#then she wakes and it's like ''time to commit some violence''

[mr-and-mr-pendragon]

The Immortal One sharing his wisdom with the Triple Goddess and she does not listen

[zepskies]

Wake Me Up - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

Summary: A few weeks after you and Ben celebrate your first Christmas together, Ben is returning from another mission with the Supe Affairs team. When he discovers that you’ve been taken, he’ll do whatever it takes to find you. And then, to help you heal.

AN: Welcome back to the BMD-verse! Let me tell you, I’ve had this mini series outlined for months, but now I thought it was finally time to get to it. If you’re not tired of the Break Me Down world yet, I very much hope you enjoy Wake Me Up.

**As a reminder, this story is set shortly after Love Actually, and will contain references from that three-part story. 

Song Inspo: For this whole series it’s “I Can Read Your Mind” by the Doobie Brothers. (I pretty much listened to this on repeat.)

Word Count: 5.5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Starting off strong in this one: with mature themes, show level violence, angst, kidnapping, PTSD, mentions of torture (not too graphic), and character death.

💚 Wake Me Up Masterlist || Break Me Down Masterlist

Part 1: “Familiar Territory”

The start of a new year continued a steady rhythm for you and Ben. Namely, another successful mission for the Supe Affairs team.

While you were patched into the team’s communications line from the safety of your desk back at the S.A. headquarters in New York, your friends were a few states over in Denver, Colorado. They’d just arrested a supe that had been committing a series of bank robberies by literally slipping away from the police, thanks to his particular superpower.

“Somebody better get this shit off of me,” M.M. groused.

He wasn’t too happy about some questionable ooze this particular supe secreted as a defense mechanism. According to Frenchie’s research, it was the same shit that certain frogs could produce to repel predators.

“Need a good hose down, more like,” said Butcher. “You smell fuckin’ foul.”

“Like Satan’s ass crack,” Ben remarked.

You couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement.

“Let’s just get the fuck outta here,” M.M. said, his tone all surly, as per usual. You didn’t envy his plight.

“Good job, guys,” you said, to change the subject. “Now it’s just a short flight back to New York.”

“No layovers this time. I’m not being paid to rot in a fucking airport with a bunch of mouth-breathing assholes and their screaming brats,” Ben said.

Charming. You rolled your eyes, but a smile played on your lips when you imagined his taciturn face.

“Okay, your majesty. I’ll make sure it’s a nonstop flight,” you said. “I’ll be waiting for you at home.”

That last bit, you said with a hint of more behind your words. You drummed your nails on your desk and crossed your legs underneath it. A week was a long time for you and your boyfriend to be apart, and you’d been missing him.

“You better be,” Ben said. His voice was deep and cocky. He was smirking, you were sure, and you knew that he’d understood you perfectly well.

“Anybody else hearing this blatant foreplay?” Hughie quipped.

“I sense cheeks will be cracked tonight,” Frenchie muttered.

“Ugh!” you heard Annie shudder.

You knew she supported you and Ben, but you also knew that she didn’t want to hear about the gushy details. You laughed through your embarrassment. 

“Okay, guys. I’ll see you all tomorrow,” you said, before you officially signed off. 

You grabbed your purse that was stowed away in a desk drawer, fished out your cell phone, and you called Ben’s cell. He picked up on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he said. 

“I love you,” you said with a smile. “Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“Mhmm,” he replied. “I’ll see you soon, baby doll.”

You pouted. “Come on, say it.”

“Say what?”

You sighed. You knew he was being deliberately obtuse.

“You know exactly what,” you replied.

Part of you was upset that he didn’t say it back as often as you liked. God forbid Butcher and the others hear him express his affection for you.

But you supposed you understood that any kind of vulnerability was difficult for him, especially in front of others. As much shit as you gave him, you also knew how to pick your battles with Ben.

“I told you. I’ll see you soon,” he said.

You once again tapped your nails, on your armrest this time. After a moment, you relented.

“Okay, baby. Have a safe flight,” you said, even if you were still frowning.

When Ben hung up with you, he let out a deep sigh.

An entire week with these juvenile cocksuckers was almost too much for him to fucking take. While he often felt your presence with you on the comm line during the actual mission, and the occasional phone call on long nights in between, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough.

He was ready to go home.

The flight itself was fine, though dealing with civilians and the tiring experience of a long-ass flight made him even more antsy to land. Because even when they got to JFK, he still had a hired car waiting for him to drive him from the airport to get to Scarsdale, and to the apartment he shared with you. It had already been almost a year of you two living there, in a three-bedroom spanning two floors.

Ben hadn’t thought he would get used to such a small place, but it was all right. It had become his home, far more than the penthouses and party mansions ever were, at least.

When he finally got home and unlocked the front door of the apartment, he stepped into darkness. All the lights were off.

Odd, he thought. He called your name while he shut the door behind him, then flicked on the foyer light. He realized then that he hadn’t seen your car in the driveway. Were you still working? It wasn’t unlike you to get caught up with the paperwork and other logistics after a case.

After a quick look around of each room, from the kitchen to the living room, Ben knew you hadn’t come home yet. A frown marred his face.

He went upstairs and entered the bedroom next. He unclipped his wrist guards and took his gloves off first, followed by loosening the collar of his supe suit. The bed was made, untouched since this morning, he was sure.

Then he noticed the scrap of paper resting on his pillow. He picked it up, and his brows furrowed as he read.

By the time you find me, she’ll wish she was dead.

Ben called Grace Mallory first.

When she didn’t answer, he called Butcher next. Ben’s hand shook the slightest bit while holding the phone up to his ear.

“Evenin’, guv,” Butcher answered with a tired sigh. “What’s this about—”

“We have a fucking problem,” Ben growled.

Ben pushed the limits of his Mercedes Benz while driving himself to Supe Affairs.

The others met him there in a conference room, except for Grace, who was on an active case at the moment. There Hughie and Frenchie tapped into the S.A. security footage on their laptops. 

They eventually found you getting into your car in the S.A. garage, about four hours ago. Then two later, the street cameras picked you up somewhere in the Village. Ben recognized the street. 

You probably had dinner with your friend Yvette and her family, but you intended to make it home on time to meet Ben when you left around 9:00 p.m. 

You had parallel parked at a meter on the street. According to the footage, it looked quiet and empty when you headed back to your car. 

You were stopped by someone before you could get the driver’s side door open. It looked like a man’s height and build; he grabbed you by the shoulder and threw a punch you managed to dodge.

You put up a good fight, but you were eventually knocked out with what looked to be a crowbar, at first glance. When Hughie zoomed in, it was actually a black baton. Ben watched it all with a deepening frown. Anger churned in his gut and ignited his blood as he watched your unconscious body being hauled into a black SUV.

“That looks military-issued,” M.M. said, pointing at the baton that the suspect used to hit you.

Butcher nodded, and also noted the man’s fighting style. “That’s a professional.”

“He would have to be, to take her out,” M.M. said, glancing at Ben. “And the timing. They knew you were coming home. That note was personal, besides the fact that they were casing your place…they’ve probably been watching both of you, waiting for the chance to get the jump on you.”

“The question,” Butcher said, “is who the fuck would wanna tangle with Soldier Boy that badly?”   

“Shit. That’s a laundry list, isn’t it?” Hughie said. M.M.’s glance told him to shut the fuck up.

Ben was silent, but his fury was mounting. His head turned sharply to Butcher.

“Get Mallory on the line. Now,” he barked. When no one moved quick enough for him, his temper snapped at its thinly held leash.

“I said right fucking now!”

Slowly you blinked your eyes open. For a moment, you were seeing in double vision. It soon cleared up to reveal dark, damp, musty surroundings.

It smelled familiar; after that mission to find and subdue Sapphire a couple of months ago, you’d recognize a New York sewer anywhere.

Fuuucking shit, you thought with a groan. Your head was aching. You felt a trickle of blood down the side of your neck, and you found yourself in a familiar position—seated on a metal chair with your hands secured behind your back. Your restraints felt like zip ties.

“You finally with us, sweetheart?” asked a man. His voice was smooth and commanding.

“Jackson, I don’t know about this,” whispered someone else. Another man, though he sounded slightly younger, reminding you of Hughie.

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” Jackson snapped.

At least you had a name. He stepped into the light that came from a couple of small lanterns. One was propped on top of a bucket by the wall. The other was on a plastic fold out table that you saw a few feet beside you.

The man who stepped into your line of vision was tall, maybe around Ben’s height, if just shy of his build. He was blonde, just like his skinnier friend. They shared some notable facial features and coloring, but while Jackson’s eyes were dark brown and self-assured, the younger man’s were blue and apprehensive. If you had to guess, they looked like brothers.

“Nice digs,” you remarked, gesturing with your gaze at your surroundings.

Jackson rose a brow, crossing his arms.

“You’re taking all this pretty well,” he said. 

You huffed humorlessly.

“This isn’t exactly my first kidnapping,” you said.

He quirked his head and drew closer.   

“All right. Well, since we’re on the clock, let me tell you why you’re here,” he said. He bent down in front of you so that his face was level with yours. “I need you, sweetheart. You’re going to tell me how to bring down Soldier Boy. How to kill him. How to end him. Then maybe, I’ll let you go without gouging out those pretty eyes.”

You stared back at Jackson with an expression that didn’t change.

Then you spat in his face.

And you expected the hard, back-handed slap that made your head whip to the side. It rattled you for a moment as you caught your breath, but you recovered enough to lean back in your seat. Your eyes met Jackson’s directly after he wiped his face with his shirt. “Tommy” stood off to the side behind his partner. He’d looked away when you were hit.

You focused on the other man, Jackson. He was wearing black cargo pants to match his boots, and a belt with a gun on his hip. He carried himself like a trained killer.

“Military, government agency, or private sector?” you asked.

His head tilted. He studied you, just like you were studying him.

“None of the above really,” he said. “Not anymore.”

He walked over to the fold out table, where he grabbed a black bag and unzipped it. A flash of silver gleamed as he pulled out one sharp instrument after the next. You had to hide your apprehension, and fear that made your insides tremble.

He glanced over at you.

“Let’s get started,” he said.

Hours later, you were teetering on the edge of consciousness.

After the last hit, you spat a wad of phlegm and blood onto Jackson’s shoes. He rotated the ache out of his hand. He looked down at you through furrowed brows.

“Damn, bitch,” he said, catching his breath. “You can take a hit. I’ll give you that.” 

“My dad was a Marine, numb nuts,” you managed to reply, through labored breaths. “He used to hit harder with his open hand than all the strength in that limp-dick wrist of yours.” 

Jackson smirked. “Christ. Daddy issues, huh? Why doesn’t that surprise me.” 

You gave him a droll look. Again, to cover your fear, because you weren’t willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

Angered and frustrated by that defiance, he reached down and grabbed your neck and jaw with one hand. You winced at the force of his grip, but when he started squeezing, this was the one thing that made you truly whimper. You tried not to think about the ghost of your father’s hand around your neck.

“Don’t you get it, asshole?” you gritted out while struggling for breath. “You can’t kill him. No one can. Stronger, smarter people than you have tried.” 

Moments ticked by while Jackson contemplated your words. 

Then he released you. You sucked in gulps of air and tried not to cough out a lung.

“Maybe,” he said. “But Soldier Boy’s got a weakness. If anyone knows it, I’ve got a feeling it’s you.” 

You can’t say anything. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t. 

That had been your mantra for every minute you had spent in this hole. You shook your head.

“Look, Jackson.” You sucked in another breath to steady yourself, and blink a drip of blood out of your eyes. “He’s going to kill you. You and your brother. Take your family and run, while you’ve still got a chance.” 

“…You know what? You’re probably right,” Jackson said, scratching the back of his head with his crimson-stained hand. “But I just realized something.”

He leaned down again, until he was level with your face.

“When he finds you, drowned in your own goddamn blood…I think the look on his face might just be enough for me.”

Your eyes widened. 

It took days. Three painful days to pick up the threads, which led closer to home than anyone could’ve anticipated. 

Grace Mallory put pressure across the chain of command, and even reached out to the FBI for assistance. An alert email finally came to her phone, and she realized that an agent on her own payroll had been flagged for never reporting back for his debriefing on a reconnaissance mission.

That agent was Jackson Rawlins.

The further she read into his file, the worse her frown became. She immediately sent the lead to Ben, Butcher, and the rest of the team to run down. For the first time in years, Grace actually prayed.

She prayed that they would reach you in time. It wasn’t until then that she realized it; she hadn’t thought of you as a cog in her system for some time now—not even as leverage against Soldier Boy. She was genuinely concerned about you.

Grace worried that she was setting herself up for disappointment…if it was too late. However, she also worried about what would happen if you didn’t survive. She considered how Ben might react, with that nuclear power within him that he was still learning to control. The consequences of this mission could very well be catastrophic. 

You were losing track of time in this windowless pit. You knew it had been days, but you didn’t remember how many. The cellar was cold, and the way sound and air traveled, it felt like you were underground. It certainly smelled like it��damp and gross. It made you certain this was a sewer.

Now this is Satan’s ass crack, you thought. You winced at the pain that radiated…pretty much everywhere. Blood had dried from various lacerations across your face, neck, chest, and arms, and bruises were dark against your skin.

Your blouse was in tatters, and your jeans had bleeding rips as well, though at least he’d kept your ankle boots on. You were too weak even for hunger. And a large, heavy chain attached to manacles on your wrists had replaced the zip ties. One end of the chain was fastened between the wall and a line of plumbing.

Footsteps echoed down the hall behind you. You closed your eyes and steeled yourself.

“Are we actually gonna have a conversation today?” Jackson asked.

“Depends,” you replied, your voice dry and coarse. “Are you going to tell me why you hate Ben so much?”

An angry sigh escaped Jackson’s lips. He pointed up in frustration.

“Ben.” Jackson rolled and cracked his neck, like just the mention of your boyfriend’s real name was disgusting to this man.

“You talk about him like he’s a real fucking person. Not like the animal supe he is,” he said.

“He is a person,” you said, both in exhaustion, and in pain. “And he’s trying to be better. Look, he’s done terrible things. I’m not saying he hasn’t. I don’t know what he’s done to you in the past, but—”

Jackson shut you up with a sharp backhand. It made black spots encroach on your vision as you caught your breath.

You noticed his brother Tom come in the room as well, to watch and worry. He didn’t seem comfortable with this way of things. He looked like a civilian. Maybe you could use that to your advantage…

But you lost track of thought after that, when Jackson started in on you with either his hands, or the creativity of the instruments on the table nearby. 

You tried to block out the pain, along with his questions about Ben. If you couldn’t talk about him, you couldn’t let yourself think about him. So you couldn’t say anything.

Not about the Novichok nerve agent, one of the few things that had been found to incapacitate him. Not his imprisonment by Vought or the S.A.—nothing that your captor could one day use against Ben.

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

Even though all you wanted right now was him. 

Ben, please…

You zoned in and out of consciousness from there.

When you next registered being awake, mercifully, you were left alone. You raised your head when Tom came to blot at least some of your wounds and give you water. You’d only eaten small pieces of protein bars for days. 

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered.

“Why does he want Ben?” you wheezed. “Why are you going along with this if you’re so damn sorry?”

Tom looked up at you with pain and grief in his blue eyes. He sighed and dragged a nearby chair from the table. He sat beside you while he fed you half a protein bar. It was a struggle to even get the pieces down.

“Last year,” said Tom, clearing his throat. “I lived in the building that Soldier Boy blew up when he got back from…wherever the Russians had him.”

Your eyes widened as you processed that. “You…but you made it out. Why—”

“I wasn’t home. I was at work,” Tom said. His voice was pained as his eyes became red and glassy. “Our mom wasn’t so lucky.”

You sighed, closing your eyes.

“She was retired, and I was taking care of her,” Tom said. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed. “Jackson wasn’t here. He was on a mission in Colombia. Told me he was cleaning up some cartel shit.”

At that, you had a sneaking suspicion that coiled in your gut. Ben had left a bit of a mess when he peaced out of Colombia, with an entire plane filled with drugs and weapons from whatever cartel he’d infiltrated. (In his words, he’d cut the head off the snake.)

Grace told you she’d sent a team in to handle that mess…

“Your brother—who does he work for?” you asked. Though you had a feeling you knew the answer.

Tom seemed to read your understanding, and his face turned grim.

“The CIA,” he said.

Fuck, you grimaced. So not only had Ben been responsible for their mother’s death, but Jackson had been part of the team that cleaned up his mess in South America. It explained why Jackson was somehow able to find your information; Supe Affairs had become a subsect of the CIA, thanks to Grace. 

“I didn’t know he was planning this. I swear to God. All he said was that he had a way to get at Soldier Boy,” Tom said. You let out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for your loss. I really am,” you said. Tears welled up hot in your eyes. “But you need to let me go. For your own safety, believe me.”

You saw the guilt, the sadness, the regret on Tom’s face. The brief indecision was overtaken when he glanced down the hall. You knew then that he was more afraid of his own brother than he was willing to do the right thing.

Your tears spilled over, though you tried to breathe through it. You’d tried to save them for when you were alone, those seldom few, cold hours, but you were reaching your breaking point.

“Okay, before I go, do you have to use the bathroom?” Tom asked. There was a bucket in the corner, and Jackson preferred it away from the chair. It was the only time Tom was allowed to unchain you from the wall and let you stretch your legs.

Letting out an exhausted sigh, you nodded in agreement. It was humiliating to know you were going to have to do this yet again, in a bucket, with company. With the manacles still on your wrists, he brought you over to the “special” corner.

Tom sighed and looked away to give you some semblance of privacy.

That was when you used every scrap of energy you had left in you.

You grabbed the chain and yanked it out of his hands long enough to wrap it around his neck from behind. You cut off his sounds of strain and kicked out his knees, so he was forced to kneel on the ground.

You wrapped the rest of the chain around your thigh, giving you the leverage you needed to tighten your grip and choke him out, until he was unconscious. His body fell to the side, and you heaved for breath. Once again, there were black spots in your vision, but you did your best to blink them away.

Now set with determination, you made your way to the plastic table and searched for the key to your chains. After the manacles were unlocked, you rubbed at your raw wrists and rapidly scanned the room. Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you calculated which way you should go to try and escape.

There were three possibilities in this clearing under the sewer: left, right, or straight ahead. Every time Tom or Jackson emerged, it sounded like it was behind you. The chair was facing to the east, which meant you had to take the left tunnel.

You ran in that direction and tried to find a metal ladder that would take you to whatever manhole cover these guys had detached. Someone couldn’t just open up any of those iron plates without the right tools, from the inside or the outside.

You walked as fast as you could manage, even though your entire body protested in pain. Then finally, you saw a black duffel bag lying on the ground, against the wall. Next to it was a metal ladder that went all the way up to the top.

“Jackson, don’t!”

You heard Tom’s voice, but you felt the presence behind you too late. Jackson hit you in the back of the head with that damn baton, so hard that even he grimaced at how the sound echoed on the walls. You crumpled to the ground.

Jackson stood over you with a grim set to his face. He turned to his brother with a shake of his head.

“She’s a walking welt, and you couldn’t handle her?” he said.

“This is too much,” Tom said in worry. He bent down and held two fingers to your neck. He still felt a pulse, at least, but when he felt behind your head, he found blood. His hand shook as he stared at it.

“If you didn’t want in on this, you should’ve said so from the beginning,” said Jackson. He spun the baton in his hand and clipped the hilt to his belt, from a small metal loop on the end of it.

“You didn’t say anything about…about this!” Tom argued. He cleaned your blood off on his jacket.

