off, and instead of continuing you droop your head before mumbling: “just shut up?”

The two people on either side of you are stunned into a chastising silence and if this were any different you feel that you would’ve laughed.

The man to your right clicks his tongue. “Oh, whoops. Forgot you were even awake.” He adjusts your arm a little too roughly and you let out a cry of pain as it doubles the sensation of your wound.

Clorinde smacks his arm and you slightly shift backwards at the lack of support. “What did I tell you? Okay — let's set this aside for now. We need her in the infirmary before her whole blouse gets drenched.” 

You don’t see or hear his response, and so you briefly imagine him having an indifference to this. Sure, it is everyday for him in the Fortress, but you do not know him very well, so he might have had a different reaction — perhaps a brief look at Clorinde almost begging her through his eyes for her to know what to do even though he, too, knows basic protocol? Plausible too.

“You’re going to need to take a deep breath for this.” The duelist’s voice is as monotone as ever, and as your lids flutter open you see that you are greeted with your archnemesis.

Stairs.

Not like they were anything too taxing; a mere five steps up and another few steps down and you’d be in the infirmary; but you instantly flinch back as they assist you with the first step, and you feel their arms grab for your back. You almost black out again the moment you glance at your abdomen but Clorinde promptly pushes your chin upwards so you don’t see the worst of it. 

“I don’t think I can make it up the stairs,” you say, defeated. You eye both of them carefully and they seem to almost weigh the possibilities and come to a solid conclusion (the word ‘solid’ is an overstatement).

“I mean we could bring the infirmary to her…”

Safe to say, Clorinde isn’t amused. “Wow, let's bring a whole bed out for everyone to see! Forgive me, but I won’t allow that for her. There are many problems on the surface as is, and I don’t think this paints a good image for her.”

As delirious as you are, you manage a nod in agreement and squeak out: “Whatever. Get me there.”

Wriothesley’s eyes are crazed as he looks at you with doubt.“W— you just said you couldn’t make it up the stairs.”

“...And that claim still stands. But what other choice do I have?” You say this through gritted teeth as the pain wells up in your side for the nth time this afternoon. The light peeking through the ceiling of the Fortress seems to dim and you take this as a sign that is just shy of dusk. 

Clorinde’s lips quirk into a small smile, and you miss it because you are unable to keep focus on anything except the blood you feel dripping into your slacks. “Alright. Just squeeze something every step you take. On the count of three:”

Wriothesley starts and they alternate. “Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

With a yelp, you grip firmly onto the man next to you and let out a sigh of relief when your feet touch another step of the staircase. 

“Next time, please grip me somewhere else.” You slowly eye where your hand lies and it is unfortunately somewhere not ideal. Oops.

“Not my fault you have a built-in stress ball,” you look at him and Clorinde and realise that you have four more to go. “OK. I think we can go at a faster pace.”

Clorinde’s hand leaves your wrist as she wipes her palm on the base of her shorts and finds your hand again. “Are you sure? You looked like you’ve walked ten miles and it’s been just a step up.”

You look forward and nod your head. “Affirmative.”

“Alright then.”

Wriothesely announces the count of three rather plainly and you grip somewhere else this time. You bite your lip harshly; you do not want to complain any more than you have and instead shut your eyes to steel yourself, but fuck, did it hurt more than the first time.

You thank the gods above that it did grow easier the more steps you took, and with having given Wriothesley more bruises than dignity you finally made it to the platform at the top.

“Tough part done,” you mumble, eyeing the corridor with contempt. Not as tough, you suppose, and push ahead, your arms still hanging limp by their shoulders. You can't help but notice your blood swirling in the pools that flowed from each end of the hall, but the metallic scent of the pipes overpowers the metallic of your own.

Your boots touch the ground with a heavy thump that echoes so loudly it feels like your head is whirling quicker and you can’t make out any object in front of you. 

“Smells like murder.” His attempt at lightening the mood does more harm than good, and through your lethargy you still furrow your brow. Clorinde berates him in a low voice and you don’t even attempt to say anything in response. It is awfully silent, and suddenly you wish he had continued speaking. You force your eyes wide open out of fear that you might not wake up the moment you close them, but you have to fight against your weighted eyelids, and it is, by a mile, a terrible battle.

Fatigue - 1, You - 0.

A light shines from your left and you let yourself breathe.

“We’re here. Just need to tough through another flight of stairs and you’ll be alright,” Clorinde comforts, lifting your right arm a little more after noticing that you were slightly being raised a little higher on your left because of the height difference between her and Wriothesley.