Jackson regarded his brother with disappointment, and he hefted you up into his arms. Tom followed him back to their setup with your makeshift prison. There Jackson left you lying on the ground, and chained you back up by your wrists for good measure. He then literally and figuratively wiped his hands of you.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” he said. “For good this time.”

Tom looked at you, then his brother in shock. There was even emotion in his eyes.   

“We’re leaving her to die,” he said, his voice unsteady. He knew then, that their mother wouldn't have wanted this in her name. If she saw both of them now, she wouldn't recognize them.

Jackson grabbed his younger brother where his neck met his shoulder. An iron grip.

“And what do you think Soldier Boy is going to do if he finds us?” Jackson asked. His gaze encouraged Tom to explore that reality for a moment.

Jackson nodded at your unconscious form. “Trust me, that bitch was never going to talk. But this is almost better.”

It wasn’t right, Tom thought. He knew it, deep in his heart, but he wasn’t strong like his brother, or even like you.

That was when they heard it. The rumble of engines dying and tires rolling overhead, dislodging a few stray pebbles and dust from the ceiling. Jackson’s eyes widened. 

“Fuck!” he muttered. “All right, let’s go.”

Jackson forced his younger brother to leave the sewer with him, and leave you chained up on the floor.

Ben, Butcher, M.M., and Frenchie had done much of the legwork in tracking down Jackson Rawlins and his brother Tom (with help from Annie, Kimiko, and Hughie of course). Frenchie had found your likely location with a powerful thermal scanner, courtesy of Grace.

Now, they’d driven up to the wide alley in the city and blocked off all the exits on the block. Ben was the first to get his boots on the ground and stride toward the point of entry, where according to Frenchie’s scanners, more than one body was holed up in the sewer. He held his shield at his side and at the ready when the manhole cover loosened, and slid open.

A small gas bomb rolled out towards his feet, but it was just tear gas, not the kind of thing that could actually affect him. Ben picked up the little round ball of metal and crushed it in his hand. While the rest of the team dove for the oxygen masks stored in the car, Ben stalked forward.

Seeing the silhouette of a man, Ben threw his shield hard enough to rattle a supe.

Jackson Rawlins was thrown clean onto his back with a force that stole the breath from his lungs, even through his gas mask. It also broke half a dozen ribs. Ben was soon bearing on top of him and ripping off the mask.

Jackson cried out as remnants of the tear gas seared his eyes.

“Got us a runner!” Butcher shouted. He intercepted and grabbed up a second man who tried to escape. Tom Rawlins wasn’t the threat, but he still wasn’t going free. M.M. and Frenchie also dove down into the sewer to try and find you after they got their gas masks on.

Meanwhile, Ben hauled Jackson up by his neck and walked him back until he hit the brick wall beside a nail salon. Jackson grunted in pain. Every breath he took was now agonizing, thanks to his now battered and broken ribs.

“Where is she?” Ben demanded.

Jackson actually laughed in his face, despite his now bloodshot eyes.

“All you fucking supes are the same,” he said. “But you…you’re the worst. Quite literally, the original asshole. And what does the government do? What does the world do? Gives you a pass on decades of indiscretions, fuck ups, and straight up murder.” 

Ben didn’t outwardly react, but he knew what Jackson’s problem was. He knew he killed the man’s family. Collateral damage—something that had caused Ben more than one argument with you in the past.

But he didn’t care.

He didn’t care, because all he could see in his mind’s eye was a metal bat hitting the back of your head and knocking you clean out. He saw you being taken against your will. Taken from him. And that, he couldn’t abide.

“Where. Is she?” Ben said, as his grip flexed around the other man’s neck. It would be easy. Easier than snapping a toothpick. And he warned, “Don’t make me fucking repeat myself.”

“Dead, probably,” Jackson spat, despite his red and bleary eyes. “Real tough bitch. I see why you’re fucking her…I had me a little taste myself.”

In that moment, Ben couldn’t compute.

His green eyes widened. His breath stilled.

Then his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth were grinding. A fire in his blood and behind his eyes, and fury that burned hot in his chest, almost giving it that nuclear glow.

His hand tightened and choked any salacious words Jackson might’ve spewed out next.

“He didn’t!” Tom shouted out. He was being restrained by Butcher. Ben glanced at them out of the corner of his eye.  

“He didn’t touch her. Not like that,” Tom said. He looked sincere.  

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” said his older brother. 

It earned Ben’s attention back. Jackson had the look of a man who knew he was going to die either way.

Ben’s lips curled into a sneer. He took the man’s head with both hands, and slowly crushed his skull. The scream echoed between Ben’s ears, but he was only satisfied when Jackson’s lifeless body dropped at his feet.

He turned to the other Rawlins next.

Tom had screamed as well to watch his brother’s life ended before his eyes. He now stared straight into Soldier Boy’s, pleading wordlessly for his own life. Ben started toward him.

“Please,” Tom said. He tried twisting away from Butcher, who held firm to the man’s arm. The Brit knew all too well, the rage that Ben had in his blood.

“Ben,” Annie tried, and she even stepped forward. Butcher held a hand out against her with a knowing look. It wouldn’t be wise to stand in the way.

“Hey!” M.M. shouted up from down the open hatch of the sewer. “We found her! Need help getting her loose.”

Ben paused in his steps. Tom was shaking, lips trembling, petrified.

Tilting his head, Ben let out a subtle breath through his nose. He began to turn back toward the sewer.

At the last moment, however, he drew his gun and shot Tom Rawlins between the eyes. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Annie and Hughie flinched, but Butcher and Kimiko weren’t surprised in the least.

Meanwhile, Ben made his way back towards M.M.’s voice, and into the sewer. He heard M.M. and Frenchie arguing about first aid and head wounds, the further in he went. Ben’s dark mood blackened even more along the way.

Once he reached them, he also reached you, held in M.M.’s arms as he cradled your head.

You were unconscious with your wrists locked into heavy chains. The furrow between Ben’s brows deepened, but he got down to his knees beside you and first, broke your chains. He guided you out of M.M.’s arms and into his own, making sure to support your head. Blood was already staining his half-glove and fingers.

It was then that he noticed the small crimson pool lying where your body had been, likely from the wound he could feel at the back of your head. Ben’s mouth trembled the slightest bit, mostly in anger as he drew himself back onto his feet. Your body was littered with bruises, cuts both shallow and deep made by what looked like a blade, and God knew what else.

“I had me a little taste myself,” Jackson had taunted.

No, Ben internally shook that thought from his mind. No, you hadn’t been touched like that, at least, according to the sniveling, cock-sucking brother.

But can you trust that little cunt’s word?

Ben briefly closed his eyes, pressing his lips to your forehead. He continued walking down the hall and towards the light and fresh air of the world above.

You’re gonna be just fine, he promised you, if just within the safety of his mind.

Yeah, you would be all right.

He was going to make sure of it.

AN: 🫣 I'm sorry...BUT, I can promise it will get better (eventually). First, it's going to get worse.

Next Time:

It was a slow process, and it hurt, but you managed to turn your head. You saw a man sitting in the corner with a laptop balanced on his lap. He typed with two fingers at a time, which reminded you of your grandfather. His brown hair fell over his furrowed brows, but his beard was well trimmed.

His head soon raised, possibly feeling the weight of your gaze. His eyes widened a fraction, and he hastily closed the laptop and set it down on his seat before he went to you. You frowned when he came to sit at your bedside, and even touched your cheek with a gentle hand.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth. “How’re you feeling?”

You didn’t have the energy to lean away from his hand, but you did give him a look of weary confusion.

“I…I don’t…who are you?” you asked.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

Ko-Fi Me ☕

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[featherandferns]

guilty as sin? (fic - part 2/2)

jj maybank x fem!routledge!reader | read part 1 here!

content warning: mentions of sexual content; mentions of parental abuse (drug misuse, physical abuse, neglect, emotional abuse); physical violence (blood) | any questions for trigger warnings, feel free to inbox anonymously

word count: 10k.

blurb: you and JJ start a secret relationship under the radar of your half-brother, John B. But with your life in Colorado becoming more and more unavoidable, and stupid slip-ups as the two of you grow closer, it becomes harder to keep your affair secret.

Daylight brings you out of your sleep, disoriented. You grunt and try to bury yourself deeper into the sheets, hiding from the sunlight. They smell like JJ. It relaxes you like a baby soothed by its favourite blanket. But then you remember what happened, and where you are, and that it’s morning. Sitting up, you glance around the bedroom and yep, this is definitely not my room. You look down to find JJ still sleeping, his face smushed into pillow. He’s on his front, the bedsheets mostly hogged by yours truly, showing his back decorated with scratch marks. A weird sense of pride overcomes you, like you’ve marked your territory. Sighing, you relax back into the bed. There’s a dull ache between your legs and you’re slightly sticky with sweat, but neither is particularly unpleasant. After a few minutes, you decide you can’t take the quiet anymore.

You roll over and prod at JJ’s face.

“Mhm, leave me alone, it’s the weekend.”

“Wake up. I’m bored,” you say.

You keep poking until he bats your hand away. With a long exhale, he rolls onto his side and cracks open an eye.

“Hi,” you smile. It’s hard not. You feel like you’ve slept with a coat hanger in your mouth.

“Hi.”

He reaches out a hand and strokes the side of your face, tucking some hair behind your ears. There’s a sleepy smile growing on his face as he wakes up.

“Sleep okay?” he rasps, voice croaky from want of use.

“Mhm. You?”

“Like a Goddamn baby.”

With another grunt and sigh, he shifts onto his back and reaches blindly for his phone on the nightstand. He checks the time first, and then his notifications, and suddenly he jolts up in bed, wide awake.

“Your brother’s been blowing me up.”

You stomach drops. “What?”

“He’s asking if I know where you are,” JJ says, reading the texts.

“Do you think he knows I’m here?” you worry.

Suddenly the tryst of last night loses its incandescent glow. Reality is there in the morning the same way sun sheds light on all things that happen in the dark.

JJ shakes his head, eyes fixated on his screen. “No, no. He’d have come over.”

“Oh, right,” you mumble. You sit up and gnaw on one of your nails. JJ shuts off his phone and looks at you. “We gotta come up with an alibi.”

“Right. Course,” he nods.

“Um…We can just say that I slept over.”

JJ looks at you like you just suggested to commit a joint felony and skip state.

“Not that I slept over, slept over. You can say you saw shit go down with Tom, you offered to give me a ride back, I was upset and fell asleep.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. I gave you the bed and I crashed on the couch, and we forgot to text him.”

“I think my phone’s dead anyway, so it’s not even a complete lie. And I did stay over here, so…”

JJ swallows. He nods and starts typing, sending the text. You both wait in pregnant silence for John B to respond. The minute it comes through, JJ reads it aloud.

“Cool. Just wanted to check she’s okay. Thanks for looking out for her.”

The sigh of relief the two of you share sounds rehearsed. As JJ types his reply, a question comes to mind. You’d spent all last night suppressing it, but now it spews out of you like word vomit.  

“Is this a bad idea?”

JJ sends the message and shuts off his phone, looking to you. “Is what a bad idea?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between the both of you. “Us.”

“No,” JJ replies, but his expression tells you otherwise. “No. ‘Sides, it’s only gonna happen the one time, right? No harm done. What John B doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Right. Yeah, the one time,” you echo.

JJ nods. “One time.”

Thank God neither of you are on the witness stand: you don’t sound very convincing. What was supposed to be a ‘get it out of the system’ affair might have unlocked some feral part of you that can’t go unfed. You didn’t have an extensive sexual history, but JJ blew all of them and your own psyche out of the water. That isn’t the kind of thing you can just walk away from, especially when you’ll see him every day.

“Just as long as John B doesn’t find out,” you hear yourself remark.

“Yeah. He’s got enough shit going on right now; we just need to be there for him.”

You nod.

“Sides. I made him a promise.”

Frowning, you ask, “a promise?”

“When you first came back to Kildare, I sort of brought up to John B that night at the bonfire, when you went to bed early, that I thought you were kinda cute. But he got ticked off. Told me you were going through a tough time and stuff, and to stay away from you. ‘If you’re a real friend, you’ll stay away from her’, to quote.”

“Yikes,” you mumble.

JJ nods, looking down at his hands. “Yep. Pretty clear message there.”

“Yeah, you really drove it home.”

He thankfully laughs at that.

“I mean, that’s some real Romeo and Juliet shit,” you add, laughing yourself.

He shakes his head. “Shit, I hope not. Don’t really wanna stab myself.”

“No, I stab myself. You just drink poison,” you correct.

“Yeah, I’m still not thrilled about that.”

You snigger and sink back into the pillows propped against his headrest. “I mean, it could be kinda fun, sneaking around.”

JJ raises a brow, lolling his head to the side to meet your gaze. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. Little secret hook-ups and stuff…”

“You’re that horny, huh?”

You shove his shoulder, revelling in his laugh. He grabs your hand and presses a quick kiss to your wrist. Then he looks at you, smiles, and it’s almost like a silent agreement. This is not a one-time thing.

“Breakfast?”

“God, yes,” you sigh.

JJ’s kitchen isn’t just messy, it’s unclean. You can understand why: his dad doesn’t scream house-wife energy and JJ is hardly home. He’s also, as hard as it is to admit it, a teenage boy. In the fruit bowl there’s mouldy peaches and bananas which are black. Fruit flies are having a feast, so at least there’s some positives to the pandemonium. The fridge is barren apart from some bacon. He keeps bread in the freezer so at least that isn’t mouldy. You perch yourself on the counter, dressed in nothing but his t-shirt, and watch him cook. It’s domestic and dull and you love every moment. He serves up two bacon sandwiches and passes one to you. Stands between your legs as you eat, one of his hands taking purchase on your bare thigh.

“S’good,” you tell him through your chewing.

“Thanks. Bout as good as my cooking gets.”

“Mhm. I could live off bacon sandwiches,” you say.

JJ chuckles. “Think Kie might have something to say about that. About how pigs are killing the planet with deforestation and treated unhumanely and bla bla bla.”

“I love your passion for political issues,” you sarcastically remark. He pinches your thigh in retaliation. You laugh. It’s simple and stupid and blissful.

When the two of you are done eating, he adds your dirty dishes to the impressive stack in the sink and makes no move to clean them. You follow him back to his bedroom and the two of you get dressed. He recommends you shower back the Chateau and you take it as code for ‘our bathroom is disgusting’. Thankfully when you peed in the dark last night, you were too fucked-out to notice. Once dressed, you tame your hair with a comb in the mirror and let JJ press kisses into your neck. He’s like a koala bear: it’s impossible to keep his hands off you. How the fuck are we gonna sneak around?

“We should head back before John B gets suspicious,” you tell him, placing the comb back on his desk.

JJ nods. He looks mouth wateringly good in his muscle tee. “I’ll take you back on my bike.”

Every minute spent as a backpack on JJ’s bike, you tether yourself to him as closely as possible. Now that the barrier has been broken, everything has come flooding out. Those same feelings that you harboured back in your preteens have only grown with your age. And now he’s here, in your arms, and you don’t want to let go. As the Chateau comes into sight, you know you have to. John B is hanging in the hammock with Kie. JJ kicks out the stand and steps off, as do you, and you both walk over with a safe space between you.

“Hey! Here they are!”

“Hey!” you smile back, waving to Kiara.

“Jeez, you guys took your time this morning,” John B comments.

Before JJ can speak, you say, “yeah, I had one too many last night. Threw up and needed more sleep.”

“Welcome to Kildare,” Kie grins. You laugh and give a mock bow as if you’d passed some unspoken initiation.

“Right, well, I gotta head out. Helping Lou out with some jobs today,” JJ declares.

“Alright man. See you round,” Kiara says, her attention already back on her phone.

“And thanks for taking care of my little sister,” John B adds.

JJ looks down at you. There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he says. “Yeah, no problem. It was fun.”

Asshole.

Then he’s wandering off to his bike, leaving you stranded, having to act as if last night never happened. You head into the house and work on your watercolours. All you can seem to notice is that the colours of the marsh water are the same as JJ’s eyes. The same eyes you stared into as he came apart underneath you.

Shit. This is going to suck.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sneaking around was…doable. If it weren’t for the Friday nights, you weren’t sure you’d be able to cope. Even then, the question grew more and more with each clandestine meeting. How long can this last?

Friday nights were spent at JJ’s house. You told John B that you were crashing at Lizzy’s, and JJ made up some bullshit excuse to get out of hanging out with the Pogues on Friday evenings: I gotta help my dad with this thing…The nights were spent tangled in bedsheets, pillow talk breaking up the unsated touching that made up for lost time. Your body is still recovering from the buzz of an orgasm when your phone starts to buzz on the nightstand.

JJ leans over and picks it up. His chest is damp with sweat from the nightly antics. He rolls back over to you and holds out your phone.

“Your mom’s calling.”

“Let it go to voicemail,” you tell him, not sparing it a glance.

JJ does as you say and when the ‘missed call’ notification appears, it’s accompanied by ‘(23)’.

“You ignoring her or something?” JJ asks, alluding to the pile-up of missed calls.

You look to him and shrug. “Or something.”

“What’s going on with all that, anyway?”

Your intestines twist uncomfortably. “What’d you mean?”

“I mean, why aren’t you in Colorado for the summer?”

“I told you. I wanted a change of scenery,” you say.

JJ laughs, unconvinced. “Bull-shit. You haven’t come back here in years, and you’re closer to L.A. than North Carolina. Why not go there? It’s warmer.”

“Hardly,” you say. “And it’s full of fake people. Influencers and tourists. And the traffic is—”

“Think we’re getting off topic?” JJ wonders, raising a brow.

You take your phone off him and clear the notifications, as if washing away your mom’s presence in your life entirely. Sitting up, you shove your hair off your face and dump your phone on the windowsill.

“What does it matter, JJ? So I wanted to come to Kildare again – who cares?”

“I care,” JJ replies. He sits up too.

You snort, irritation tickling at your throat. “What? Cause we’re fucking you think you deserve an explanation?”

He frowns. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Fucking’. Like this thing between us isn’t deeper than that,” he argues.

Swallowing your anger, you sigh and close your eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’m just…It’s complicated.”

When you open your eyes, they land on your phone. The screen lights up as if on cue, and you know it’s your mom chasing you down for the millionth time. You’re not sure why keep avoiding her, like the problem might go away if you ignore it. It’s like a tumour: leaving it be will only cause it to fester and grow, and be all the more awful to deal with later. But facing the truth is so painfully hard. You lean over and turn your phone off completely.

“I thought John B already told you about it all, anyway,” you quietly say.

“Not really. Only that you were going through a tough time,” JJ replies.

Sighing, you lean back into the pillows.

Finding a small smile, you sardonically ask,  “alright. You wanna hear my sob story?”

JJ sniggers but it isn’t mean. He shuffles closer so you can rest against him. His body was always more comfortable than his bedding anyway. That is his silent answer: yes.

“My mom got in this accident at work two years ago. They put her on Tylenol but it didn’t help, so they switched her to OxyContin. She got hooked pretty quick and started dating this dirt-bag Rick. He was her dealer and kept her supplied, cause most of the pharmacies cut her off when it was pretty obvious she was abusing,” you say.

It feels easier to get it all out in one go, like you might lose nerve if you don’t just commit.

“Rick’s a piece of shit. He doesn’t like me for whatever reason so he chips away at me. Just dumb stuff that probably doesn’t even sound that bad out of context, but when you’re in it, and someone’s picking away at you…It gets to you.”

JJ starts to stroke at your hairline. It prompts you to continue.