“Here goes,” you tell yourself. This is not the first time you’ve been in a situation like this. 

Just a bit of blood and you’re crying? You look just like your mother.

You do not particularly enjoy the feeling of descending the stairs, but at least it is better than ascending them, and faster too. No need for any counts to threes. 

You wring your arms out of their grips, and soundlessly stumble to the bed closest to you. Mindlessly, you slip into the slight depression of the mattress and the springs groan under a new added weight. 

Wriothesley frantically looks around and suddenly his head is in his hands. Clorinde seems to adopt the same wrinkles between her brows as the man beside her has, and they are both thrown in a panic. The duelist still appears calm and collected throughout, and you’re surprised that the ‘panic’ they are thrown into has been reduced to a civilised conversation on how to deal with you.

Unbuttoning your blouse reveals that it takes a lot of work to separate skin from material, and you feel something stir in the pit of your stomach, or lack thereof. Dried blood starts to flake from the chilly air and the skin lining the wound is swollen pink, puffy and tender to the touch. Turning away, you aren’t partial to someone like Wriothesley to seeing the other scars that are littered throughout your skin like a canvas, and you know it isn’t pretty. You do not like your idea on what you are to do next, nor do you think it’s ideal, but with nothing to show of Sigewinne, you have to take the risk.

“Clorinde. Pass me rubbing alcohol and a towel.”

Clorinde casts you a weary look. “Surely you’re not thinking to do what I think you’re gonna do —”

“Yes. It's exactly what you think. Now pass it to me.” You turn your head a little as your hands beckon her over, and she hesitates before reaching for what you asked for and passes it to you. You do not miss the long look she gives Wriothesley.

The items weigh like a burden on your hands, and you almost decide to hold out until Sigewinne arrives. Even though you know this is probably the worst choice you'll ever make, you choose to ignore the nagging voice and go forward with it because simply, you are impatient. And what good were you to the public if you were ugly and unkempt? You know that everyone and Lady Furina would find you ridiculous. Would the Chief Justice share the same opinion? Would he break his impartiality to think that of you? For a brief moment, the answer flickers to a yes, but you swallow it down like a pill. No. No, he wouldn’t.

“Shouldn’t be too bad.” Bracing for the sting, the anticipated pain hovers like a phantom before the fabric even grazes your skin, but before you can give yourself room to yield, you jab the cloth over the gash and almost scream at the sting. You keep your mouth sealed shut and only rapid pants escape your lips. The pain courses through your veins and suddenly every working limb is now subject to agony. You absolutely detest the feeling, and you were sure that you would never find yourself like this after your father…

Shaking your head, you distract yourself by observing how the blood seeps through the cloth with ease, and you begin to question just how much blood you’re losing and how your body hasn’t given out. But the answer to it is fairly simple. Or maybe it isn’t. 

Your composure is so frigid you think the Duke is beginning to grow a little uncomfortable with just standing there.

“You can look away.” Even though you didn't have much energy to begin with, you startle yourself by being able to talk coherently in spite of everything.Your mind is dumbfoundedly collected, almost as if trained; for this you know why, and you decide not to mope over the memory. It still does end up slipping through the cracks. 

The clean blade against skin. Your father’s nasty laugh as you let out a cry of defeat. The reopened wound triggers a cascade of memories, but you resolve to relegate it to the past: a mere memory. You know you will never see him again, the idea of closure long gone and ties severed. His name, once a burden, now fades into the recesses of your memory, and you find solace in no longer sharing it.

Wiping the blood around your wound, you robotically reach for a needle and thread next, and this time Wriothesley steps forward with his hand outstretched to finally say something. “Woah there. I think we’re gonna need Sigewinne for this one.”

Your arm retracts from the needle and you wave him off with a curt wave of your hand. “I got this under control, don’t you worry,” you declare, but the claim dies on your lips when you feel your eyes drooping and your limbs going slack and the two are thrown into another dispute. 

“We need Sigewinne!”

“She should be coming in about,” the Duke checks his watch. “Five minutes.” He steals you a glance and continues: “Hang in there.”

Clorinde tears her gaze off yours and her brows knit again. “Well what if she doesn’t ‘hang in there’?” Her voice is thrown into a hush, but you can still hear it, and she knows you hear every word leaving her lips.

You use this time to silently teeter to the open cupboard of needles and thread. Surprisingly enough, you look back and find them in their own world. Perfect! You take a generous amount of thread along with a few needles with different gauges and slyly return to your place at the foot of the nursing bed. You dab antiseptic on the tender flesh of your gash. The sting is something you never get used to, and a low groan leaves your lips, and your head tips over.