“Anyway, he started stealing my shit to sell, to keep him and my mom going. She couldn’t keep a job held down much so I started working to help out with bills. But then Rick started stealing my paychecks and spending my money on useless crap or drugs. I got angry and confronted them and…And my mom took his side, over me.”

You sigh and meddle with your fingers. The tears start to sting but you’re so tired of wallowing over it. You’ve wasted too much energy on her.

“I don’t think it’s a newsflash that she’s not the best mom. I mean, she left me with Big John for four years, dragged me across the country and never contacted her only son again. But it just hurt, having the person that brought you into the world pick a stranger over you, y’know?”

You eventually feel JJ nod against you. It’s not a feeling you have to describe for him; he knows more than anyone to feel pain at the hand of someone who’s supposed to love you unconditionally.

“Rick got ticked off that I tried to go against him, so he got meaner. Left my room a mess, made me do the chores, dumb petty crap like that. The worst thing was when he found my paintings though. He tore them up and ruined them. Scribbled over them. And I know they’re just drawings, and I know this is going to sound dumb,” you warn, laughing self-deprecatingly. “But they were my escape. I hated it there, but I could draw these worlds and feel like they were just for me, and I could exist there instead. And even that was taken from me.”

Images that you repressed flash back into your mind. The enchanting gardens and psychedelic landscapes mottled with black ink, indistinguishable. The way it felt like your heart might fall out of your chest and shatter on your bedroom floor when you found scraps of your paintings tossed around your room.

You clear the memories with a shallow sigh.

“Anyway…” you continue. “I got lonely. Working and all the crap at home made me miss a lot of school. I didn’t have many friends anyway. The thought of spending a whole summer there was just…I couldn’t do it. So I hit up John B and boom. Here I am.”

JJ stares at you, digesting the story. It’s certainly not as chirpy and simple as ‘I wanted a change of scenery.’ It’s scary to strip yourself down to your most vulnerable core. Different to being naked and exposed during sex: almost worse.

“And you’re gonna go back there? When the summer ends?” JJ asks.

You look up at him. You can’t pick-out one emotion on his face, there’s so many. Anger, sadness, vengeance, concern…

“Yes. No. I don’t…” you cut yourself off with a sigh, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” JJ is quick to return. “You should stay here.”

“What? And burden John B forever?”

“Sure. Why not?”

You laugh. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Cause you’re forgetting that I’m a minor, JJ. And that Big John is missing, and John B is living alone illegally. If I try to transfer here and get emancipated from my mom, it’ll just open that whole can of worms and could do more damage than good. Me and John B could both end up in foster care, and I might still get sent back to Colorado either way.”

JJ wasn’t expecting such a thorough response. It was laughable that he thought you hadn’t debated moving back to Kildare. That was your original plan, until you contacted John B and found out his dad was gone. A summer escape felt like the best option, like a breath of fresh air away from your stifling homelife, but it wasn’t a long-term fix. Life was too convoluted for that.

“Why does it have to be legal? Just run away,” JJ eventually says.

You quirk a brow tiredly. “Run away? What, like I’m ten years old and didn’t get my choice on the TV?”

“I’m serious,” JJ sighs. He shifts, kneeling before you, holding your gaze. “Fuck the government and whatever. Just stay here. Nobody’s gonna rat you out.”

“What about school?”

“Pope can tutor you,” he says.

“And a place to stay?”

“John B’s room and my place. Hell, maybe Kiara’s folks have a spare room too.”

Your heart melts a little. He’s so determined.

Smiling sadly, you stroke his face lovingly. You don’t want to snuff out his last slither of hope. So, you gently tell him, “Maybe.”

“Yeah? You’ll think about it?” he hopefully asks.

You nod, heart clenching with the lie. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

You’re glad he kisses you then, because you can’t bare looking at him a moment longer knowing that in a month, you’ll be gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hurricane Agatha was a bitch. You’re amazed you managed to sleep through as much of the storm as you did.

You venture out your bedroom to find JJ leant against the doorframe of the porch. He’s already drinking a beer, early in the morning. You spot John B out in the backyard. He’s moving fallen branches out the way to recover the H.M.S. Pogue, back facing you. Breezing past JJ, you take advantage of John B’s distraction, slapping your unofficial boyfriend on the butt. He cusses, pinching your own as you head down the stairs. It’s the most you’ve been able to touch each other in over twenty-four hours without raising suspicion. You join your brother in ridding the boat of leaves and sticks. JJ wanders over.

“Whatcha thinking?” he asks.

“I’m thinkin’ that storm surge pushed all the crabs out on the marsh maze. All those drum are gonna chase the crab.” As he replies, John B clambers into the boat.

“What about the DCS? Wasn’t that today?” JJ asks.

John B had tried to keep as much of the DCS nightmare out of your line of sight, but you weren’t stupid. It certainly helped that you were sleeping with his best friend, a guy infamous for having loose lips. To say that John B getting found out would do some damage to yourself would be an understatement.

“Nah, they’re not getting on a ferry,” John B replies.

You look to JJ. He’s leant forward on the nose of the boat. His slender frame and well-kept body is frustratingly attractive when you can do nothing about it.

“Come on, think about it. It’s God telling us to fish!” John B says.

JJ shrugs. “I mean, I’m down. Just gotta take a leak first.”

John B says your name, drawing your attention back to him. “You coming?”

“Think I’m gonna stay in. Paint.”

JJ clears his throat, mumbling out ‘boring’ as he does. You mirthfully roll your eyes. Tapping the boat in farewell, you give a small wave.

“Have fun!”

There’s the crunch and snapping of twigs and leaves as JJ follows you back to the Chateau. You wander to the bathroom and retrieve your toothbrush. JJ joins you, shrugging his shorts down to pee. There’s no need to fill the domesticated sounds of living with chatter. Outside, John B continues to clear the boat. You spit into the sink and step aside so JJ can wash his hands. He brushes some of your hair off your shoulder when he’s done, leaning down to press a kiss on the spot where your neck becomes your shoulder. His hair tickles your skin and you laugh around your toothbrush.

“You sure you don’t wanna come today?” he asks, looping his arms around your waist.

You nod and spit into the sink again. His eyes meet yours through the reflection of the bathroom mirror. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got some ideas I’ve wanted to get down for a while now, but I’ve been a little distracted.”

He grins at the insinuation.

“You looking forward to your birthday next week?” he asks.

“Mhm,” you hum, toothbrush back in mouth.

“You know what you want?”

“Mm-mm,” you say, shaking your head.

His grip tightens ever so slightly around you. “I’ve got a few ideas…”

One of his hands comes to hand on the middle of your upper back, coaxing you to lean forward over the bathroom sink. With that, he crudely pretends to take you from behind. Rolling your eyes, you wriggle out of his hold.

“You’re disgusting,” you say with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“You love it,” he quips. “Alright. I’ll see you later.”

“See ya.”

JJ plants another kiss to your bare shoulder, blows a raspberry, and laughs as you swat him away. There’s the open and shut of the front door, his energetic chatter with your brother, grunts and groans as they move the boat to the water, and then the sound of JJ’s whoops and hollers as they set off into the town. It’s quiet in the house without them there. You find JJ’s sweatshirt on the pull-out and shrug it on. The smell calms your soul. Taking purchase at the dining table, you retrieve your phone to find the service is out.

“Let’s see you try and call me now,” you mumble to your device, indirectly talking to your mother.

The watercolours you’ve accumulated over the past  few weeks of living in Kildare could be made into a tourist guide. Whilst the gang helped at Heyward’s, you painted the shop front during a lemonade break; days spent on the H.M.S Pogue gave you drawings of the Marsh; evenings on the waterfront let you capture the beauty of the ocean. The bonfire and the hammock; JJ’s surf shack; your claimed bedroom in the Chateau…The more you painted, the more you fell in love with Kildare, and the more you wanted to stay. You refill your mason jar with fresh water and begin to work on your latest picture. It’s of JJ’s bedroom. You’ve spent enough time in there to recall it from memory. It feels like your corner of the world, safe away from prying eyes.

As the day stretches on, the group returns to the Chateau. You hear their loud chatter as they approach the house, and it seems to merge into some kind of argument when they get to the porch. Itabruptly ends after your brother announces: just let me think. You ditch your paint, hiding the artwork under less incriminating pieces, and head out to join them. JJ sits in the red armchair you’re so fond of, flicking his lighter. Kiara is on the sofa and you take the spot beside her, frowning at your brother’s face; he’s deep in thought.

“What’s going on?” you ask. You hope it isn’t the DCS.

Before anyone can reply, Pope comes racing up the stairs.

“Okay, so um, we didn’t see anything. We don’t know anything.”

You frown deepens. “What?”

He drops down onto the spot beside you, ignoring your question. “We need to have total and complete amnesia,” he tells John B.

“Actually, Pope’s right for once,” JJ says from the armchair. You all look over to him. “See, I agree with you sometimes.”

He gets to his feet, wandering towards John B. “Deny, deny, deny.”

“Guys, we can’t keep that money,” Kiara declares.

“Okay, not all of us can afford unlimited data plans, Kiara,” JJ tells her.

Now you’re annoyed. “What money? What the hell is going on!?”

“We found a boat,” John B replies.

“There was a key in the boat,” Pope continues.

“The key unlocked a motel room door,” Kie says.

“And we found a shit ton of money. And a gun,” JJ finishes.

“A gun?” you gape. He nods.

“Which he stole,” Kie points out.

Your mouth hangs open even more, if that is somehow possible. “You kept the gun, JJ?”

“It was a good gun,” he defends, throwing his arms up.

Idiot. You drop your head into your hands. “I leave you guys alone for one day…”

“I was trying to be the voice of reason!” Pope tells you, defending himself.

You shake your head. “Wait? Whose money and gun was it? Whose boat was it?”

“Scooter Grubbs,” John B replies.

“We have to pass the money on to Lana Grubbs, otherwise it’s bad karma,” Kiara says.

“Bad karma to be implicated in a felony, too,” Pope chimes in.

Felony? Yeah, you’re already pushing it staying with your half-brother, unsupervised in a state different to your mom who doesn’t exactly know where you’ve gone…

“We gotta go dark,” he finishes.

JJ paces past the three of you, saying, “if that means we get to keep the money, then I agree.”

As he comes to a stop in front of the porch entryway, John B seems to return to the room, out of his thoughts. He pats JJ’s bare shoulder. “I don’t agree.”

“What? Why?”

“Just think about it,” John B says. “This is Scotter Grubbs we’re talking about. Alright? Same dude that’s buying individual cigarettes at the Porthole. Shit, one time I saw this dude begging for change in the Save-A-Lot parking lot because he needed gas.”

All of you watch John B’s spiel. “We’re talking about a dirtbag marina rat who’s never had more than forty bucks in his pocket, and all of a sudden he’s got a Grady-White? Just sayin’.”

“Wait? What’s a Grady-White?” you ask, looking to JJ. He fills you in. Short answer: a very expensive boat.

“Well, I vote we don’t keep the money,” Pope says.

“I vote we keep it,” JJ disputes, lifting his hand. He looks to John B but he doesn’t respond. Then he looks to you, and you crumble under the gaze, shrugging.

“I don’t know,” you mumble.

“Let’s take the day to think about it,” Kiara says.

And that you do. You all venture onto the jetty to fish. You stand beside JJ as he waits for something to bite, fighting the urge to lean against him. John B continues chattering away to Pope, painting the scene of a drug smuggling industry. Him and JJ agree that if he was ‘straight smuggling’, there’s probably more contraband in the boat wreck. Somehow you all wind up in your bedroom, and Pope finally relents. He agrees to rummage the wreck for contraband but ensures to underline how stupid he thinks it is.

“Right, well, stupid things have good outcomes all the time,” JJ philosophises. You watch him fan out the money.

You can’t help but feel the saying can relate to your own secret romance. Is it a stupid, remarkably bad idea to keep fooling around? Yes. Is the temporary outcome good? Hell yes.

“All we need to do is figure out a way to get into the cargo hold of that wreck. Until then, we just lay low. Act normal.”

“Right, and how exactly do we do that?” Pope asks from your bed.

“Keggar?” Kie offers.

Everyone shares a look. You sigh. “I can’t. I gotta go to work.”

“The restaurants probably a wreck. Just skip,” JJ responsibly says.

You shake your head. “Well, I gotta help out even if it is. Lizzy’s probably gonna be there anyway.”

“You gonna want a lift back later?” John B wonders.

You look to JJ. He’s already watching you. “Nah, I’ll just sleep at Lizzy’s.”

He knows the code. Gives the vaguest, barely-there nod in confirmation. The group gets up, everyone filtering out the bedroom door into the main of the house, chattering about what drinks to get and how to round everyone up with the cell towers down. JJ lingers in your room a moment longer, keeping you there with a gentle grab of your wrist.

“What time should I come get you?”

“Ten,” you reply. “Outside the restaurant.”

“You got it,” he nods.

A chaste kiss and then the two of you let go of one another, joining the others in the main room. Your heart is hammering so loud you’re surprised nobody can hear it. It felt like you were playing with fire, kissing so close to the others. And fire is known for one thing: it burns.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

There’s a pattern seen in serial killers. After the first five or so murders, they start to slack. Cover their tracks less, take larger risks. You and JJ weren’t out killing anyone – despite his reckless ordeal at the keggar which you later heard about through the grapevine – but you weren’t being as vigilant as when it first started out. The two of you had started to get sloppy.

Now two weeks into the illicit affair, you could hardly recall the last full truth you told John B. Your alibis were harder to keep track of. Your excuses started to weaken. And your ability to keep your hands off JJ became near to impossible. Even if it was a fleeting touch, a loving stroke of his tousled hair…It was almost reflexive. One time Kiara caught you wipe something off his cheek. The moment you saw her in your peripheral, you acted as though you were messing with him, sticking a finger in his ear to get a reaction. But she saw it, and it was a stupid thing to do.

In JJ’s bedroom, there’s a collection of your things. They’ve accumulated over time the way rocks build up on a shoreline: slow and steady, until they’re everywhere. Hair ties scattered along the desk, skincare on his bedside table, spare clothes and underwear in his closet, a toothbrush in the bathroom (that he reluctantly cleaned up). The biggest tell was your art supplies. If John B were to walk in, there’d be questions. JJ wasn’t exactly known as a monogamous guy or an artist. Your brother wasn’t stupid: you reckon he could put the pieces together pretty damn quickly. But it was hard to find it in you to care, when staying with JJ on Friday nights felt like you were playing house.

You’d asked to help him shave the other day after he gave you beard burn on the inside of your thighs. That’s how you find yourself sat on the countertop, precariously balanced on the edge of the bathroom sink, with a razor in hand. He’s stood between your legs, running a finger up and down your thigh, and watching you as you work. Every now and then you clean the razor of hairs in the sink, filled with water. One of your hands cradles his jawline, the other delicately tracing the razor down his cheek, along the apex of his neck.

“Two more days and you’ve caught up with us,” JJ says, referring to your upcoming birthday.

You smile, looking up to meet his gaze. God, you could drawn in his eyes, drift away in them. “About damn time.”

“I think Kie’s made you a cake.”

“That’s sweet,” you hum.

“Your mom gonna call?”

“Probably,” you sigh.

They’d fixed the cell towers now. An influx of texts came through, namely asking if you were safe after the hurricane. You felt the need to say that you were and did so with a simple ‘thumbs up’ reaction. That was the most you’d said to her in a month and a half.

JJ distracts you from thoughts of your mom by tracing the scar lining your elbow. The same scar that helped JJ place a name to your face after so long apart. “Remember when you broke this,” he says.

“Same. Think it’s the most pain I’ve ever been in,” you snort.

“You wouldn’t stop crying. I had to kiss you on the forehead just to get you to shut up,” he sniggers.

JJ and John B had been climbing a tree and you didn’t want to be left behind. You also wanted to impress a certain blonde-haired boy. But you lost your footing and fell, landing at a wonky angle. It was embarrassing, and painful, and embarrassing a couple more times.

“Yeah, I remember that too,” you say, smiling. “I had the biggest crush on you. I thought I was going to faint when you did it.”

“You had a crush on me?” JJ asks.

You pull away enough for him to see your face. It perfectly says really, man? He laughs. You resume your previous position.

“You were always cute.”

“Yeah right. You always saw me as John B’s little sister.”

“Well, yeah. But you were sweet. You used to bring me Hershey kisses.”

Your face feels burning hot. God, you were so subtle back then. “Stop talking or I’m gonna nick you by accident.”

He obliges, his shit-eating grin slowly fading as you work. The satisfying scrape of the razor ridding JJ of facial hair comes to an end with one final swipe. You clean the razor, wipe him clean with a wet flannel, and plant a kiss to his lips.

“Done.”

He steps around you and leans forward, inspecting himself in the mirror. He strokes at his skin, sucking his teeth with an impressed expression.

“Pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You finally gonna quit complaining about my beard making you itchy?”

“Look! It’s left a mark!” you defend, opening your legs and gesturing to the inside of your thighs.

JJ grins. He slides his large palms along the inside of your quads, fingers spanning out across the skin.

“Wanna give the new shave a test run?” he asks.

He sinks to his knees. Your smile grows, heart trilling with erotic excitement. Your fingers loop through his golden hair, nails scratching at his scalp. He places two kisses to your thigh, working towards your core. Fingers hooking onto the waistband of your shorts, you hoist yourself up so he can begin to wiggle them down your legs.

The sound of the front door slamming shut has you both freezing.

Luke Maybank clears his throat, walking into the house. You pull your shorts back up, heart loud in your throat. JJ gets to his feet and pulls the plug from the sink, draining it of water. Then you both stare wide eyed into the living room of the house. Luke collapses on the couch with a sigh, beer bottle in hand. JJ helps you down from the counter, quietly placing you on the floor. You’re not sure what to do. What the best approach is. What kind of mood Luke is in. Following JJ’s lead seems the best way to go. He looks away from the room to you. His gaze is steely and determined.

“Go into my room and go out the window,” JJ instructs in a whisper.  

You nod and don’t argue. Slowly, you slink down the corridor and slide into JJ’s bedroom. You push the door closed gently, hoping for it click into the frame without drawing attention.

“JJ? That you?” Luke calls.

Cringing, you shut your eyes, hang your head, and press it against the door. You hear JJ pass the bedroom.

“Y-yeah, I’m here.”

“Thought you were at Routledge’s house,” Luke says. His voice is gruff and reminds you of sandpaper.

“Nah. Not tonight,” JJ replies. He doesn’t sound like his usual self: carefree and jovial. No, he sounds guarded. On edge, like he’s working with a wild animal, unsure of how it may react. “Thought you were out tonight too.”

“What? I can’t come back to my own home whenever I want?”

“No, course. Course you can,” JJ says.

You don’t want to leave him alone with his dad, but you know staying is risky. If Luke finds you whilst he’s in a rage, it might make things worse. He might lash out at JJ, or worse, he might turn on you. So, you slink across the room and step onto JJ’s desk, using his chair as a boost. The window slides open with little effort and you hook a leg over. The other joins it and you dangle a moment, looking down at where to land. It’s a drop about the same height as you. Bracing yourself, you bend your knees as you hit the grass. Another glance is spared to the house. It’s quiet: no shouting or fighting. Sighing, feeling as if you’re betraying JJ somehow, you begin to walk home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

As you round the corridor into the living room, your heart sinks in disappointment when you don’t find JJ asleep out on the pull-out. Instead, the bed is half-made and abandoned. You haven’t seen JJ since you snuck out of his house last Friday. Sighing, you turn into the kitchen and open the fridge. A few gulps of orange juice out of the carton count as your breakfast. Looking to the calendar stuck to the fridge with a magnet, you point on today’s date.

“Happy birthday, me,” you mumble.

A pair of arms grab you from behind, picking you up off the floor. You yelp out in surprise.

“Happy birthday!” John B cheers.

Laughing, you let him shake you before returning you safely to the floor. Turning around, you find John B digging about in his short pockets. He retrieves a small, wrapped package and hands it to you.

“Happy sweet seventeenth.”

“The big one-seven,” you reply, thanking him.

You uncover a small pendant necklace made of sterling silver. It’s shaped like the North Carolina state. Lips moving, you give a small breath of admiration, stunned at its simple beauty.

“You like it?” he checks. You get the sense that he doesn’t buy a lot of jewellery. Looking up, you feel tears sting at your eyes. Throwing your arms around your older brother’s shoulders, you hug him.

“I love it. Thank you.”

“Course. I figured that way you always have a piece of Kildare with you,” John B says.

It’s a bittersweet sentiment. There’s only a month left of your stay in Kildare. Colorado and your life there looms like a storm cloud in the future, warning of an unavoidable downpour.

You pass the necklace to him. “Will you?”

As you turn, pulling your hair up and out the way, John B loops the necklace around your neck. When its secured, you drop your hair and turn back to him.

“How do I look?”

“Like a Pogue,” he grins.

You squeeze him in another hug before letting him grab some breakfast.

JJ doesn’t answer his phone. He doesn’t reply to texts or pick up calls. It’s frustrating as hell. You keep checking your phone as you shower, as you dress and as you do your make-up. As you finish putting on mascara, it starts to buzz. You don’t even check the caller ID: you just answer.

“Hello?”

“Oh, so you are alive.”

Mom.

You can’t speak. Can’t find enough air in your lungs to formulate words. Even if you could, nothing comes to mind. Nothing.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” you manage out.

“Well I guess I should say happy birthday.”

It’s incredible how such a sweet statement sounds bitter on her tongue.

“Thanks,” you reply.

“So, I’m guessing you must have been pretty busy this summer. That’s the only way to explain the radio silence since you left,” she says.

“Mom, I—”

“I’m talking now. Not you.”

You swallow. Thank God you skipped breakfast: you feel sick to your stomach.

“When are you coming back home?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She laughs. “Well, you have to come back sometime.”

“Says who?” you snap.

There’s a tense silence. “Says me.”

You don’t speak. Suddenly, JJ’s stupid idea of running away seems incredible smart.

“I’m staying in Kildare for at least another month,” you tell her.

“At least?”

“Yes. At least.”

“And then what? You’re going to become a nomad? Hitchhike around the country?”

“And then…Then it’s none of your concern. It won’t be your problem; it’ll be mine.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” your mom says, tone sharp like broken glass. “You’re coming home the minute the summer ends.”

Your patience twists into something dark and unfamiliar. Rage clouds your vision and your mind.

“Home? Is that what you call that place? Because Colorado hasn’t felt like home to me ever, mom. Ever.”

“You’re making a big thing—”

“No, I’m not,” you snap. Getting to your feet, you begin to pace the room. “You don’t even want me there! You just want my money. You don’t want me. You don’t even pay attention to me!”

“I’m busy trying to keep us alive,” you mom argues.

“Alive? Is that what you call it?” You can’t help but laugh. “If that’s ‘alive’, mom, then I don’t want it.”

“Just…Look, we’re just saying things, alright? You can come home, and we can talk, and we can work things out,” she says, sounding more human.

But you can’t believe it. Can’t trust it. It’s like a glass that’s been broken over and over again. You can glue it together, keeping most of the pieces in place, but it’ll never be as beautiful as it was before. Your mom is forever tainted in your mind. The damage is already done.

Pressing your eyes shut, you take a deep breath. “I’m staying here, mom.”

She begins to say your name, but you cut her off.

“I’m staying in Kildare. I’m staying here with John B, and JJ, and Kiara. They’re taking care of me. I’m okay. I’m eating, and I’m earning money, and I’m safe. But I can’t come back to Colorado. Not until Rick leaves…”

You feel your lower lip tremble.

“And not until you get clean.”

She’s silent for a minute. A long, long minute.

“And what if I don’t want you to stay in Kildare?” she asks. Her voice is quiet when she says it, like she’s powerless. And maybe she is.

It doesn’t feel good when you reply, “then I’ll report you and Rick to the cops, for child neglect and drug dealing.”

When people play chess, there’s a certain moment that the game is won. Check and mate. It’s a strategy game. You feel the moment your mom realises she’s lost. Your final piece takes position, and she’s rendered useless. She can either surrender - and let you stay in Kildare without complaint or contest - or force your hand to knock her off the board with a quick phone call to the police.

“And you’re safe?” she whispers.

Your heart splinters. It wasn’t her fault she got addicted, but it was her fault that she wasn’t there for you when you needed her most. They say time heals all wounds and you pray that to be true.

“I’m safe,” you assure her, voice wavering.

She doesn’t speak for a few seconds.

Then, quietly, she says, “well, happy birthday. Just…don’t ignore me like that again. I need to know that you’re okay.”

You nod. The tears start to fall and you press your lips together. “Okay, mom. I’ll text you. I promise.”

Through a shaky breath, you feel the three words form on your tongue. Three words that you haven’t said to her since you left North Carolina. But before they can pass through your lips, she clicks off the line without another word. You let out a pained sob. It’s so strange to get everything you ever wanted, and nothing that you wanted at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Your birthday passes by in a blink.

After the phone call with your mom, you sobbed for an hour. John B came knocking and held you through it, and when you asked if it was okay for you stay for the foreseeable future, he seemed more than ecstatic. All we have is each other, now. There’s something strangely tethering about trauma.

Pope and Kiara came around in the early afternoon. She’d made the most incredible birthday cake. Sage green buttercream frosting with edible flowers arranged around the rim. In the centre it had 17 written in white icing. They sang happy birthday and lit the candles, and as you blew them out, you wished for JJ to show up. Apparently, nobody had heard from him lately. It filled your stomach with led.

After asking what you wanted to do, the four of you relaxed in the backyard. It was an excuse to drink and listen to music. Pope discussed the latest book he read with you as you rocked in the hammock. John B began to talk about the Royal Merchant. He’d seemingly become more and more enthralled in the shipwreck. Whilst you’d been at work, covering shifts for people affected by the hurricane, they’d been pursuing the whole Grady-white shipwreck. Turns out, it was all connected to the royal merchant and Big John. You weren’t sure how you felt about that revelation. The group also seemed to be dubious. So, when Kie fell into a discussion about the treasure hunt with your older brother, you happily tuned it out.

Around seven, Kie and Pope left. John B seemed pretty exhausted so he said he was going to get an early night. You agreed and trudged into your room, but sleep wouldn’t come no matter how drained you felt. As per routine, at ten, you slip into your crocs and head into the living room, sights set on the porch. You stop short. The porch light filters into the main bulk of the room.

“JJ,” you whisper to yourself.

Walking out, opening the door, you find him on the couch. For once, he’s facing the doorway. He looks up from his lighter that he’s been messing with and meets your gaze. At the sight of his lips twitching up at the corners, you break into a smile and rush over. Practically wrestle him into a hug. He laughs, wrapping his arms around you. The way he holds you feel holy. Two days apart and you felt like you were having withdrawal.

“Happy to see me?”

“Where the hell have you been?” you ask into his t-shirt.

He pulls away. You sit on his lap, looking down at him, surveying his face for injuries.

“I got roped into some shit with my dad,” he says.

“He didn’t…”

You can’t bring yourself to ask, but your hand outstretching, tracing his features for some sign of pain, finishes the question.

He shakes his head, taking your hand from his face to intertwine it with his own.

“No, no. Just had to keep him busy, really. Helped out at the harbour and shit. Dropped my phone in the water like a dumbass.”

Ah. That explains the radio silence.

JJ smiles up at you. “Anyway. I’ve back now.”

“Good,” you say. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” he mumbles.

One of his hands reaches up to play with a strand of your hair. He lets it go, it falls into the mess atop of your head, and he traces his fingers down your body before resting at your hip. All the while, JJ stares at you, taking you in like he’s taking in an eclipse. Like you’re something that deserves to be admired.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

You smile, bright like a supernova. “Thanks.”

“Good day?”

You’re not sure how to tell him about the greatest gift of all: your mom letting you stay in Kildare. So, you just nod dumbly. JJ picks the pendent of your necklace off your skin, inspecting it.

“Who got you this? It’s pretty.”

“My mistress,” you joke.

He rolls his eyes.

“John B.”

“It’s pretty,” he repeats, letting it sit against your skin once more. He lets his touch linger against your sternum. God, you missed him. “Kie’s cake good?”

“Mhm. There’s some left in the kitchen. I’ll get us some,” you say.

You move to climb off him to retrieve a couple of slices but JJ grabs at your hips, keeping you in place and capturing your attention once more.

“Gotta give you your gift first.”

JJ leans down to retrieve your present from under the sofa where he’s stashed it. He hands it to you, a brown paper parcel finished with garden string, with a foreign nervous smile on his face.

“I hope they’re the right ones.”

Confused by what he might mean, you begin to open it. The brown paper crinkles in your hands as you unwrap your present. A small, elated gasp falls out your mouth as you lay your eyes on a set of Winsor and Newton watercolour paints. You trace a finger over the silver tin as if to prove you aren’t hallucinating.

“You like ‘em?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

Winsor and Newton paints. The worlds that you can illustrate flash through your mind, igniting your imagination in ways that you haven’t experienced for years. You feel a quivering smile, overwhelmed with emotion for the paints and for the boy who bestowed them upon you, and look up. He’s smiling, watching you, and you lean forward to wrap your arms around his neck.

“I love them. Thank you, JJ.”

His arms wrap safely around your middle, pulling you against him in the embrace. You move your lips to his, sighing as you finally reconnect through the kiss. When you break apart, only a hair’s width between your mouth and his, you feel those same words from earlier today fly up and through you.

“I love you.”

You say it quiet and private, like a prayer.

His eyes falter to meet your own. There’s a nervous breath as he takes in your declaration.

“I love you too,” he breathes.

As you kiss, you feel your heart melt into liquid gold. For once in your life, things feel as though they’re falling into place. The rough brush of JJ’s tongue prying into your mouth has you tilting your head. You let him imbibe you. You treasure the way his rough hands, worn from work on the harbour, slip under your t-shirt. His touch is cold against your burning skin.

“What the fuck.”

Fool’s gold.

You startle at the interruption, head spinning to find John B stood on the porch. He’s gaping at you and JJ like he may have just seen a ghost. Disbelief and horror shadow his face.

“John…” you choke.

His eyes flit from you, from your lips, to JJ. To his hand still under your shirt. To his hand planted securely on your hip. To how you’re sat in his lap. To your own tethered into his hair. To your own wrapped lovingly around his neck. It’s as incriminating as finding a murderer holding the knife above a dead body. No excuse, no justification. Nothing. No alibi can save you now. It’s a clean and shut case.

“What the fuck is going on?” John B mutters. His thoughts seem to be catching up with him second by second. His chest begins to rise, anger flaring his veins, and his expression hardens. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Look, man, just—”

But your brother strides over and practically rips JJ out from under you. You hear yourself scream out as he shoves JJ onto the porch floor, landing a hard punch into his jaw. JJ takes the hits, doesn’t even try to fight back, only fumbles to try and push John B off him. You start to scream like a hysteric. Shriek for him to stop. Beg for him to. You grapple at John B’s shirt, trying to pull him off your boyfriend, as he lands hit after hit. The sound is sickening, of flesh hitting flesh. You feel tears fall down your cheeks in panic as he refuses to let up.

“Get off him, John!” you screech.

Finally, you pull him off. The two of you tumble to the floor.

JJ turns onto his side, coughing and spitting out blood, groaning in pain. He lifts a finger to dap at his lip, wincing as he draws it back to find it red. You go to help him, to check that there’s no lasting damage, but John B holds you back. He moves towards his best friend once more but you grab at his shirt.

“John, please don’t,” you blubber, trying to keep him away.

He swallows thickly and closes his eyes, taking a slow, measured breath to try and calm his rage. Then, he turns his head to you. The betrayal in his eyes makes you sob.

The sound of JJ’s groans has the attention back on him. He’s struggling to his knees, a hand coming to cradle his jaw.

“Shit, JB. You can throw a hell of a punch,” JJ mutters. He spits out more blood. It makes you cringe.

JJ gets to his feet. John B follows. You can’t find strength to get off the floor. Your eyes are transfixed for a while on the pool of blood where JJ laid.

“You promised me,” John B seethes.

You look up and finally muster the courage to stand. You watch as JJ looks to you. Can see how he wants to grab you and console you just like he used to when you were a child. Just like he did when you fell out of the tree. But his better judgement makes him decide against it.

“It’s not what it looks like, alright?” JJ tries, voice steady.

“Not what it looks like? What? You groping my little sister isn’t what it looks like?” John B barks.

JJ scowls. “I wasn’t groping her. And she’s hardly your little sister. You’re less than a year older than her!”

That pisses your brother off more. He takes a step towards JJ but you reach an arm out, stopping him.

“She’s vulnerable, JJ.”

You frown. Offense stings in your heart. Does he really think you so defenceless? So incapable of judging others for yourself?

“She’s seventeen, John B. She can make her own choices without you making them for her,” JJ argues. “She knows what’s in her best interest.”

“Oh? And you’re her best interest?” John B scoffs.

JJ’s gaze darkens. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

No. No, this is not helping. It’s only making matters worse.

“You know what I mean! You fuck a new girl every other week! You can’t keep your fingers off other people’s shit, you lie like you’ve been doing it since day one—”

“John-”

Your quiet plea goes ignored. John B takes another challenging step towards JJ. You can’t hold him back. He’s stronger than you. They both are.

“You’re gonna end up in a cell just like your dad and leave my sister as collateral when you get bored of sleeping with a girl whose been in love with you since she was a kid.”

JJ’s fist hits John B square on the cheek. John B hurls his own punch and they end up in some messy wrestle. They fall onto the coffee table and fumble out weak throws. Fear for what may happen to either of them makes you act with stupidity. You dart forward and try to pry them off one another. Somewhere in the chaos, a stray punch hits you in the nose. Pain blinds you. You yelp and fall backwards against the couch, hands flying up to your face. They stop. JJ utters your name.

When you pull your shaking hand away, you find it soaked with blood. Your chest heaves with panic as the pain sets in. JJ shoves John B off and comes to your side.

“S’alright, s’alright,” he soothes.

You’re not like JJ. You don’t take hits like it’s your day job. You’ve never been punched in your life. The last major injury you sustained was your broken arm, back when you were thirteen. Sobbing in pain, you feel yourself panic at the sight of flowing blood.

“S’okay. Lean forward, alright? You gotta lean forward,” JJ instructs.

He shifts you so you’re sitting on the floor, back against the sofa. You let him guide your fingers to the bridge of your nose and pinch at the soft skin. There’s the distant sound of John B rushing into the house. You don’t see it, though. Your eyes are pressed shut to not look at the blood.

“You feel okay?”

“I feel sick,” you mumble. And not just from the nosebleed.

“S’alright. It’ll stop soon,” JJ reassures.

He strokes your back lovingly, dragging your hair off your face as your head bows forward. You choke on the metallic taste that trickles into your other senses. God, everything is a mess.

“Here, here,” John B mutters.

You crack open your eyes to see him drop to his knees beside you. He hands JJ a towel. JJ lifts it to your nose, wiping some of the blood off your skin before holding it steady below your nostrils. It soaks with blood.

“Shit, should she be bleeding that much?” John B asks JJ.

“She’ll be fine,” JJ snaps. He probably doesn’t want to freak you out more. “It’s normal.”

And, eventually, after two towels are soaked, the blood flow slows to a stop.

“I think it’s stopped,” JJ mumbles.

You let him remove the towel. It feels risky to sniff. The smell and taste of blood is consuming and makes you feel nauseous. Tentatively, you try lifting your head. JJ and John B are staring at you. They’re nothing less than concerned.

“How do I look?” you croak.

JJ tries to fight it but fails. He sniggers, then John B does, and you find your own smile. Then the three of you are laughing like you’re drunk.

“That bad, huh?”

“Never looked hotter,” JJ lies through his laughter.

“Yeah…this isn’t your best look,” John B comments.

When the humour passes, you shake your head and look to John B. Like a storm at sea, his anger seems to have passed, not a sign that it was ever there on his face. JJ’s calmed down too. You know they’ll have to talk it out, the things John B said to him, but words said in fury are usually far from true. Cheap shots to try and hit JJ where it hurts. Brothers fight.

“I’m sorry we kept it a secret from you,” you say to John B.  

His eyes slip shut like your apology pains him. Like you’re applying balm to his fresh wounds. Sighing, he opens them to ask, “how long has it been happening?”

You and JJ share a look. He clears his throat before answering. “About a month. Maybe a bit longer.”

“It started the third week after I came to Kildare,” you clarify.

John B exhales with disbelief. “No. No, that can’t be true.” Before you try and explain further, he’s looking to JJ. “You can’t keep your mouth shut for a whole fucking month.”

JJ cracks up. A smile creeps onto your face too. “I think it’s a new record, man, honestly.”

“Yeah, congrats,” John B grunts, rolling his eyes.

“We just didn’t want to tell you cause we know things have been weird since your dad went missing, and you’ve sort of been hooked on this Royal Merchant thing,” you say to your brother.

“And cause you sort of told me to specifically not date your sister,” JJ meekly tags on.

John B sends him a damning look. JJ cringes. “I mean, I’ve never been good at doing as I’m told so this is kinda on you. Just partly.”

“Careful,” John B warns.

You grab for your brother’s hand. A stray stream of blood slips from your nose and JJ lifts the towel to wipe it away. John B meets your gaze.

“We’re not just fooling around,” you say. As his brows knit together, you spare a glance to JJ as if trying to muster up courage. “I love him.”

John’s mouth falls open. You might as well have just told him you’re pregnant. He looks to JJ as if needing some clarification, and he just nods and shrugs, his expression something close to yep, it’s true.

“I just wish you guys told me,” John B eventually tells you. Then, laughing, he adds, “and how long were you even planning on keeping this up?”

“Well...We hadn’t really got that far,” JJ fumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

You all share a laugh. John B nods and looks between the two of you. Like a pill he must swallow, he accepts his fate. You’re not proud, but you wouldn’t change a thing. Taking the risk with JJ was the best choice you ever made.

“I don’t love it,” John B says. Then, with a pained sigh, he adds, “but I’ll get used to it.”

You and JJ immediately lock eyes; smiles of relief and elation sparking to life.

“But you hurt her, and I’ll lay you out,” John B warns JJ, in a stereotypical brotherly fashion.

JJ nods. He seems to know now that John B will uphold that promise to the highest degree. “Scout’s honour,” he swears, crossing his heart and holding up three fingers.

John B looks to your once more and offers you a hand. He helps you off the floor.

“Jeez. What a birthday. You found out you get to stay in Kildare and have a nosebleed all in one day.”

“Wait, what?” JJ barks.

Your head darts around to the blonde-haired boy.

“You’re staying in Kildare?”

Realisation dawns upon you. In the pandemonium, you’d forgotten to tell him. A sheepish smile settles on your face. “Oh yeah, um…I have some news.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Your bedroom door swings open as Kiara sings out, “morning lovebirds!”