Clorinde whirls lazily on her heel and points a finger at you. “You. Stop playing a fool. Your wound will get infected if you keep going at this rate. And don’t think I can’t see what you’re trying to do when I’m not looking,” the duelist reprimands, and you can’t help but admit defeat. Hah! She thought.

“Yeah, OK. Shut up and come over here for a second.” You do not face her, but hear her slow strides from behind.

“What is it?”

“Come closer.” you place the needle under her fingers, and flick her forehead. A zap courses from her fingers.

“Ow?”

Her complaints morph into incoherence as you study the needle and find that it is warm to the touch and slightly blackened at its point. 

“Thank you!”

Feeling at your abdomen, you conclude that it is numb enough to begin stitching. The sanitisation is a mere precaution, because as much as you trust everyone in this room and the nurse that isn’t present, you cannot trust whatever might be in the Fortress’ air.  It takes a few attempts before you successfully guide the thread through. 

And before Clorinde can stop you, it is far too late. The needle pierces skin, and you squint your eyes at the discomfort. If you could manage one, you could manage seven more. You are nowhere adept nor do you have a steady hand, but you are quite proud of the deep cuts you’ve stitched up in the past; they still did their job.

The Duke’s complexion is nothing short of sickly as his hand flies to his mouth. “I can’t— I can't watch this.”

“You just don’t listen, do you?”

You smile wearily. “Well, Clorinde, that is my expertise.”

Just before your fingers swoop down for another stitch, a certain Melusine skips down the steps and pauses at the sight.

“Oh? What do we have here?”

Wriothesley scratches the back of his neck before cracking a smile that seems to say: ‘caught us!’. “Ah, Sigewinne! We were just looking for you. Now if you could tend to this high demand patient we have it would be greatly appreciated.” He points over his shoulder without turning his head, and yet the shaky undertone in his demeanour is unmistakable.

You give him a look even though his back is towards you.

Sigewinne nods her head. “Alright then. Let’s take a look…” if she’s surprised, her face betrays nothing. She waddles to the other side of the room and reaches for a new, cleaner towel; and you realise how comical a sight this is — with both the Champion Duelist and the Duke following her every move in silence as you sit stiffly on a worn mattress. She returns and studies the needle in your hand and holds her own paw-like hand out. Placing it in her hand, she dips the towel into a bowl of warm water and cleans the area properly this time.

“Take a deep breath in for me please.” you do not know why you silently follow her orders. “And out.”

That was your que to prepare for the second stitch. Not bad; it did feel less haphazard than your own. Sigewinne’s eyes do not leave your wound as she pops a question: “Will you need your entourage to escort you to the Overworld?”

Suddenly all your worries are gone and are now replaced with a new one. “My entourage? Oh, no, that wouldn’t be necessary.” The needle comes up from under your skin and her paws move downwards.

“Are you sure? I can contact him if you like.”

You playfully look to the side. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Sigewinne unfortunately does not take the hint and questions your dismissal of your dealing with him. “But you were just with Monsieur Neuvillette just now, I don’t see why it would slip your mind. Unless you’re suffering from short term memory loss, that is.” Your eyes widen at the mention and you motion your hand to to your neck to stop her before she goes off on a tangent.

The pair standing on the other corner both seem to share the same concerns. Wriothesley quirks a brow. “Monsieur Neuvillette? Surely you haven’t made yourself fancy for the Chief Justice.”

“No, he is not my suitor; just a mere colleague of mine. Our relationship is strictly professional — that is all.”

The Duke smiles. “Yeah. Sure. That’s how it always starts. Workplace romance is a classic.”

Clorinde tilts her head. “What has gotten into you? Always blabbering about romance this and romance that.”

“You, Miss Clorinde, should be aware that I have always been hopeless for things like this. I am not as stoic as you or the Chief Justice of Fontaine.”

“I am well aware. I just choose not to acknowledge it — oh and…” she breaks off mid-conversation, leaving Wriothesley sulking like a defeated dog. “How has Monsieur Neuvillette been? I’ve heard that he’s been involved in some ‘scandal’, but I’ve been too busy resolving business. I haven't an idea what it’s about.”

Dread fills your gut as you come to another decision you have to make today. Either you tell her the truth or skirt over some details so she doesn’t tie any link back to you. “As it turns out I haven’t really been well-versed in the melodrama of the people, but from word of mouth,” your hand cups one side of your face as you whisper, “he has entangled himself with a commoner.”

Wriothesley and Clorinde both shout a distressed “What?” in unison.