JJ groans from beside you at the wake-up call. You crack open your eyes through the streaming sunlight and look to the doorway. John B’s head pops into view.

“Get up! We’re recovering a shipwreck!” he adds.

Kie grabs a sock from the floor and tosses it at your boyfriend.

“Get up,” she repeats.

The door slams shut and you chuckle, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling. JJ stirs from beside you. You feel his finger reach out to prod your cheek.

“Mornin’,” he rasps.

You look over to him, smiling sleepily. “Morning.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Like a Goddamn baby,” you grin.

He smiles at that. Sighing and groaning and making all kinds of fuss, JJ stretches in bed.

The two of you gradually emerge from your room. It’s hard to get dressed when your boyfriend keeps grabbing at your hips, sucking hickeys into your neck, stealing your bikini bottoms. There’s a persistent knocking at the door every five minutes from each of the Pogues, telling you to quit macking and get ready.

You wolf down breakfast at the dinner table, mulling over your latest painting. It’s of JJ’s back, arguably your favourite feature of him, when he used to sleep on the pull-out sofa. The room is bathed in moonbeams, bed made up of messy plaid blankets and mismatching pillows. The new paints make everything feel so lifelike and vivid. You’re debating adding faint pink lines to represent scratch marks on his back….

“Come on! We gotta go!” John B declares, drumming on your head as he passes you to the front door.

JJ finishes your Poptart as you text your mom a quick update for the day, and then the two of you join the Pogues in the Twinkie. He hooks an arm over your shoulder, holding you against him as you sit in the back with Pope. They fall into a debate about the scientific benefits of weed (JJ is, no surprise, in favour) whilst Kie and John B discuss tactics for finding the Royal Merchant. As you rest against your boyfriend, you smile and close your eyes. You finally found your home. You found it in Kildare.

[fantasywater]

Is Stolas actually cheating? Why or Why Not?

I've had some debates where I've been told that Stolas isn't cheating, and especially not continuously. However, I personally think that he is.

The not cheating crowd reasoning's are:

1.Only the initial act was cheating. Once Stolas screamed the morning after that he wanted a divorce than every sex act with Blitz afterwards was not.

2. Since the marriage was consentless, loveless, and abusive this means he was never cheating on her. This interpretation tallies with Stolas's words on the balcony and in Western Energy.

3. Divorce only takes one person's consent and Stolas called it so he's free to fuck whomever, whenever, and wherever.

My rebuttals:

1.It's still cheating until that balcony scene where he calls for the divorce and kicks her out.Because even after his petty moment of triumph he still tries to placate her, and she's still living in the house. She is also still eating dinner like a family while still very much pissed at what he keeps doing.

I also find it ironic that only when he finally stops being passive and goes through with the divorce is when he also finally stops sleeping with Blitz for good. He went backwards with it. Which means he absolutely would have kept blatantly cheating(as well as kept Blitz in the deal) if the dropoff wake-up call hadn't happened.

2. No one gets to redefine a word just because the character doing it is a fan favorite. Stolas is committing infidelity by the very definition of it. He's an adulterer and a victim of domestic violence. Both are true at the same time.

Basically Stolas as a character can think what he's doing is indeed not cheating,but this doesn't mean the narrative agrees with him.

Narrative disagreement: Stella and Octavia's call-outs in Loolooland. Asmodeus's call out in Ozzie's. Via's pain again in Seeing Stars. Andre's call out in Western Energy. Via yet again in the Sinmas leaks.

Out of all the people I've listed I think the narrative has been very consistent in using Octavia to drive home that his cheating was wrong, and therefore damaging, regardless of what he personally thinks about it.

3. Yes, he called for divorce, but he cheated to initiate it therefore breaking his daughter's peace and mental health in the process.

The Via angle will always be why despite his pain his cheating still makes him an asshole. As well as the fact that he kept doing it even after his daughter told him that it was negatively affecting her.

Do you all agree with the view that both parties need to consent if they want to have sex with other people during separation or divorce proceedings,and especially if one spouse still has feelings, is pissed, or sad about it?

I know for example celebrities very much sleep around when they're only separated or in the various stages of divorce though they're technically still married.

Other bits:

Anyone else think Stolas's take back my power moment against Stella was lacking?

I mean it didn't really hit because there was no strong buildup of her wronging him.

But there's plenty of him wronging her with his frequent and remorseless cheating, and therefore her negative actions are because of that inciting incident.

To me Blitz and Via's felt earned while Stolas's didn't.

We had a whole season(honestly Stars and Western as well) of Stolas wronging Blitz so when he so strongly lashed out in Full Moon it truly felt cathartic.

Same with Via. We have two full episodes of this man repeatedly neglecting his own child for his affair partner and breaking her mental health. So when the third time happened and she has her take back my power moment I cheered.

With Stolas however I should have been cheering, and in a vacuum it wasn't a bad scene,but then the buildup was pretty bad because he has been onscreen for a season, and the circus bedroom scene, very much wronging Stella not the other way around.

Thoughts?

[mariacallous]

As war rages between Israel and Hamas in the Gaza Strip, it is hard to envision an end to the conflict. For decades, though, a growing movement of Palestinian and Israeli women has not only envisioned a peaceful coexistence, but also demanded it.

Just three days before Hamas’s Oct. 7, 2023, attack, thousands of women from two peacebuilding groups gathered at Jerusalem’s Tolerance Monument for a rally and march. Israelis from Women Wage Peace carried blue flags, and Palestinians from Women of the Sun flew yellow ones.

Members of the two groups traveled to the Dead Sea—believed since ancient times to have healing qualities—and set a table. Women from both sides pulled up chairs as a symbol of a good-faith resumption of negotiations to reach a political solution.

Women Wage Peace formed in response to Operation Protective Edge, which was Israel’s 2014 invasion of Gaza in the wake of then-U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry’s failed effort to restart final status negotiations.

“We, Palestinian and Israeli mothers, are determined to stop the vicious cycle of bloodshed,” reads the preamble to their campaign, the Mother’s Call. This campaign was nine months in the making, and it involved aligning around a single agenda that demands a political solution within a limited time frame.

They set the table to show the importance of dialogue and women’s involvement in decision-making. But in the war between Israel and Hamas that has started since then, women’s voices are largely missing from negotiations and consultations.

Ensuring women’s participation isn’t about equity or fairness or a show of inclusion. It’s about winning the peace.

In 2014, Laurel Stone, then a researcher at Seton Hall University, conducted a quantitative analysis of 156 peace agreements over time. She found that when women are decision-makers—serving as negotiators and mediators—the probability of an agreement lasting at least two years increased by 20 percent. The probability of the agreement holding for 15 years increased by 35 percent.

Many studies show that women tend to be more collaborative, more focused on social issues over military issues, and less likely to attack those who hold differing views. With women at the table, the potential for risk-taking behavior and attacks on perceived enemies may be lower. In diverse teams, decisions are more likely to be based on facts than assumptions.

While men are more likely to be fighters in war, the work of holding families and communities together more often falls to women, and according to some studies, it’s women who more frequently stand up for a return to negotiations, civilian protection, and an end to violence.

“We learned from the cases of Northern Ireland and Liberia,” Yael Braudo-Bahat, the co-director of Women Wage Peace, told Foreign Policy. Women’s active participation greatly strengthened these peace and recovery processes.

Ahead of the formal talks that led to the Belfast Agreement in Northern Ireland, Catholic and Protestant women’s groups formed the Northern Ireland Women’s Coalition and gained two seats at a table of 20 in formal negotiations. As one of the few groups that moved beyond the sectarian divide, its members were seen as honest brokers. They represented civil society concerns and helped ensure that the agreement included commitments for social healing and integration.

Because the brutality of war falls disproportionately on women—they frequently are the first to go hungry, serve as the de facto caretakers, and become the victims of increased gender based violence—they are often committed to finding a path to peace even when male leaders won’t compromise.

During the Second Liberian Civil War, women played a heroic role by successfully pressuring male decision-makers to negotiate. The documentary Pray the Devil Back to Hell, directed by Gini Reticker and produced by Abigail Disney, popularized the incredible story of how women convinced the warring parties to attend peace talks in Accra, Ghana.

“We were the ones watching our children die of hunger … we were the easiest targets of rape and sexual abuse,” said Nobel Prize laureate Leymah Gbowee, the founder of the Women for Liberia Mass Action for Peace grassroots movement, which played a major role in pushing then-President Charles Taylor to sign a peace agreement in 2003. This common suffering among women formed the basis for unity across political and religious divides.

In Israel and Gaza, women will need to play an important role in the implementation of any new accord between Israel and Palestine, Braudo-Bahat said. Her organization’s partnership with its Palestinian counterpart, Women of the Sun, has remained steadfast, even after learning that her co-founder, Vivian Silver, 74, was murdered by Hamas on Oct. 7.

“We continue our plans—we work together, and we don’t hide it,” she said. “It might be dangerous to the Women of the Sun, but they are so courageous.”

Although many Palestinians want peace, for others, “peace is normalization,” a member of Women of the Sun wrote to Foreign Policy via WhatsApp, choosing to go by the initials M.H. to preserve her anonymity and safety. Some Palestinians think that “it’s something shameful to be dealing with Israel,” she added, because it could imply that the Israelis’ treatment of, and policies toward, Palestinians are tolerable.

“I believe we should actively engage and collaborate, even if some label it as normalization,” M.H. said. “I am committed to working toward a better future for us.”

International law is on the side of these women. United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325, adopted unanimously more than 23 years ago, urges all member states to increase the participation of women in peace and security efforts, and highlights women’s essential role in preventing war, protecting civilians, and negotiating lasting peace.

Despite Israel’s deteriorating track record with regard to women’s rights and roles as decision-makers, women are involved in the war as politicians, members of the military and civilians. Women in politics have made important advances for gender equity, although among the 32 cabinet ministers sworn in a year ago, only five were women. One of those women ministers was dismissed amid the recent closure of the Ministry for the Advancement of Women.

The reality for women in Gaza is far more challenging when it comes to holding leadership positions. Women generally do not participate in public political activities or hold public office, although Hamas appointed 23-year old Isra al-Modallal as its first female spokesperson in November. She told the Guardian newspaper that she is not a member of Hamas or any political party.

At the start of the conflict, Hamas had just one woman, Jamila al-Shanti, 68, serving as part of the organization’s 15-member political bureau. Al-Shanti, who was also a founder of Hamas’s women’s movement, died in an Israeli airstrike on Oct. 19.

“You can hear amazing rhetoric and lip service, even from the Palestinian leadership,” Dr. Dalal Iriqat, an assistant professor at the Arab American University in the West Bank, told Foreign Policy. “But when it comes to practice, I always find a scarcity of women in decision-making.”

Women’s organizations in the Palestinian territories and in Israel have a rich history of political engagement, however. Palestinian women created social structures such as health clinics and orphanages for displaced Palestinians following the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. Following the Six-Day War in 1967, with traditional political structures in tatters and both Gaza and the West Bank under Israeli occupation, women of every social class stepped up.

It was through the networks they formed that a new cadre of women activists emerged as a force in December 1987, when Palestinian frustration with Israeli rule broke out in a popular uprising that became known as the First Intifada, or “shaking off.” Underlying this largely nonviolent Palestinian struggle was a collective social, economic, and political mobilization led by women.

Palestinian political leadership acknowledged women’s centrality in the Intifada, which paved the way for negotiations with Israel when it included three women—Suad Amiry, Zahiria Kamal, and Hanan Ashrawi—as part of the delegation that participated in the Middle East peace talks that culminated with the Madrid Conference in October 1991.

Ultimately, though, exiled Palestinian Liberation Organization leaders shunted the Madrid framework to begin secret negotiations with Israel that resulted in the security-focused Oslo Accords and the establishment of the Palestinian Authority. Under their leadership, Israeli occupation, and the failures of the Oslo Accords, democratic ideals and women’s rights eroded.

Israel and the United States have discussed a potential role for the Palestinian Authority in Gaza after the military operation. The Palestinian Authority has three women ministers, including its minister for women’s affairs, though women still struggle for equal opportunities and freedom from violence.

“Women usually refrain from being [an] activist in politics,” said an activist in the West Bank who withheld her name for security reasons. “Women are frightened to be involved in political activities, because they will be put in jail or be subjected to any kind of violence.” And the conditions are much worse for women when funding is restricted, as well as under Hamas, she said.

Serena Awad, a Gazan nonprofit worker who is now living in Rafah, told Foreign Policy that Gazan women are directing and managing many aspects of the humanitarian response. These women work for the United Nations as well as in health, cultural, child protection, human rights, sports, and legal organizations.

“I have lived through six aggressions, and every time, I wait for my turn to die,” said 24-year-old Awad. “What I want the world to know is that women in Gaza are like any other women—we study, go to work, have our own family, but we suffer.”

Israeli and Palestinian women working as peacebuilders say they need more international support. Women’s organizations are notoriously underfunded in the best of times, with only 0.4 percent of global gender-related funding going directly to women’s rights organizations, according to calculations by the Association for Women’s Rights in Development.

During crises, women’s rights often take a back seat. Women of the Sun’s 2024 budget is approximately $100,000, and Women Wage Peace’s budget is approximately $1 million, according to the organizations’ representatives.

Women’s groups are more likely to be effective during negotiations and during the implementation of recovery programs when they have access to external funding. During the peace process between Sudan and South Sudan, for example, South Sudanese women were highly mobilized as delegates, but some had to pause their involvement so they could go back to earning money.

In addition to funding, democratic countries have a role to play by insisting on women’s participation in negotiations, said M.H. of the Women of the Sun. She and other peacebuilders say that the United States and the United Nations should be more active in promoting women as counterparts, negotiators, and experts.

“By will, things can happen,” M.H. told Foreign Policy “And if the US says it [that women should be involved in negotiations], it can happen.”.

Talks convened by Qatar, the United States, and Egypt to end the conflict between Hamas and Israel are underway. These countries and other regional players—including Jordan, Israel, and the Palestinian Authority, have previously created national action plans that recognize the unique impact of war on women and their crucial role in promoting peace, culminating in 107 countries worldwide forming national action plans to empower women.

Still, news coverage reveals little or no evidence of efforts by these countries to promote women’s participation in the Israel-Hamas conflict.

The U.S. State Department is “working to ensure the expertise of women from civil society and in government is incorporated in any process related to the current conflict in Gaza,” wrote a spokesperson in an email.

If the political will for participation exists, both Israelis and Palestinians have a robust list of women advocates from which to draw for official and nonofficial negotiations and discussions. A diverse list of 12 Israeli and Palestinian women who are qualified to participate in negotiations was provided by the 1325 Project run by members of  Women Lawyers for Social Justice—known in Israel as Itach Ma’aki—to the U.S. Embassy and other embassies and international bodies.

“At least one person will be engaging in Track 2 and 3 efforts, and she was approached through us by an international body,” said 1325 project co-director Netta Loevy, referring to nonofficial negotiations and consultations.

Braudo-Bahat, meanwhile, urged policymakers to involve women in discussions now—not after violence ends. “The day after the war is yesterday … we need to start now,” she said.

Back in Gaza, the water tastes like poison; it’s freezing, and Awad, the 24-year-old nonprofit worker, keeps losing weight. She asked almost a dozen Gazan women leaders what they think should happen to resolve the war and to ensure that women participate in negotiations.

No one could give her an answer. They were busy responding to humanitarian needs, and telecommunication and internet services were out.

“Nothing has changed, but what can we do about it? All we can do is waiting and praying for this to end,” Awad wrote to Foreign Policy through WhatsApp, which only works for her about once every four days.

Iriqat, the Arab American University professor, has one wish: “That someone considers that if women are in charge, and involved, a more strategic agreement could hold.”

[elen-tari2]

Kastle Defense: It’s Personal

So. I’ve been scrolling through some ship war posts on my day off. I try not to let things get under my skin too much, because I’m pretty adverse to confrontations, but I have a lot of thoughts, so I decided to just bring them to my own blog rather than get into a back and forth with unreasonable fans. I don’t get why people have to be so aggressive about ships, to the point where defending their faves means they go around tearing down others. If you want to ship Karedevil (or MattFoggy or Fratt), I absolutely support you. If you ask for opinions about a ship, but then just start attacking people who disagree with you in the comments, why did you ask? Sigh, just…. Let people enjoy things.

But some criticisms of Kastle were being shared, and I do want to address my personal takes on them. I’m not going to get into if Matt or Frank is “better” for Karen, because that’s not what I care about. However, I get there are some valid concerns that Frank involved Karen in a lot of violence, some of which resulted in her getting physically hurt and otherwise was pretty traumatic.

My opinion (because everything is just opinions, no matter how hard you say your take is the only correct one) is this: None of the violence was personal. And Karen knows that. So even though that doesn’t make it right or okay, she never holds it against Frank. Look at her reactions and see how she interprets what he does.

Frank shoots at her and Grotto. Karen is terrified, but nonetheless suspects he had reasons she “didn’t fully understand” and breaks into his house to find out more.

When Frank meets her in the hospital, he makes a point of telling Karen he was not shooting at her. That she was safe, because he only hurts people who deserve it. Meanwhile, Karen is thinking *I would have deserved it* because of her past. But she challenges Frank, saying she’d just have to take his word for it. And Frank’s word becomes something he upholds again and again for her, to the point where she concludes, “you’re honest, you never lie to me.” This remains true. Sometimes there are omissions (he doesn’t tell her about her car being followed; he stays silent when she asks if he knows the bomber (Lewis)’s identity), but there are no outright lies between them.

Does he draw the bad guys to the diner by parking her car outside as bait? Yup. But that’s different that using her directly as the bait. His ultimate goal is to protect her and get information. He plans a fight he knows he can win, and tells Karen in time for her and the kitchen staff to seek shelter. Karen is pissed anyway (of course!) and calls him an asshole. After he commits two more brutal murders in front of her, he tells her to call the police and stay away from him. He realizes he is dangerous and no good to be around. But does Karen listen?? NO. She goes to the docks and spends all night waiting for them to pull Frank’s body out of the water.

Again, I don’t think they were in love at this point. At least not in a conscious, nameable way. Some people point to Matt listening to Karen’s heart at the docks and say she already loved Frank. And I think that’s fair, but also it’s not in a stage she could ever have put into words. They just had that instantaneous connection and truly saw and accepted each other, darkness and all.

So even after Frank is declared dead, Karen STILL won’t give up on him and goes to Schoonover’s house for the interview. When he holds her at gunpoint to get in the car, “Shining Star” starts playing. So she knows to expect Frank is gonna do something. And yeah, Frank crashes her car because he’s a dramatic asshole. He drags Schoonover off to deal with him in the woods. Karen wakes up and still she follows to find him. Yes, she’s hurt, but she didn’t get shot like Schoonover had been planning, so…. Not the best plan, but it did work.

Karen begs for Schoonover’s life, but she doesn’t do it for his sake. She does it for Frank’s sake. He doesn’t listen to her because he is hellbent on vengeance at this point. They’re not in love. She’s someone who helped him, who intrigues him, but it’s not a relationship. It’s not like they were dating and he was having a secret identity and carrying on an emotional affair the whole time, stripping down to his undies with his college ex after faking having sex with her to avoid being captured by security guards…. like someone. *cough cough*. Yeahhh that was a problem for me was because those actions were a conscious choice. It was personal. I’m not saying Matt treated her worse or that Frank treats her like a princess. I’m saying the trespasses against her were different because of how she perceived them. Frank is someone who she never expected to be putting in regular appearances in her life. But she knows what she gets with him and ultimately (whether for good or for bad), she trusts him. Matt broke her trust. Told her he’d stop lying to her and then lied someone more. I LOVE how they reconciled in s3, but I just don’t see the romance between them anymore. For me, that ship has sailed. (Also let’s be clear: I love Matt. I am never anti-Matt. I am critical of other things Karen and Frank do too. Characters having flaws is a good thing. Don’t freak out.)