“I surmise he hasn’t taken any of it into account,” the duelist guesses, shooting a blind shot in the dark.

Your lips curve into a leer. “He’s doing what he always does. His job.”

___

"M-monsieur Neuvillette! What brings you here?”

“Good afternoon. What rings do you suggest would suit...”

The jeweller, filled with the delicate hum of conversation and soft hushes of conversation, momentarily hushes in anticipation. Neuvillette, however, maintains a calm demeanour, allowing the flustered individual to collect himself.

The person takes a moment, clears their throat, and continues, “... suit your refined taste? We have an exquisite collection of vintage pieces or, if you prefer, more contemporary designs. Perhaps something that resonates with the essence of your intended occasion?” He glances nervously at Neuvillette, awaiting his response with bated breath.

“A simple engagement ring would be right up my alley. Your guidance…” He quickly searches for the name etched into his nametag and spots a ‘GATTINEO’ on his person “Monsieur Gattineo,, in finding the perfect ring, would be much appreciated,” Neuvillette states, and he smiles stiffly, unable to tell if he’s just scared the worker senseless or struck the first normal human conversation he’s had in weeks.

The person behind the counter nods profusely and points his arm to the left. “R— Right this way, monsieur.” 

Neuvillette gazes at the employee intently, studying the way his hands slips at the knob that seals the rings from under the glass display and slowly retrieves them, pushing the array of wedding bands toward the Chief Justice as if a single sound might shatter the fabric of time. 

The Iudex takes pity and reassures him that he ‘need not be so tense’, but whether the employee buys the claim is a story he does not remain privy to. Gloved hands pick a ring from the second row from the array and he holds it in the light, checking the glimmer of the diamond that sits snug under the hooks of white gold. Too dull, he notes, already picturing it against your ring finger. He thinks that you do not deserve such a ring of commonplace, and he politely places it back into its respectful place on the display.

He reaches for another, acutely aware of the growing pairs of eyes that are burning into his back. Another ring is victim to the light and he needs little inspection to know that this wouldn’t flatter you in the slightest. Scrunching his nose, he turns to look at other options. 

None seem to suit his taste.

Neuvillette stands stationary for a moment before noticing a glint to his right. It is a ring that appears lacklustre at first glance, but when he looks at it for longer, he realises that the ring is not as uninteresting as it initially seemed.

He points at it through the glass. “Would you mind if I take a look at that one?”

“Why, sure. It is a latest addition, monsieur, and is very much flattering on any bride.” The Chief Justice, who is ever impartial to opinions, disagrees. He does not think it is flattering on just any bride.

Its centrepiece is a gorgeous sapphire, and his mind immediately shifts to the casual blue undertones of the clothes you wear. It would certainly complement her eyes, he thinks, picturing the glimmer of blue on your skin. It would make your complexion ‘pop’, as Lady Furina had said. It is nowhere near extravagant, but keeping it simple is to make a statement. 

He pinches the ring in between the pad of his thumb and index finger. ���I would like to purchase this — does it come with a box?”

The worker is stunned, eyes practically popping out of his skull. “Y—Yes! It surely does. That would be one hundred thou—”

“Please, put it on my tab.”

Now the worker is really ogling at him. He hasn’t even heard the full price! He figures up how much he will get for this commission, and it will buy him a luxurious lifestyle for several months. Heavens above, he really was lucky today. 

“I can do that for you. Just give me a moment to get the box from the back.” The man scutters away, and the conversations around Neuvillette are now brought into vivid technicolour.

“Is it for the woman in the tabloids? I heard she’s the newly employed head of civil affairs.”

“She really has done everything under the sun.”

The Chief Justice’s ears perk at the phrase in response. “You can’t trust everything you see in the media. Looks to me that she’s only in it for the money.”

“You are right… Perhaps it is a calculated move to push her way through the ranks! What a sly, sly woman she is.”

Are they seriously speaking about you around the very man that dictates the verdict of whom is guilty? That kind of daring makes Neuvillette's eyes narrow. He does not wish to entertain their idle gossip, but he also can't watch while his future wife is being disparaged in such a manner. To him, your resilience is remarkable. That, is one aspect of your character that he truly admires. But one thing rings true: fame comes with a price.

Neuvillette’s jaw ticks, and his warm, serene mien freezes over, his glare a piercing chill. He composes himself, and turns on his heel with a rigid calm. The words that leave his lips send the people’s blood running cold.

“If you are to speak ill of the woman I am to propose to — and that is certain — I hope you see to it that the repercussions are to be nothing but shy of being remarkably uncomfortable. ”

a/n: this one kinda strayed off my outline if im gonna b honest but like are we really complaining cuz PROTECTIVE NEUVILLETTEE OGME

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun

[quitealotofsodapop]

Bruh I was gonna write this as a ficlet but I ain't never gonna finish. Here, feel free to add or contribute if you please or enjoy:

This wasn't how Wukong's day was supposed to go. He was supposed to just do a quick flight over to the city, check his former brother's seal, and return home to another binge marathon of Monkey Cop and pigging out on peach chips. None of this successor stuff, none of this fighting to save the world bullcrap. Just a normal, regular old day of being completely alone aside from his younger and more feral subjects, the cubs often curling up on him or practicing their grooming. Just like he's done for the past 500 plus years.

His sister-in-law and her son finding a way to actually succeed in their quest to release his brother wasn't in that plan... neither was the unexpected reunion between Wukong and the little cub he'd given up all those years ago. Qi Xiaotian, or MK as he was known as, had grown up quite a lot in the years since he'd broken his own heart by placing a human disguise on him, sealing his powers away, and left him to the decendants of his late master and brother to find. Don't get him wrong, he hadn't done so out of neglect or because he didn't want to keep the cub. Hell, he hadn't even completely abandoned him either, consistently checking up on the little guy and keeping him safe from a distance as he grew. But he wasn't stupid either, the kid would have been miserable growing up with Wukong, would have never had a normal life if he was left with the old king, and that was the last thing Wukong had wanted for him.

Even so, seeing him suddenly appear out of nowhere had near made Wukong's stone heart jump out of his chest. Why his cub (Wukong firmly shook his head at the reminder that MK was NOT his cub anymore and he doesn't have the right to call him that) was even in that dirty alleyway climbing the pipes he has no idea, but at the moment Wukong had bigger things to worry about. Like his brother rising from the ground as his staff was lifted by some weird gauntlet his nephew had built and the fact he was in no way capable of fighting his brother again.

The kid promptly running away and then losing the staff in some hairbrained scheme to get it back to him after he picked it up hadn't been the best. Nor was the kid nearly being blown into a lava field by his sister-in-law and being forced to save him and carry him the rest of the way to Huāguǒshān hadn't been the best outcome either, but he'd take it.

He just wished it hadn't come at the cost of the kid discovering Wukong's secret. He had kinda figured it'd get out when the kid decided to try to return the staff to him, but he kinda wish it hadn't happened the way it had. The kid had seen him as he transformed back into his true form from his eagle form, which normally wouldn't be an issue, except Wukong had gotten up that morning and decided not to even bother brushing his fur or changing out of his pajamas.

Like he said, he had been planning a quick peekey weekey at the staff to make sure nothing was amiss and then binging his shows, nothing exciting or cleanup worthy. And considering his pajama shirt proudly proclaimed 'Baby on Board' there was simply no hiding the truth. Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, was pregnant.

Had been since before the Journey that truly made him a legend had even properly started, not that anyone beyond Guanyin or the Pilgrims had known.

MK had naturally been extremely excited to meet his idol and also quite confused about his condition. Wukong had just laughed off the matter for the most part. It certainly wasn't the worst reaction he'd dealt with in regards to his condition, Zu Baije had taken the cake for that one. And of course, Wukong had to be a kind host and lead the kid back to his hut, partially so he could change out of pajamas into something more fitting for company, while the kid rambled on about the Demon Bull King. It was during the walk back that Wukong had, essentially, admitted to spying on the kid.

And admitted to his own fault in getting the kid involved, confessing that he had sort of panicked in the moment. It was only fair that he fessed up, as he truly hadn't intended to put him in any true danger. He needed a distraction. Something to get that staff away from the IronBull Family, and the kid was the only available option. Especially when considering the more than likely negative feelings the IronBuul Fanily harbor towards Wukong and his precious egg.

He'd even complimented MK's handling of the staff, which was quite impressive considering exactly what Ruyi Jingu Bang actually was and the fact the kid had no prior experience with staffs or any type of weaponry as far as Wukong knew. The fact he could even lift the ancient artifact at all was impressive. He even joked that he might as well make him Wukong's successor for real after seeing that, after getting the staff back. That was a mistake. The kid took the joke seriously and decided that, since Wukong clearly couldn't fight in his condition, he would fight of Demon Bull King in his stead.

Wukong was almost impressed, if he hadn't been busy panicking over how BAD of an idea that was. MK is mortal!! He could get hurt! But apparently stubbornness is a common trait among Stone Monkeys and their ilk, because once MK had the idea in his head he refused to let it go. At this point, the best Wukong could do is damage control.