But let’s get back to the whole picture. Along with involving Karen in all this violence that she has accepted and not judged him for, Frank does things like:

—Saves her life by throwing her to the ground and covering her body with his

—Realizes in an instant that she’s ruthless enough to kill and admires her for defending herself

—Believes her immediately when she says she’s told no one that Frank’s still alive (he asks Curtis twice!)

—Is vulnerable with her— talks openly about his wife and kids and even weeps in front of her

—Tells her he cannot lose her like he lost his family

—Says “No one goes after her, not on my watch”

—Says she is his family and puts her on the same level as Micro’s wife.

—Says “I will come for you” when she’s taken hostage

—Jumps in front of a bullet for her

—Jumps down a staircase and dislocates his shoulder to get to her

—Has a conversation without words with her and they understand each other completely

—Forehead press more intimate than a kiss level of meaning and connection (I swoon)

—Touches her name while he reads her newspaper articles

—Brings her flowers

—asks her to “Stay. Please.”

—Holds her hand for comfort

—Quotes her while in bed with another woman 😩

—Tries to send her away when he knows he has a 5 million dollar bounty on his head and people are just going to keep showing up to kill him.

—Turns down her offer to “love someone else” and “make it mean something”, and pushes her back towards Matt because he thinks he doesn’t deserve her…. but never says it’s because he doesn’t love her too.

—Was definitely thinking about kissing her before Amy interrupted them ashdhdhehwkhjw

So many of these moments are highly romance coded, right??

If Karen were still bothered by the acts of violence from DDs2, would she have come marching into the hospital as soon as she heard his name on the news in TPs2? Would she be offering to throw her life away to be with him??? Yeah, their relationship started out with a ton of scary and dangerous situations, but it evolved and continued to do so, to the point where they care so much about each other, it’s like a sacred bond between them. Karen will defend Frank at every turn, and he has a “touch her and you die” protectiveness for her.

Was his glaring absence in DDs3 something that should still be addressed…. Hell yeah. If Frank goes up against Bullseye in DDBA, it’s going to be incredible because the stakes are so personal.

If you can get through all of Daredevil and Punisher and still find them totally platonic… that’s fine. But the evidence is still open to other interpretations and going out of your way to tell kastle shippers they are just wrong and that their ship is in fact “grotesque”…. That’s just mean. It’s fine to disagree and have different tastes, this doesn’t need to be an echo chamber. We all have our hyper fixations we love to talk too much about. But, in my opinion, name-calling and being disrespectfully dismissive of someone else’s ship is in some ways just as nasty fandom behavior as trolling. An “I’m right/I know better than you/my way or the highway” interpretation of something we ALL love dearly just doesn’t belong. We should all conduct ourselves better and realize everyone can have a seat at the table.

If Frank letting Karen get hurt in s2 is a dealbreaker for you, that’s fine to criticize. For others, it was just the beginning of their interactions, which became much more. I fully recognized Kastle has a big hurdle to overcome since it falls outside of the Punisher comics. So it is more likely we will get only longing looks and ambiguous-but-still-powerful scenes that play with their connection and chemistry, rather than anything explicit. But Kastle is my ship, and the only other OTP I’ve ever cared about this much is friggin Han Solo and Princess Leia from my childhood. So, like, this is just as important to me as it is to you. It’s personal. But it’s not exclusionary.

And this is a two way street—kastle shippers should be respectful of others as well.

Okay I doubt anyone will read all this but my life is in a shitty situation where we might lose our home due to a bad landlord, so I’m clinging to my Kastle brainrot real strong right now to keep me going. I guess I just needed to organize my thoughts and get all this off my chest.

[ghostadjacentfae]

Infiltration

What a beautiful morning to wake up and be inspired to commit violence.

DP x DC prompt (spinoff) (or semi-fill ig but it's still more Concept than concrete)

What if Danny didn't get stuck in the thermos by accident, but went into stasis on purpose cuz he'd been seriously injured only to have become trapped, locked away in the Watchtower vault.

What if Team Phantom know the whole time where he is but they can't just contact the Justice League and tell/try to convince them they've got a living teenager stuck in that tube of death magic.

Dani is the only one that can reach her brother, and she can't even do that right.

-

He'd been hurt, really really hurt. Something about how the only way to get close enough to blast the thing he was fighting was to let himself take a hit on the way. A hit that was so much worse than any of them expected it could be and made them have to pull out the mega emergencies only tactic of sucking him into the thermos' stasis just to transport him away and somewhere safe to stabilize and treat.

Except they don't get that chance.

(Or he does it to himself if he's solo, hoping that someone will find the thermos and it'll circulate back to Amity and he'll deal with whatever happens after that. Act now, think later. They saw the thermos on a TV broadcast that covers the JL investigating the battle site to learn it's been picked up by them)

On the way home the Fenton parents saw Sam with a live thermos and got curious, (or it's the GiW, or the JL themselves came a-snooping because of whatever the battle was). Tucker, Sam, and Jazz lied lied lied to coverup who was in there there so they wouldn't open it and find a grievously injured Phantom on their hands ready to destroy before anything can be set up to give medical attention Immediately but they (parents/JL) took it too seriously (and GiW are just the GiW about it) and put it somewhere inaccessible because they just can't risk whatever they caught "seemingly by sheer luck" getting out.

If it isn't in the hands of the "Jerkwad League" from the start, it ends up there for safety. Put away on a shelf in the "dangerous items do not touch" room of the Watchtower. Up in space, untraversably far for any of the three of them.

Dani comes to Amity as soon as she gets the emergency notice and they make a plan.

Well, sort of a plan.

Get up there, get the thermos, come back.

Easy peasy.

Well, the Watchtower is in space, and that's kind of terrifying. She's the only one that could possibly reach him, but she's not sure she can actually survive out in space. She hasn't gone up there before like Danny has and while yes she'd absolutely love to find out... What if she's not?

Worse yet, if she manages to get in but the JL trace and chase, crashing in before they're able to stabilize Danny? Then that's a mission failure too.

It's funny. The thing that can make her brother more excited than a puppy with a treat makes her want to be rooted to the ground.

But she's willing to risk it for Danny, willing to keep these fears to herself because maybe they're nothing. She's the only one that can reach him, and maybe that alone will make it go right.

Jazz gets the truth out of her.

A well timed "Dani, have you ever been out in space?" while she's distracted wondering how she'll recognize the Watchtower rather than some other space junk, and an unfortunately timed voice crack, and all of a sudden Sam and Tucker are reeling and talking about how they'll figure out something else because they're not taking that risk.

Their backup plan takes a lot longer to put in motion, but not one of them will hear another word of her going out of the atmosphere. She's gutted to not be able to do the rescue the way Danny definitely could have, but a louder part of her is relieved.

(Alt: She goes up there, only to find the Watchtower can't be phased into. Either the hull or maybe the vault rooms specifically. Say the govt-funded op that GiW is a subunit within or Fentons having a contract for paint or an alloy or whatever. And/or protective seals from magic users making the only way to get into the vaults be someone opening the door for her but it's more complicated than waiting for someone to do that, wait until the moment they'll leave, then snatching the thermos and fleeing Because Reasons. The others don't blame her cuz phase proof is phase proof, but she's mad at herself that she "Can't do it right")

It's some time before she realizes that while their refusal to have her do it that was is partly because she's their best hope in any plan they come up with and partly because she's part of Danny and if she's gone they lose him all over again, it's really because she's just as much their friend by now too. They don't want to lose her for her. They can't lose her, because that makes it one missing person, and one life lost.

There's guilt there, about the fact she wouldn't have these connections as strong as she does if they still had Danny, (she's not in the space he left but definitely overlapping it). There's guilt, but there's a glow too. That glow adds to the guilt, but it's still there. Her life is better than it was. She pours that guilt into doing this backup plan right even if it means taking arguably, a greater risk.

If she can't get into the Watchtower as a ghost, she's going to need to get into there as a hero.

She's going to need to be public on a worldwide level, and get their trust, and get invited up into the floating tin can of a club house as a junior hero, all without letting on that she is in fact infiltrating them. The others are capable fighters above the human level of course but not Justice League level. And not quickly enough for Danny's sake.

It still takes so, so long. Days to weeks to month to--

Hundreds of hours of fighting with limited powers so they don't know everything she can do to keep the upperhand when the time comes. Hundreds of hours of not knowing what exact door her hurt older-- twin-- younger looking brother is kept behind and having to investigate cautiously on every rare visit she gets so that these adults who think they have all the knowledge in the world don't catch onto her. Of subtly building up the medical wing with things to treat "her", "just in case." Of fearing that everything is going to go wrong wrong wrong at any second.

Until she's finally, finally, got the thermos in her hands, sprinting for the med bay with an intruder alert blaring through the space station about the "theft", phasing through anyone that tries to block or question her.

Until she's there and twisting off the cap and he's there.

He's there.

Dazed and spilling green onto the table and staining her costume after she's dropped the thermos to hold him instead and there.

[pennyserenade]

YOU CAN(T) ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT

pairing: dieter bravo x you, dieter bravo x ex-actress!reader rating: explicit (oral sex (female receiving), fingering, pinv, unprotected sex, light dirty talk (not degrading), references to previous sexual encounters, mentions of rough sex) tags: angst, hurt/comfort, talk of drugs (weed), drug usage (weed), dieter & reader are a little toxic - i cannot lie, talk of parents  word count: 4.8k+ summary: your relationship with dieter (albeit the very loose definition of the term) has finally landed you in the tabloids. he attempts to make it up to you  a/n: unbeta’d. i don’t know what possess me when i write dieter but its very real and active right now lol. if you want to get updates on whenever i write, follow @belovedinfidels​

The weight of knowledge wears you thin.

Dieter is a tabloid on page six, the embodiment of Hollywood idiocy sided up against a woman far too young for him. Half his age? the byline reads and the bitter laugh you let out earns you a concerned glance from the old lady in front of you. In his madness, he takes you with him, right there in the middle of the grocery store. You pay eight dollars to read the shit all week, like the spurred lover you can’t claim to be.

Your devotion is too incredible, but that’s the way you are. A strange concoction of bitter and sweet. You’ve never forgotten a wrong-doing and you choke what you love with sheer force of your eagerness. Dieter doesn’t know what he wants and yet he commits himself anyway. Which is why, usually, he is good for you. His touches are seldom chaste and his presence is hardly long-term. If you think you love him, he will disappear and you will remember that you don’t–or rather, that you can’t. It’s a convenience until he makes you remember you aren’t the only thing he occupies himself with in his spare time. Then it is a dull ache in your soul and a reminder of everything you don’t have.

In anger, you fuck a stranger on Tuesday. It’s a reckless moment that is the exception, not the rule, but it feels good. Your body isn’t past expiration, you learn, not an ugly thing. It is older than the girl Dieter was with in that paper, sure, but this stranger is so attentive to it. It responds in all the right ways. You are healthy, you are wanted. There is hope for you yet.

On Thursday, half guilty for no good reason, you tell Dieter congratulations on his new television show. You watched it. You liked it. You can’t help but confess it. He calls you after and you don’t answer, still full of some random man’s want. He doesn’t text you back but he hearts the message to show you he’s really seen it.

By Friday night, he’s got you bent over his kitchen table, his body strong, masculine and warm above your own. Whoever that girl was, she isn’t anymore. He doesn’t tell you this, but you know it to be true, for he is Dieter, and Dieter is consistent in his inconsistency.

He fucks into you with ferocity and you know he is trying to amend for some of his sins. The slick, obscene sound of his cock filling you, the way he presses into your shoulder, pinning you forward into the cold, hard table, the soft, guttural moans that he empties into the air—it is a form of devotion, albeit a slightly demented version of it.

It might be a little twisted, what the two of you share. It’s not love and it’s not necessarily friendship, but it is something akin to the ritual of opening one’s palm and sharing blood with another in a fit of childlike devotion. Forever, it yells with violence, but at the end of the day it merely remains a mess only on the surface. You wonder when you will grow out of it and start doing reasonable things.

When he easies out of you, he rewards you for your loyalty and asks if you’d like to watch an old movie – maybe even get high with him. The movie is an old western and the gunslinger dies in the end. The weed makes you tired.

When you wake the next morning, LA sunlight peeking through the blinds, you’re in his bed. His body is turned in the other direction and a lone pillow separates the space between you. You smile at the way this thoughtless man thinks. All your anger dissipates and he is right for you, all over again. —

On Sunday, you’re the tabloid story.

Finally, you’ve been caught in the act. A sneaky camera in the bushes, that lone photographer with a hungry belly and nothing better to do than explode your life. Half of twitter regals you with hate messages and the other half spouts encouragement. People discover you, search the depths of your online existence and find out more than you would like about everything you used to be.

By Monday morning he’s calling you.

“I’m sorry,” comes his hushed, apologetic tone, “I tried to do something about it but you know how those things are.”

You can’t believe this is the first time you’ve ever been caught. Dieter has been your… your whatever since you stretched your acting muscles briefly in 2012. It was that shitty little pilot that didn’t even make it to cable, but you got him, that up and coming actor with an extensive background in theater. You’ve become several different people since then, changing occupations like clothes, and now you sit halfway between writer and unemployed. It’s okay, though. You have money. Once upon a time you were famous too; a child actor who worked too much and didn’t understand what was real and what wasn’t for far too long. Your mother was kind enough not to exhaust your funds. You think instinctively she knew someday you would be this way.

You shrug, coming to. “It’s okay,” you mutter, trying not to think of all the mean things you’ve read. “Hell,” you joke, “Maybe they’ll finally do that revival now. I’m famous again, so why not?”

He laughs too, so easy. “I’m glad you’re taking this okay. I thought you’d never talk to me again.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know but still. It’s shitty and you don’t deserve shitty. One day you’ll wise up to it.”

Betrayal curls up inside of you, makes a newfound home. All the unspoken things between you, and he must bring up this today: the way you do this to yourself. “Not all of us can readily admit to the things we know, can we?” you say evenly. “Listen, Bravo, I’ve got to go respond to some of your fans on twitter now, if you don’t mind. They’re asking for your dick pics.”

You hear his laugh. “Oh, knock yourself out. What’s mine is yours or whatever.”

“I don’t feel similarly, just in case you get the same kind of messages this week.” He doesn’t respond, and you furrow your eyebrows, letting your smile drop. “Dieter?”

“I know what they’re saying—“ he pauses, weighing out his words. “I know they’re not all being kind to you. I’ve seen it, and I’m sorry. Really. If I could do something about it, I would. I’ve been trying,” he repeats, sounding far too exasperated for your liking.

You pick the phone off the counter and turn it off the speaker. No one lives here but you, but some things don’t feel like they should be put out in the open air. “It’s just a photo,” you tell him evenly. “I’ve been in this business longer than you. I know how to handle this.”

“I just don’t want you to think you shouldn’t see me anymore. We can be more careful.”

“Where are you?”

“Wherever you’d like me to be.”

You snort. “God, nowhere near me with a line like that.”

“Oh sorry. I forgot you’re not into that sentimentality bullshit.”

You smile, liking the way his voice has turned from sober to playful in a matter of seconds. “Here I’ve been, thinking you’ve got my number. If you don’t know by now what gets me going—”

“—a good fuck, a single cigarette on a bad day or a drunken night, and most photos of Fiona Apple.”

“Well done, Bravo.”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure, but you better make a couple of wrong left turns on the way here for safe measures. Hate for you to get caught with the same woman twice in one week.”

“Oh ha, ha,” he says deadpan. “Unlock your door. I’m outside already.”

—

The public expects you to break. They always have. As you hand Dieter the badly rolled joint, you think about how pleased they’d be to know this is how you spend your time. The little girl wonder grew up just as fucked as they expected, from pigtails to ill suited relationships and drugs during the week. That’s how they’d see it, anyway. You think it’s a little more nuanced than that, but the public hasn’t ever been particularly good at leaving room for it in their judgments.

Dieter sits on the ground between your thighs, his back to your stomach. Your fingers weave their way through his thick, slightly curly hair, catching every now and then on a stray knot. “Fuck,” he mutters when you land on a clump near his ear. You grin, coltish. “Let me cut it,” you tell him.

“I have a girl,” he says as an answer.

You wrap yourself around him, your face on his back. “Always do,” you tease, humming softly.

He covers your arms, allowing you to envelope him. “I’m getting the vibe that you’ve grown a tad bit possessive of me.” You scoff, loosening your grip. He clinches down, trapping you. “I’m like that with you, too,” he adds.

You hear the confession racket through his body, your ear pressing to some part of his rib, and yet you are the one who feels transparent. “That’s fucked up,” you answer simply, unable to find the right words in this state. He’s always too coherent for you when you smoke weed together. It’s better when you just fuck; it’s a language you communicate best in, even when perfectly sober.

“It is fucked up,” he says, setting the joint down on the ashtray. He blows out a cloud of smoke and runs his thumb affectionately over one of your forearms. “And I think in a fucked up way, you enjoy it. I do. I don’t know why — probably something therapy could sort out.” He laughs, though it sounds a bit hollow. “I mean, it makes me miserable. I know when you’re with someone else. I can just feel it. It’s in the way you text me—or the way you don’t text me, actually. You grow so distant and I think ‘This is it. She’s a smart girl, and you’ve done it this time.’ And then, like with Friday, you come back and you let me have my way with you and it’s awful and it’s nasty and yet…” He clicks his tongue, hesitating. “It’s great. I want you so bad I’m…I don’t know. Overcome with it. All the misery leaves my body and it’s just me and you, and it doesn’t feel nasty or degrading, does it? I don’t mean for it to. I just…It feels like I’m on the edge of the rest of my life when I’m with you like that. I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done. And it’s always done, isn’t it? I leave you feeling whole again, like I’ve just righted this terrible wrong.”

“Dieter,” you manage, voice heavy. “You’re a secret romantic.”

“That’s the most fucked up part about it,” he says poignantly. “I think a lot of screwed up people do a lot of the screwed up shit they do in pursuit of love, and yet they can never quite allow themselves to have it. I’d love to stay put but it makes me itch. I don’t know why.”

“Were you parents fucked up?” You lean back. He lets you this time, but he moves back with you, laying his head on your chest.

“Sure,” he responds. “They fought all the time, but most people did back then. I knew they loved each other, though. They liked to dance and they always used to have these lively conversations about everything. They were serious people, to the point that it was almost unserious.

“My mother, she was educated and my father loved to read and watch movies and talk, and I think she fell in love with him because of it, despite the fact he came from a more…less wealthy background than she did. They begged her, her family, to get a prenup but she never even married him, you know? They didn’t care. They just lived together and they were perfectly content with it.”

You stare up at the ceiling, listening. “Why do you say it like it’s over? What happened?”

“I am?” he asks. “I guess I’m talking in past tense, ‘cause that’s where I existed with them, in the past. I don’t speak to them much anymore, not because I don’t want to, but just because life got busy. They’re still together. Probably fighting or having a conversation about something trivial and unimportant right now.” He smiles, filled with fondness and nostalgia. “What were your parents like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve tried to remember, and I’ve tried to piece it together from what I have, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever could.” You close your eyes. “They love me immensely and they love each other immensely, but things happen. Good and bad things. I’m just their kid.” You shrug. “I feel like a terrible person a lot of the time because of it. Like, what did my mother want from life? Surely it wasn’t me. This. She must’ve wanted something and I’ll never know it.”

“Did she want to be an actress?” he asks curiously.

“No,” you say softly. “She wasn’t the projecting type. I wanted to be an actress. I loved it. She just put me in the theater to keep me busy during the summer and I took off. She encouraged me. She was and is the encouraging type.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s…well he’s there when he’s there and isn’t when he isn’t. I love him and I wonder about him and I feel like I know him more than myself. But I also feel like he’s a perfect stranger.”

“Hm,” Dieter surmises.

“I don’t have daddy issues,” you add. This makes him laugh and you feel it vibrate through you too. It’s so comforting, warm.

“I wouldn’t tell you that,” he says.

“I didn’t even want you to think about it. It's a cheap analysis that men have been pining on women for years. I’d sooner admit to fucking up myself. I mean, I’m sure he didn’t help me any but he didn’t do all the work. I’ve had directors more involved.” You crunch up your nose, remembering. “One of them hated me because of my mom. He had a crush on her and she wouldn’t go with him. I think he’s the reason I have a problem with authority.”

He breathes out through his nose and slaps his hand softly against your thigh, laughing. “For what it’s worth, I do not think you’re terribly fucked up. Just a normal amount, no worse than the best of the most successful. Hell,” he continues, “Maybe even a little better than them.”

You sink back into the sofa, feeling the room move beneath your eyelids. “Dieter, I’m so high,” you whine.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“I can’t talk anymore,” you say. “My brain wants me to say things I shouldn’t.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Like what?”

You groan. “Sentences I’ve already said, just worded differently.” The sincerity of your words makes him laugh — so heartily you squeeze his forearm in appreciation. It touches you everywhere, with your chest against his back like this.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, “Just close your eyes and I’ll keep talking.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge him.

But he doesn’t keep talking. The two of you fall asleep right there in your quiet contentment. You enjoy the peace that comes from soul purging confessions.

—

Tuesday afternoon and he’s still with you. It’s a record, almost. If there hadn’t been that five night stint you had pulled together during one particularly lonely holiday weekend two years ago, this would be the longest you’ve ever seen him. It’s certainly the longest you’ve been together and not had sex.

The pungent, sour-sweet smell of marijuana invades your home, clings to your clothes, and makes you feel like the love-sick, abandoned teenager you were at 17. It’s been a long, long time since then, but there’s a quality about Dieter that puts you back there. Tempting as it is to blame on his perpetual immaturity, you know it’s more to do with your own lack of control. The world spins and you spin with it—a fact that you’ve still yet to gulp down bravely and accept—and Dieter merely reminds you of it.

He thumbs through your record collection while you sip gingerly at a Coke on the couch. Under his breath, he whispers the title of albums that have made up your life, ignorant to just how intimate the act really is. Dieter sees a plethora of intricately organized vinyls and you see half your life; it is a collection made up of poor decisions, lovers’ gifts, and tokens of another life. He plucks out a Rolling Stones album and puts it on the spin table.

Domesticity threatens to choke you for a second before Dieter looks in your direction, sloppy grin on his face. “Let It Bleed,” he says, heading in your direction. “It has You Can’t Always Get What You Want at the end. I think it’s better this way, too, because you have to work for it.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes the Coke out of your hands and steals a sip, voice plugged with passion as he says, “Nowadays you can just listen to a song whenever you want but used to, you had to sit through the whole album. We’re losing the art of the music album because people don’t do that anymore.”

You take your Coke back and shake your head. “That’s not true. After David Bowie died, vinyls became popular again. Albums are very much still in.”

“So maybe they are.” He shrugs. “Regardless, I think they’re better this way. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I just want to listen to one song.”

He lays his head on the back of the couch, pouting out his bottom lip in consideration. “You’re angry with me,” he surmises after a moment.

You frown. “No.”

“You’re something with me, and it’s certainly not pleased.”

“I was just saying my opinion.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No.”

“I can’t quite reach you in there—“ he points to your head “—so if you want me to do something, or say something, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you tell him evenly. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t,” you repeat, trying to soften out your features. “I’m feeling…I don’t know. Awkward. You don’t stick around this long and I guess it’s making me feel odd. Especially because you haven’t touched me.”

“Ah,” he says, straightening himself. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“Have I ever denied you?”

“No, but I figured you might like to know I don’t mind seeing you with your clothes on too.” He offers you a kind smile and his fingers reach out and intertwine loosely with a few of yours. This is completely uncharted territory that makes your heart beat ferociously against your chest.

You tug him closer and he comes, his body leaning into yours as your lips meet. The shirt he wears is slightly too big on him, and the fabric brushes against your stomach as you open your legs to make room for him. His fingers press into your hips, positioning you beneath him, and you open your lips slightly, permitting him access.

For lack of a better word, you think: Homecoming. But it isn’t. This isn’t home. This is Dieter Bravo, page six, Mr. Half His Age. You smile against his lips and he pulls back. “What?” he says, smiling too. You feel his breath on your face, warm, and you lean up to press your lips to his again. “Nothing,” you tell him, knowing the joke won’t be funny.

He doesn’t seem to mind, allowing himself to be swayed away by the suggestive rock of your hips. He leverages himself with a hand on the back of the couch, and you pull him down, further and further, latching your legs around his waist. He is warm, burning, and as you deepen the kiss, you can feel the way he grows hard above you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, nodding his head up, disconnecting the two of you. Your lips feel rubbed raw, bruised, but you want more. He grunts softly when you press yourself into his cock and you look at each other for one dizzying second. Then he is kissing the underside of your jaw, his large hand palming your covered breast.

You try desperately to figure out how to shed the layers of clothing that separate you but he is quicker on his feet, pushing the college shirt you wear up above your stomach. He puts it behind your head, pinning your arms up. You watch as he licks down your chest, warm tongue flattening between the valley of your breasts. Then his breath ghosts over the nipples he exposes, his long, thick fingers pulling down the fabric of your bra quickly, desperate, hungry. He takes one in his mouth and you squeal.

Dieter isn’t usually patient. He fucks for leisure but never really revels in it for too long, so it surprises you when he licks  down the rest of your body, swirling his tongue above the place where the band of your sleep shorts begins. You raise your hips for him and he sheds another layer, but again, just barely. Leaving you in your underwear, he worships you on the way back up, kissing your ankle, your calf, the inside of your thigh, even the place where your thigh meets your cunt. His fingers dig, eager to find skin full enough to grip; breasts and thighs, your hips, your ass when you respond to the hot breath that cascades over your cotton covered cunt.

He presses his hot mouth to you, underwear still in the way, and that’s it, you're ablaze and you are starved, crammed full of lust with an appetite that knows no bounds. You want to bare yourself to him—to spread yourself wide right there, and let him into the wetness of your cunt while you whisper dirty things into his ear. His words from yesterday echo in your mind — I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done — and you think God, that’s it. The pulse point, the center, the raw and unbridled truth. You tear one another apart and it is tender, trusting. You’ve been getting him wrong. Over a decade and yet you’ve miscalculated it all.

He slips aside the fabric of your underwear, licks you, finds you wet and wanting. You are dripping. You feel it, know that his eager tongue is only adding to what his mere presence has caused.

That other man, he was lovely, young, flexible, all calloused hands and the taste of reckless mystery you thought you needed, but Dieter is ritual to you, like waves slapping against the rocks or the slow, inevitable spin of the planet around the sun. It happens and yet the sheer ferocity of the change it brings leaves you shocked. He is the taste of half smoked tobacco, the sweetness of a stolen sip of Coke, the warmth of an almost-orgasm rushing to your head.

His lips are coated with your slick, glossy beneath the warm living room light, but he doesn’t seem to care. He bites down on his bottom lip, pressing the pad of his finger to your entrance. Watching with heavy lidded eyes, he finds it in himself to smirk.

“Dieter,” you pant out, not taking your eyes away.

“You want it?” he growls, voice low and lust-filled. “Beg.”

You don’t hesitate. “Please. Fuck Dieter. Please.”

He sinks it in and the sound of your cunt welcoming him makes you both groan. It’s so deliciously obscene, the entirety of it. Your brain sputters, confused and overwrought, and you think: oh, I would never deny you anything. Never. Never.

His finger curls inside of you and his thumb presses down on your clit, focused and determined, the evidence found in the way his forehead crinkles. You note, even in this state, the way the front of his sweatpants tent and a dark spot where he’s leaked forms. He’s not wearing underwear and his finger is in you, above you, on you. You are warm, a beautiful burning thing around his thick finger. He enters another, says, “Fuck, you are so wet. Look at you.”

You shudder beneath him, a wordless moan escaping as you grip his tattooed wrist. The orgasm wracks through you, leaving you panting, pulling at his hand. So fitting - so ironic - that this is where he would mark himself with the symbol for femininity. Mother nature. That hollow triangle, pointed in the direction of you, sister to the darkened one pointing at him on the other forearm. That one means sun, masculine. They are earthly and complex, harmonic and just right.

Dieter puts his fingers flat on your tongue and you suck your own juices off of him, acidic - sour-sweet. He watches for a moment before he replaces them with his own tongue. There’s more of you there. As you work his sweats below his hips, dragging the fabric across his sensitive cock, he groans deep and you drink it up, hungry for more.

When he pushes into you, he does so with such ease, your body allowing him to sink into you like you’re his home, the missing half. It’s too romantic of a notion for you to carry in real life but somehow, like this, it fits. You crave the truth of it. As he rolls his hips into yours, deep as he can, you pull his shirt over his head and cover his lazy, soft lips with your own. You breathe each other in more than you kiss, bottom lips connected, top lips flirting, and tongues meeting each other as he seats himself fully inside of you.

Dieter is thick, makes you feel full in a decidedly feminine way as grinds himself against you. You clench around him, fingers thrusting into the skin of his back. He nuzzles into your neck, presses wet kisses to the sensitive skin.

You bury your hands in his sexed-up hair, let your body wrap entirely around his frame as he finds a rhythm inside of you. A soft flow of up and down, in and out, lacking ferocity but conveying a desperate need. He drags his cock through you, pierces you with it, and you take it gratefully, eyes shut and senses flooded. When nibble on his ear, you taste the metallic of his lone earring and his breath grows more ragged. “You feel so fucking good,” you whimper, voice high, “I feel you—I feel you everywhere. God your cock—you make me so fucking wet.”

You kiss him fully on the mouth again. Everything feels taut, moments away from being over, and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist. You are one, a complete thing. Then he is pulling you apart before you know it, the twitch of his cock happening precariously inside of you. But he knows himself, well enough to pull out just in time, spilling his warm seed across the canvas of your exposed belly. A wordless sob escapes him and you reach out to hold the forearm he’s moved to the back of the couch again.

This is when it ends, the place where the two of you separate, go your own ways. He will hand you a tissue, wrestle out a pathetic ‘thank you’ or ‘see you later’ and the illusion will be broken–

“Do you mind if I spend another night with you?” he says, chest rising and falling. He sits back on his knees, looking at the milky white substance on you with a mixture of curiosity and fascination. He fingers it and you take it, bringing it to your lips. Dieter offers a lopsided grin, that dimple of his showing again.

“What’s mine is yours or whatever,” you echo his previous words, smiling too.

“That means a lot,” he says.

“More than you know,” you agree, “So don’t fuck it up.”

He presses his lips to your knee, the silence deafening, but you trust him despite it. This is different. He is different. He has to be. Please, you plead silently, running your hands through his hair again, Don’t ruin this for me.

He catches your eyes, smiles softly. “I won’t.”

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

The Uncanny Valley: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Summary: Therapy isn't something you're taking too well, but if you want to keep your job, you'll continue to go. you're forced to confront thoughts and memories of your own family when you come across the father of the unsub.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Season Five Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

x

"Anything you cannot relinquish when it has outlived its usefulness, possesses you. And in this materialistic age, a great many of us are possessed by our possessions." - Mildred Lisette Norman

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The clock is the only thing in the therapist's office that can be heard. You arrived half an hour ago but you haven't said a damn word. You look worse than last week. You have more bags under your eyes, your hair is greasy from not washing it in a week, and you look like you've been through Hell. Melissa has been taking this at your pace but if you don't start talking soon, she'll have to go to the FBI and report this.

"Would you like to take a nap?"

"If I close my eyes, I'll start to see things I wish I didn't."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

Maybe something good will come out of you telling her your problems. If you're going to be here, may as well give it a shot.

"My nightmares get pretty bad. I'm even waking my boyfriend and he barely gets enough sleep as it is."

"Nightmares about what? Prison?"

"No. I think--"

You stop yourself from finishing that sentence.

"Go on, what do you think?" she encourages.

"Being in prison wasn't as bad as it could have been. Sure, there were one or two prisoners that weren't the best, but it could have been worse. I made a friend who's still in there for a crime she didn't commit," you sigh.

"Are you using her trauma and taking it as your own?"

"No. I knew I wasn't going to be in prison for long because I didn't murder those men. I knew my team would get me out of there. I also know either my team or myself will help my friend get out. She doesn't deserve to be in there any more than I did. I'm not worried about that and I don't think was ever worried about that."

"Tell me, then, what's bothering you."

"The problem with being in a place with hundreds of mentally ill and psychotic people is that I felt everything. Some of those women were murderers, robbers, and arsonists, and I felt everything," you whisper painfully. 

"All of their fear, their concerns, their worries, and their sadness. Every emotion perceived to be negative, I felt. There was no happiness. There was no light in all of that darkness. I got bombarded with energy and I think it's still stuck to me because I can still feel it. Their fear is fueling my own. Every time I close my eyes, I think I'm going to wake up back in that cell and relive that nightmare. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that car with those four men only this time, it's one. It might have only been one back then. I don't know anymore," you cry.

Melissa grabs her tissue box and hands it to you. You hate feeling this way. You hate that you're even here, but you know you have to be. If you want to get better, and you know you do, then you have to be honest with her and accept that she's only trying to help.

"You were raped at such a young age. The mind has a weird way of protecting the person. You might have projected four men from that one because of how scared you were."

"It happened such a long time ago. I've made my peace with it. I've met my daughter because of it. I'm having visions in the day about it. I came to terms with it so I don't know why I keep having nightmares about it."

"Your body might have been exhaled from it but your mind hasn't."

"You know, I used to let people's fear control me, but I've grown and gotten over that. Now, I feel people's pain but it doesn't control me. Until I went to prison and all that growth, all that learning just went away."

"If the energies and emotions were as high as you say they were, that might have triggered something in your brain and caused you to go backward a few steps."

"What do I do?" you cry.

"I don't suggest this to all of my clients but Image Rehearsal Therapy might help you. What it is, essentially, is rewriting your nightmares and confronting them head-on instead of avoiding them. It'll help reduce your nightmares, insomnia, and with your trauma symptoms.

"The four steps with IRT are writing down your nightmares and getting them on paper, rewriting them so they either have happier endings or have a better outcome, inducing the intention to redream these now rewritten nightmares before falling asleep, and repeat until you no longer fear them.

"You don't have to do this with all of your nightmares so choose a few core ones that really bother you and we take these steps one nightmare at a time. If done correctly, you'll start to notice fewer nightmares until there are no more," she explains.

"I've done this before. Can you believe I used to have nightmares as a child? I even have two journals filled with rewritten dreams."

"How did that work for you then?"

"It worked at that time. I got so used to seeing those bad things that I wasn't afraid anymore."

"I think this might work now but in order for it to work properly, you need to be doing this every day. Even if you manage to write two sentences. Every day, you need to be writing in those journals and reprogramming your brain into chasing those fears off."

"Okay, I'll try," you nod.

You leave your morning appointment with a slight headache. You get to work to see everyone else already there. Spencer greets you with a kiss and takes your bag from you. He would have waited for you after your appointment but he was playing a game of chess in the park. You told him it was alright to go on without you which is why you two are just now meeting here for the first time today.

"How was chess?" you smile tiredly.

"Riveting. How was therapy?"

Your bottom lip trembles at the thought of having to relive that session. You see Hotch and Rossi in the briefing room and clear your throat.

"The team's waiting up there."

He understands your desire to not want to talk about it, and he's not going to force you. If you ever feel safe enough to tell him, he'll listen but those sessions are for you to heal on your own. He'll help in any way he can which you appreciate. He's been so patient since you got out of prison. You'll honestly never find anyone better than him.

Hotch is abc as the permanent unit chief for the team. Strauss must have granted him his privileges back, and Derek had no problem stepping down to let Hotch back in the place he belonged.

"Rita Stuart, twenty-five, is the second victim in Atlantic City."

JJ puts a picture up on the screen of Rita. She was found dead in a cart on a merry-go-round wearing a blue dress.

"That's a pretty public spot for a dump site."

"Technically, I think it would qualify more as a disposal site. You don't leave a body on a merry-go-round out of convenience."

"He took some time with her appearance, didn't he?" Emily asks.

"Yeah. Her nails were polished, her hair was cut, and her clothes were brand-new. He wanted her to look her best when found. That's a lot of remorse."

"Who is victim number one?" Hotch asks.

"Stacia Jackson, twenty-nine." Stacia's picture is of her found at a playground sitting on the swings. "She was found at a local playground."

"That's a change in victimology."

Rita was a white red-headed girl and Stacia was a young black woman. That's a huge jump in picking out victims.

"What's the connection between these women?"

"There is none. Rita was married and Stacia was single. Rita worked at a diner and Stacia was a corporate lawyer. According to their credit cards, they never came within ten miles of each other."

"Both women were taken two months ago?"

"Yeah, they lived such completely different lives. The police didn't tie their abduction together until now."

"Was there any evidence of sexual assault?"

"No, there wasn't even any evidence of violence."

"How did they die?"

"Rita had a stroke and Stacia had a brain hemorrhage."

"Look at this," Spencer says as he is looking through the files, "the unsub gave them a battery of drugs like Atracurium and Doxacurium. These are neural inhibitors. They block signals from the brain to the muscles."

"He put them in medical comas for two months?" JJ gasps.

"Actually, they weren't in a coma. You'd need phenobarbital to keep them unconscious and they didn't have that."

"Wait, these victims were paralyzed but were still conscious?"

"Yeah. They could open their eyes, hear, and probably even feel stimulation. Physical immobility but mental awareness. This unsub wants total domination over them, and he turns their bodies into prisons to do it."

"Wheels up in twenty," Hotch declares.

The team shuffles out of the room but you stay behind so it's just you two.

"Hey, first, welcome back," you smile. "I'm sure you heard that Derek made me go to therapy but he's not unit chief anymore--"

"You're still going," Hotch says and leaves the room.

You sigh in frustration and watch your team from the window. This is gonna suck. You arrive at the plane at the same time as everyone else and pick up the conversation you left behind in the briefing room.

"Keeping women in a conscious paralysis reads as sadism. It's definitely dehumanizing by reducing them to objects, but there's nothing else about this profile that takes us down that path."

"These women were found in excellent condition. There was no evidence of bed sores and they were well fed through an IV," JJ says.

"His access to IVs and drugs makes it almost certain he has medical training."

"Are we sure this is a he?" you ask. "The care this unsub shows these victims, although they are dehumanized, says female."

"What about the postmortem posing? That's a lot of dead weight for a woman to carry."

So? Is he implying women can't be strong enough to carry someone? Don't get ahead of yourself, Y/N. He's not directing it to you. No one is out to get you. Calm down.

"These women are petite. They're under a hundred pounds."

"Okay, if we reconsider the gender of the profile, what changes?"