And by that he meant 'reign the kid in enough to get an actually viable plan up off the ground.' A plan that, upon reaching the city where the IronBull Family were beginning their conquest, and being surprised to see MK's friends rise to the occasion to try to fight the demon family themselves in the process, immediately went belly up in the water. The kid was supposed to stay back, let Wukong handle distracting the king while he got his friends to safety and snuck close enough to try to summon the staff from where it was being used as a battery in the generator DBK was wearing to power himself up. But then Wukong collapsed as soon as they landed, the multiple trips and carrying a teenager across an active volcano field being too much in addition to the baby that consistently drained his powers and the dao around it. Because of course Stone Monkey pregnancies can't be easy, right!?

Seeing the situation, MK promptly took Wukong's role and challenged the Bull King, leaving Wukong groundbound and trying to sneak close enough to get to the staff.

Then MK fucked up.

Wukong has no idea what the cub was thinking, but he decided to go for the generator himself, causing a massive explosion and a ton of property damage. And for Wukong, that resulted in a building falling on top of him. Luckily, Wukong is the Monkey King and was able to cast a last second protection spell upon his stomache to prevent his baby from getting hurt and he himself is immortal and mostly invincible, unfortunately he doesn't have the strength left between everything to get out from under the building. And he's fairly certain he has a couple of broken ribs and his leg is most definitely not supposed to bend that way. Meaning he was stuck, injured, and vulnerable out in the open with only him hastily throwing his dirty and ripped scarf over his head in a desperate attempt to stop anyone with unfriendly intentions, namely his former brother, from recognizing him.

In short, he was screwed.

See, an unfortunate truth about Stone Monkeys is that the reason they are

so rare in spite of their unique methods of procreation and power... is because it comes at a heavy cost. The stone egg that grows within a celestial primate feeds upon their very life force and the dao around them. Meaning that between the egg, multiple trips between his island and the city, and the work he put in to just keep the shrapnel from the battle form hitting any of the mortals who just had to stop and stare, Wukong had very little of his strength and power left to do something as simple as moving a couple thousand tons of rubble, debris, and shrapnel that was now burying his lower body. Some of which was digging painfully into his leg. Sometimes he wishes he had never let himself be redeemed, things would have been simpler if he didn't care about dorky mortals who foolishly hang out where they shouldn't be or pick fights with ancient demon kings.

"Hey, hey!" Wukong's ears perked as a voice shouted over the explosions of DBK's cannon. Blinking, he turned his head towards the sound, trying to blink past the dust and debris clouds that looked just a little too much like smoke in the waning light of the sunset. When did it get so late!? A large, stocky figure that would be considered short by most demons' descriptions but looked a giant in Wukong's own unglamorous opinion began to fade out of the dust around him, and bringing another sense of panic to him.

Zu Baije's decendant.

The monkey demon absolutely could not risk him seeing him. Being recognized in this vulnerable state would be bad news for him and his baby, that aside, he himself is msot certainly not mentally or emotionally ready to handle seeing a potential reincarnation of his brother! It doesn't take a genius, when one has Eyes of Truth, to realize the soul now running towards him through the debris shared the sound of his ancestor. Wukong squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of a way out fo this as the piglet fell to his knees next to him.

"Are you alright!? Jeez... what am I sayin!? Of course you ain't, a building fell on you! Hey, don't worry, well getcha outta here."

The pig was rambling as he took in the filthy orange fur and unnatural angle of the monkey's leg. Wukong forced a smile upon his lips, all teeth and praying it be reassuring. Time to try to convince him to leave.

"D-don't worry about me. I'm fine." Wukong coughed out, cursing the way his voice stumbled over the words. The pig did not seem convinced, or I pressed for that matter, with. Wukong's reassurance. Instead he collapsed next to the monkey demon and began digging at the debris.

"H-hey, what..." Wukong tried to weakly shove him off, "I said not to worry! A bunch of rocks isn't gonna hurt me, you should just get out of here yourself! The fight is heading in this direction!"

AHHHHH!H!HH!H!H!H!

@a-tea-goblin you seeing this!?

This is gotta be one of the best gifts i've recieved in a long while!

I love the descriptions of Wukong + MK instantly deciding "I protec you now." when he realises that the Monkey King isn't doing so great cus of the baby.

And Dadsy to the rescue!! You know Wukong is caught off guard - I love how you have him protesting getting helped the entire time. He's not used to people caring about him again.

Even if you never "finish" this as a ficlet, I immensely enjoyed what you wrote!

[bookwormjust]

Hobbit hole (established relationship with Kili, first night with the dwarves)

The night is crisp as you arrive at the hobbit’s home, Bag End, the wind biting at your skin, but there’s a warmth in your heart that makes it easy to ignore. You’ve been traveling with the Company for days now, always near Kili’s side, though the destination has finally brought you to a quaint, unexpected hobbit hole deep in the Shire.

You stand outside for a moment, adjusting your cloak, before you hear the familiar sound of Kili’s voice from inside. With a fond smile, you push open the door and step into the bustling, crowded scene within.

The sight that greets you is pure chaos: dwarves packed into every corner of the cozy hobbit home, eating, drinking, and causing a general ruckus. There’s laughter, arguments over food, and the clatter of tankards against the wooden table. And in the middle of it all, looking utterly bewildered, is Bilbo Baggins himself, his wide eyes darting from one dwarf to another as if trying to make sense of the invasion.

Kili is the first to spot you. His face lights up the moment he sees you standing in the doorway, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “*Amrâlimê!*” he calls out, his voice filled with affection, cutting through the noise.

Before you can say anything, Kili bounds over to you with the energy and enthusiasm that is so characteristic of him, grabbing you by the waist and spinning you in a circle. The other dwarves cheer, clapping and raising their mugs in greeting.

“There you are!” Kili says, setting you down with a wide smile, his eyes twinkling. “I was wondering when you’d get here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you missing all the fun.”

You laugh, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Fun, is it? You call this chaos *fun*?” You gesture to the mess around you—broken plates, food strewn everywhere, and poor Bilbo looking on the verge of a panic attack.

Kili shrugs, his grin never fading. “It’s not *real* chaos until you join in.” He leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “I missed you.”

“I was only gone for a moment, Kili,” you chuckle, your heart warming at his affection. “But I missed you too.”

Before Kili can say more, Fili approaches, clapping his younger brother on the back. “Quit hogging her, Kili. Let the rest of us say hello.”

Fili gives you a warm smile, though there’s always a bit of teasing in his gaze. “Good to see you again. I’m glad you’ve come to keep this one in line.” He jerks his thumb toward Kili, who feigns offense.

“*In line*? I’m perfectly well-behaved,” Kili retorts, though the gleam in his eyes says otherwise.

Dwalin, seated at the far end of the room with a mug of ale in hand, raises his drink in acknowledgment when he spots you. “Good timing, lass,” he rumbles. “We’re about to drive the hobbit mad, I reckon.”

You smile, stepping further into the room as Kili takes your hand, leading you to the table where the others are seated. “That’s not hard to believe,” you reply, glancing toward Bilbo, who is staring at you with wide, startled eyes, clearly confused about the number of people crowding into his home—and now there’s another one.

“Excuse me,” Bilbo pipes up, his voice hesitant but polite as he approaches. “I—uh—didn’t realize we were expecting... quite so many guests?”

“Don’t worry, Master Baggins,” you say with a reassuring smile, extending your hand to him. “I’m just here to keep an eye on Kili. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t cause too much trouble.”

Kili laughs beside you, giving Bilbo a playful wink. “She’s lying. She’s the one you really need to watch out for.”

Bilbo takes your hand cautiously, shaking it with a bewildered nod. “Right... well, um, welcome, I suppose.”

The evening wears on in a blur of laughter, food, and more than a few spilled drinks. Kili never strays far from your side, his arm slung casually around your shoulders as the two of you banter with the others. Even Thorin, with his usual air of seriousness, gives you a brief nod of acknowledgment, his approval of your presence clear in the way he doesn’t intervene in the jovial chaos.

At one point, Kili leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here. Couldn’t imagine going on this journey without you.”

You look up at him, meeting his warm brown eyes, and smile. “I wouldn’t let you.”

And though the road ahead is long and dangerous, for now, you are surrounded by warmth, laughter, and love—the perfect company to begin the journey of a lifetime.

[horrorjunki3]

I really liked your drunk headcannons for the Sawyer brothers! Do you think you could do one for getting high? Or is that too similar

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Drug use, discussion of Mental illnesses (PTSD, Schizophrenia for the twins), NSFW, fluff and cannibalism

A/N: sorry if this took to long, I'm currently hyperfixating on Outlast lmao

The sawyer brothers stoned

Since most of them canonically don't smoke weed I'm headcannoning that they're S/O is a stoner bc I'm a stoner and I wanna get my boys high okay? 🥺

Drayton sawyer

It'd take some time for him to smoke with you or get high in general -> and isn't done often probably after he wins a contest or in preparation to calm him down

Omg so (depending on the strain) he loves cooking when high, I think his prefered method would be a joint - and his a lightweight two hits and his high

He gets sleepy and relaxed to so he will grab you by the waist and and cuddle you while he cooks

His more calm and relaxed doesn't get mad or bring the broom out -> which the boys love (he never uses the broom on his S/O ever. Sorry I just really wanted to clarify that)

He gets really sappy and coos at you soft and runs his hands up and down your body and kisses your neck

He gives you PDA and his brothers are like wide-eyed in shock because they've never seen this side of their brother

Speaking of affection he gives this affection to his brothers to!! It's starts with him like ruffling bubbas hair and thanking him for all the help which causes bubba to hug him -> drayton laughs and chop will jump I'm because he loves his lil sibling soo much and Nubbins sits there all awkward until you grab him and drag him into the family cuddle!! It's very soft and unexpected but you and Drayton are like they're parents and they melt into the rare soft moment in the house

His filter kinda disappears? Like he tells you everything he loves about you, his more open to talking about anything and will open up about alot

He will drag you into the loungeroom and watch a movie with you -> he snuggles into you and falls asleep pretty fast.

Chop top Sawyer

Out of everyone Chops the first to smoke with you - Weed helps with PTSD so I dont think he'd have any negative reactions -> this is probably the reason he smokes

His perfered method is using a bong -> he covers it in stickers and loves shot-gunning with you -> idk if that's the term for it, but it's when people blow smoke into your mouth

He gets the munchies and like it's kinda gross but I love him anyway -> he likes eating headcheese and eyes (lmao no I'm not joking, it was either a headcannon or cannon fact that Nubbins eats Eyeballs like grapes and now I headcannon that these are snacks for the fam)

Whenever he gets high he listens music on low volume and likes dimmer lighting -> gets very romantic and phsyically affectionate which often leads to a sloppy make out

NSFW headcannon

Choptop becomes so soft and sensual with you -> he will kiss you softly while he fucks you muttering how much he loves you

Fucks you deep and slow while looking in you eyes -> usually in these moments he doesn't care about the sex it's just how he expresses his love for you

He also giving head when his high, legit moans at the taste and comes untouched -> during these times he refers to you as morsel or meal telling you how good you taste and how he wants to devour you -> there's no threats or violence behind his words he just loves you so much

Nubbins Sawyer

Nubbins would be pretty open to it, I don't know much about how Schizophrenia and weed react I know it can be used to treat mental illnesses -> I'm just assuming that they're won't be any bad reactions for our baby

His preferred methods is a joint or pipe he likes to smoke outside and has cool little spots he likes to show you

Nubbins gets really creative when his high, he will take so many photos, or work on projects

He loves when he gets to involve his you in his photos will beg you to do a photoshoot with him!

Often times he will go to the bathroom and disappear for an hour when you find him his kinda snuggle up with bubs and they're crafting together it's very cute!

He gets so cute when his high becomes more gentle/submissive? Really enjoys just laying with you and cuddling, please let him be the little spoon and play with his hair. He becomes pretty clingy and will curl around you -> please coo at him and call him a good boy

He likes to hold your hand and sit in your lap just let him be held and loved please!

NSFW Headcannons

Nubbins gets really horny, submissive and needy during this time - his a whining, begging and whimpering mess -> it feels so much better when his high he gets drunk on pleasure and generally will want sex until he can't cum anymore he loves when you take the lead during these times.

Please ride him or fuck him he doesn't care he just needs to cum please

Loves cockwarming during this time -> if your warming his cock he will moan about how warm and tight you are and if his cock warming you his a mess and unfortunately it doesn't last he need you to fuck him into the bed

Exhibitionism/voyeurism is a kink of his that shines during this time -> mainly when you guys are outside, he moans about how you feel so good someone's gonna hear, oh how he wants someone to watch him get used by you, please he wants someone to see him being a good boy!!

Bubba sawyer

Bubba surprisingly enjoys weed, he trust you and enjoys the warm bubby feelings he gets from being High -> he prefers edibles

He gets giggly and silly! They will laugh alot and loves picking your up during these times!

His fave thing to do when his high is to hang out with you and their chicken, cuddled up in his bed!

They fall asleep really fast when High - it's really lovely, the cool nip of the night with a chicken on your check and bubbas soft snores next to you? Such a soft and snuggly night!

Bubba prefers not to have sex when his high, it's intense and a little overwhelming instead he'd perfer to kiss you and snuggle -> they take they're mask off during these times and shower you in kisses