"Nothing. If anything, it fits better. Men kill to fulfill a sexual compulsion. Women don't. You see this in Angel of Mercy killers like Genene Jones and Amy Archer. They didn't care about race or hair color. It's men that do."

Penelope logged onto video chat right before Spencer had time to finish talking. She heard the last sentence he said and agreed completely.

"Damn straight men do."

Derek looks at her and he is shocked to see she is sporting red hair.

"Hello, Red. Look at you. Guys, look at her."

He turns the computer so everyone can see her, and she gives a big smile. She's beautiful but you keep quiet while everyone praises her for her looks. It's hard to find the energy to care about a lot of things these days. Is that depression or just plain anxiety? You're not sure anymore.

"Garcia, what did you find out about the clothing the unsub's dressing the victims in?" Hotch asks, getting everyone back on track.

"Only that both garments were made from chiffon, but with the wonder twin powers of the Atlantic City Police and my impeccable eye for fashion, we have also determined that these garments fit ridiculously well. They're super flattering to each victim's exact measurements, kind of exactly like the unsub whipped them up herself."

"Maybe that's what connects the victims. Maybe she isn't just killing petite women because they're easier to abduct and pose, but because of a physical type. She wants a body type. She could be sewing these clothes for specific women."

"Please tell me she is not killing these women because she needs human models," JJ sighs. "I mean, there's gotta be more to it than that."

"There probably is, but we at least have a start on the victimology."

"Prentiss and Morgan, I want you to interview the victims' families. Talk to them about lifestyle choices and any body image issues these women may have had." Hotch looks at Spencer only to notice he is holding your hand. He knows you're having trouble and decides it's best if he keeps you with Spencer for the time being. "Reid, take Y/N and go to Rita's autopsy. See if the drugs point to any specific medical training the unsub might have had. Dave and I will go to the disposal site. Garcia, I want you to check missing persons reports for the last two months. See if any abductions match what we know. We need to find out if the unsub's already taken another victim."

You have a bit of time to relax before the plane lands, and Spencer kisses your head to silently let you know he is here with you. You lean your head on his shoulder and take comfort where you can when you can.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[sketch-guardian]

(Forgive me for the word vomit and feel free to ignore this:)!)

The RAD classmates (all) having a very vivid Nightmare about Mc dieing in their arms or by their hands for an unknown reason being small nightmares that don’t effect them until they get the full nightmare watching themselves or some other demon kill/injure Mc them waking up unsure wether or not the nightmare was real or fake since it felt to real the weight and warmth of Mc’s body and the feeling of their body going cold their eyes glazing over as they mumbled saying “I’m sorry and it’s okay….” The anxiety of the possibility of them being the cause of death overwhelming them,Of course Mc is alive and well and notices the changes in them due to the nightmares,that or they immediately go over to Mc’s needing check they’re alive,Mc is asleep in their room when this happens or awake eating snacks and watching movies idk you choose! :) (small nightmares in the counting weeks as in small glimpses of what’s happening until they get the full picture of what happened Angel and demon classmates whichever demon classmates killing/injury Mc in the nightmare and angle classmates watching a random demon do it idc you choose!! So sorry for the word vomit!!)

Don't worry, it isn't a problem☺it can be helpful for writing🤷🏻in any case, I'll try my best with these headcanons, hoping they turn out good enough🙈based on the OCs' major fears, I made the nightmares different, I hope that's okay✨if such themes make you uncomfortable, please don't read:

"RAD CLASSMATES+NEW EXCHANGE STUDENTS HAVING NIGHTMARES ABOUT MC DYING"

TRIGGER WARNING: character death, blood, violence, murder, cannibalism, madness, suicidal thoughts, eating disorders, heavy themes in general

DEMYA

Demya would have a fairly recurring dream about MC, a nightmare in which she would play as the monster, having committed the carnage, albeit not on purpose. In fact, one of Demya's greatest fears is of one day losing her lucidity and the control of her actions due to hunger, finding herself committing acts that she would bitterly regret, such as hurting MC. The thought of regaining consciousness and finding her hands soaked in blood, not just any but MC's, while they lay on the ground motionless, so wounded, almost unrecognizable...it would be to much to bear and it would be one of the few times in which, despite being full, Demya would really like to throw up, nauseated both by the sight and by herself, while desperately trying to revive MC, crying and shouting that she's sorry, that she didn't do it on purpose and that if they woke up, she would stop eating or even wear a muzzle despite her traumatic childhood short stint in a circus freakshow, but MC would remain lifeless. Once awoken from the nightmare in a cold sweat, Demya would immediately run to find her mate, needing to confirm that it was just a bad dream, ignoring the fact that by doing so, she would wake MC in the middle of the night. Once confirmed, a trembling Demya would burst into tears, hugging MC tightly and nuzzling herself against them while sobbing, asking for forgiveness and promising that she would never do such a thing. Demya would need to sleep beside MC that night, amidst their scent and warmth, to calm down. In the following days MC might notice Demya either eating with more difficulty or gorging herself to avoid having hunger at any cost, as if she feared her nightmare would become reality. MC would need to comfort Demya a little before she comes back to her senses

DOMNRA/MOBIM

The nightmares Domnra has are mostly memories of his fall from the Celestial Realm, in which he not only received scars, one of which left him blind in one eye, but was also cursed, resulting in his soul splitted in two, of which the other half belongs to Mobim. In fact, Domnra and Mobim, although they've different personalities, share the same soul and have a sort of telepathic bond, so it's no surprise that most of the time they also share the same dreams. Domnra's nightmare would consist in a probable return of the angel who punished him, as if apparently he didn't suffer enough for his sins and therefore to make Domnra learn the lesson once and for all and make him regret his betrayal for eternity, they would cast a curse on MC, but different from his own, painful, atrocious, incurable, to the point that in order to put MC out of they misery, Domnra would be forced to kill them out of pity or watch them die, despite how much he tried to save them. After such an irreparable gesture, Domnra would consider ending his life to reach MC, wherever they are, seeing it as the one and only solution not only to return to his partner, but also to stop suffering. Once he realizes that it was all just a nightmare, Domnra would have some trouble calming his labored breath, while Mobim, also in tears having shared the same dream, would try to comfort Domnra with trembling squeaks and small pats. Domnra wouldn't want to disturb in the middle of the night, but he would try to call MC's phone to ask if he can come over to spend the night, without too many explanations. Once with MC in his arms, Domnra would let out a few silent tears and gnash his teeth, while Mobim would be in the middle, still scared and in tears. MC's perception would be enough to understand what happened. In the following days, MC may notice Domnra being more protective and Mobim more clingy

AZUL

Azul has nightmares more often than he would like to admit and they usually concern the day his mind twisted and he completely lost control for a few minutes, risking hurting even his friends, i.e. the day he fell from grace. Azul is aware that he's quite unstable mentally and that his mood changes quite often, but it has been a long time since he has shown such a homicidal madness due to a mental breakdown and he would prefer it not to happen again, since the first time it happened, he risked harming Domnra too, if Zuri hadn't intervened in time. Azul's nightmare would probably consist of losing control and watching, as an external witness, himself murdering MC without being able to do anything to stop it. Only once he came to his senses, with MC's cold lifeless body in his arms, Azul would sob in an ugly way, apologizing and begging MC to come back to him, even if they hated him and decided to leave him, Azul would prefer that instead of losing MC like that, because nothing would matter anymore without them. Having woken up quite suddenly, once he realized it was just a nightmare, Azul would let out a few wet chuckles with his head in his hands, before going out and checking on MC. Azul would know that lying would be useless, since his colors would expose him, but still, after entering MC's room through the walls, he would ask in a quiet and tired tone if they can spend the night together. MC would need to reassure Azul before he feels like speaking more openly and they would notice that in the following days, Azul would seem less enthusiastic than usual

ZURI

Zuri doesn't dream very often, perhaps due to the fact that her mind is often too busy with work and plans, as the perfectionist she is in everyday life. If she were to get a nightmare with MC as the subject, however, Zuri would probably dream that some demon, just for the twisted pleasure of wronging her, would harm MC, leaving disturbing traces behind, as if to mock Zuri, until she finds them, when it's already too late. The idea of ​​not having been efficient and fast enough to find MC and having failed to care for her beloved, letting the demon reduce them to such a poor state, would leave Zuri distraught, who would once again be reminded that she is a failure and unable to defend those dear to her, like some of her fallen angel friends, who looked up to her, even though she was just as broken, trying to hide it. With MC's body in her arms, that would be one of the few times Zuri would lose her composure...how could she have let something like that happen? If only she had been more careful, if only she had been a better companion, perhaps MC would still be there with her, to remind her that the weight of the world does not rest on her shoulders, even if at that moment, it felt like it. After realizing it was a nightmare, Zuri would start working compulsively, trying to distract herself, but the slight tremor in her hands wouldn't help her frustration. Zuri would only wait until the next morning to visit MC, initially not inclined to show her vulnerable side, but in private MC could extort from Zuri a solemn speech. In the following days, MC would notice that Zuri would try to be slightly more loving and spend more time together

ODON

Odon almost never dreams, because after all, as an ancient eldritch being, they don't really need to sleep and if they attempted to, it would be solely due to a personal choice, perhaps to experience what it feels like to rest and completely disconnect their brain for once, even Odon's eye-like creatures would try taking naps, lying on pillows. Odon's most intimate and profound fear would be of becoming "bored" again and risking returning to their old past habits, as if they had missed hearing screams of agony and getting rid of anyone who stands in their way, without a shred of emotion, pity or remorse for anyone, not even for their dear friend MC. In the nightmare, Odon's fear would be to see themselves, after committing a genocide, leaving MC for last, after taking out all their friends, those who had put their trust in Odon and who they had now disappointed. The worst thing would be that in the nightmare, MC would even excuse Odon's actions, saying that everything would be alright, as they took their last breath, and past Odon, the one they don't want to be again, although they don't regret their old choices, wouldn't have felt anything seeing MC dead on the ground. Odon, once awake from the nightmare, would seem quiet calm, albeit with a tense smile, while the eye-like creatures would be the most obviously agitated, with their eyes shining with unshed tears as they floated around in an uncoordinated manner. It's likely that Odon wouldn'f feel like sharing the nightmare and if MC managed to get them to talk about it, Odon wouldn't go into details, the only thing they would need is MC's closeness. Over the next few days, MC would notice the eye-like creatures staring and following them around more often

REMIEL

Remiel doesn't sleep much and as a result her naps are often devoid of meaningful dreams. Although apparently apathetic and gloomy, Remiel has a fairly sensitive soul, so it's natural that although she doesn't show it, even the angel of death has worries, some of which even became true during her long life, for example, failing to redeem and save a corrupted angel. As for the nightmare, Remiel would dream of something that is actually very close to reality and that she wouldn't be able to avoid, no matter how much it weighs on her heart, that is, MC's death, whether natural or premature. The most painful thing would be precisely that, as an angel of death, it would be Remiel's duty to accompany MC into the afterlife, not wanting to behave selfishly and think she can keep their soul to herself, as her father Death once did with the souls of the nephilim for a short time. The thought of having to say goodbye to MC and never see them again would leave a void inside Remiel that she wouldn't be able to put into words and, touching her cheeks, she would realize she was crying, understanding firsthand what souls feel when she's forced to distance them from their loved ones...Remiel would be hesitant to let MC go, but for their sake and eternal rest, she would give them one last embrace, as her halo would glow less brighter and wings droop. Once awake, Remiel would hug her knees to herself and hide between her feathery wings like in a cocoon, needing a moment to clear her mind, if truly bothered, she would ask for advice either from her father Death or from her mother Azrael (Remiel has no need to check if MC is alive, she feels their soul). The next day, since Remiel still remains a sincere, genuine and blunt angel, she would tell MC about her nightmare, gazing at them with her precious baby blue eyes. They would then share a soft embrace, in which Remiel would quietly cry, lulled by MC's heartbeat. Over the next few days, MC would notice Remiel trying to share and learn more earthly experiences with them

NATHANIEL

Nathaniel usually has fairly peaceful dreams, of breathtaking, endless landscapes to explore, but there are rare occasions where his mental peace is disturbed by macabre thoughts. A likely nightmare that Nathaniel would have about MC would also concern the council of the Celestial Realm. In Nathaniel's nightmare, his relationship with MC would be disapproved of by his angel superiors and therefore drastic measures would be taken to prevent Nathaniel from distracting himself from his celestial duty, such as letting MC die, while Nathaniel could do nothing except observe, like a pawn, in the grand scheme of things, unable to react, because the Celestial Realm has decided so, to remind Nathaniel what happens to those who decide to love a human, therefore to avoid him Lilith's fate, they took matters into their own hands. In the nightmare, Nathaniel would feel paralyzed and for once in his life he would even want to shout in order to stop such madness, but it would be as if he were breathless, as if someone else was controlling his body. Upon awakening from the nightmare, the memory of MC's lifeless body would disturb Nathaniel and he would need to meditate for a long time before being able to calm down. It's likely that Nathaniel won't reveal what's bothering him the next day and would simply appear more affectionate towards MC

URIEL

Uriel mainly dreams of memories of the celestial war or more recent battles, so the nightmares alternate with dreams of glorious victory and shower of merits. Uriel's nightmare would probably manifest itself through one of her fears, that is, MC being killed by a demon and her arriving too late to save them or getting carried away with making the demon culprit pay and not immediately helping MC. In any case, having MC's corpse, so fragile and bloodied in her powerful arms, would be devastating for Uriel, who would beg MC to wake up, to be strong and more quietly not to leave her. Uriel would also pray to God and ask in frustrated tears why he has forsaken her and isn't helping her, whether it is some kind of test or whether it is a punishment to remind Uriel how she too has let some of her companions fall into the celestial war. Uriel has always followed the rules and has always been loyal, but in that moment her beliefs would falter, not finding it fair for an innocent soul like MC to end up like this. After waking up with a start from the nightmare, Uriel would head to MC in the middle of the night and, just to check if they are alright, would kick down their door. Tensed, Uriel would try to explain that she had only come to check because she had a bad feeling and that it would be better if she stayed, for MC's safety. Uriel wouldn't go into details, but she would promise MC that no one would hurt them again, not on her watch. Over the next few days, MC would notice Uriel standing close to them like a scary bodyguard

[druidshollow]

who's the iterator with the shelter symbol on their head? 👀

*whips around and evil grins at the camera* TIME FOR A CANOPY POST

sheltering canopy | #862, gen 3 | she/her

(im gonna be talking about off string canopy mostly because she doesn't really do anything yet in the canon adjacent story!!! all the like. personal info and stuff is consistent tho)

of course. as always. since this is canopy's first time around. fast facts.

sheltering canopy is part of the far north group, a local group adjacent to corners!

far north consisted (in order of construction) of eleven rivers, untold odyssey, one wish for all, four falling phrases, and finally sheltering canopy. when rivers' first admin went to the void sea and was eventually replaced with flowers, flowers proposed and helped construct the twins and separated the far north group into two groups.

odyssey was made group senior overseeing wish and canopy, and phrases was made senior overseeing rivers and the twins.

shortly after the mass ascension, wish caught the rot, and some time after that the Gift was released and odyssey received dev status. unfortunately wish's rot was too extreme so they couldn't save her, but odyssey was able to reach canopy and make her a mobile puppet so they could travel south together!

they are heading south because *static sounds here* (there is something that LOTS of iterators are travelling towards, havent decided if its like. a commune or new society or something but whatever i decide is where these guys are heading). unfortunately, the only way south from far north is through the great north divide (a large mountain range), which is perilous and frigid. keeping warm is hard and securing water is even harder. rivers and phrases climbed the range and went above (pink path), where canopy and odyssey (cyan path) moved through a ravine called the west chasm (more water and warmth than going above, but also lots more carnivores)

the divide is a difficult journey but once youve reached the other side, the real threat rears its head. across the mountains from the far north group is the civilizing divide group, a group consisting of 13 iterators, most notably their senior and older sister, adamant dune.

i think we all know who dune is by now, lmao canopy and odyssey almost reached the other side of dune's territory without even understanding the danger they were in, but the group caught up with them last moment. by the time canopy and odyssey reach this point, phrases and rivers have already long escaped and dune had thrown hollow space out. she was especially dangerous at this point, angry and grieving and now without her voice of reason.

a mystery group (who i currently know very very little about) jumps in at the last moment and saves odyssey, leaving canopy behind having seen her injuries and knowing there's no coming back from a killing blow like that.

but canopy miraculously survives the wound dune inflicts on her, and instead of just trying again, dune takes canopy in to her group in exchange for canopy to help them retrieve cells. they tell canopy that they murdered odyssey.

dune in no way treats canopy like family like she does the rest of her group. she makes canopy help with murder and has little to no regard for her wellbeing or feelings. canopy collapses in on herself amongst the violence shes being made to commit and the cruelty she's facing. she becomes quiet, introspective and numb. it reminds dune of hollow space, which just makes her disdain for canopy stronger.

i sketched this freaky comic of dune making canopy murder someone, you can see it if u promise not to look at the arms for more than 0.5 seconds lmao

she goes by the name shelter with dune and co.

ok its 12:30 pm on a work night and i gotta wake up at 6 so thats all from me for now. ill save her and odyssey's reunion for another time!!! the payoff is huge you guys have no idea but i promise they end up together again

[halosdiary]

Tsubaki | Rōnin!Toji series | 呪術廻戦

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

Summary: Toji Fushiguro is a ronin denouncing the Zen'in name. The clan did not take too kindly to being humiliated and decided to set him up.

Word count: 733

Contains: Violence, Gore, Sexual themes of some sort.

a rōnin was a samurai who had no lord or master and in some cases, had also severed all links with his family or clan.

The ronin was being displayed for all to see, beatened and bloody facing the death penalty for the murder of his late wife. A murder he never committed. It was all a blur, one minute he was happy married with his wife and newborn son. The next moment, his son was crying and wailing in his room, while he screamed at his wife's lifeless body.

"Please, wake up!" He shouted, tapping her cold cheek.

"My love, you have to wake up, please. I'm begging you." He hugged her body and cried silently into her body. 

"Don't leave me..."

He gently lied her body down as he heard multiple footsteps coming this way. He felt numb, and could not move his body what so far to defend himself. All he could wonder was, why? Why her of all people? Still numb, he didn't even know he was already on the ground. He blinked for a second and he saw a crowd of people. A man above him with a kitana and a wakizashi sword in front of him.

They were waitng for him to end it all. He is seeing his life flash before his eyes. All be can remember was that clan. That damned clan.

The Zen'in clan is the most "prestigious" family in all of Japan. They along with 2 other big families are responsible for keeping things in line for the country. All seemed well in the clan until it wasn't. A man born disgraced by his own clan. Not living up to the promises of his father, he chose the way of the ronin. He wasn't as lifted as his elder brother was, but still there was something about him like lacked Zen'in.

The man was in his own, no support from anyone. He soon fends for himself. He's done this for a long time,  untill he met his late wife, Himawari. She was the daughter of a local swordsmith. She'd seen him every now and then, give him some food, water and eventually shelter.

"So, do you have a name? Or should I call you the mysterious man?" Himawari giggled.

"It's not that important.." He dismissed the conversation.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." She offered.

"You're determined aren't you?" He asked Himawari. He chuckled a bit and looked at her.

"Toji."

It was all the ronin could think about, until he heard his son crying from a distance. It was when he immediately jerked himself back and frantically looked at the executioner and audience with those feral green eyes of his.

"What are you doing?! Stop him!" A man yelled out.

Toji dodged the executioner swings with his kitana. He gripped the wakizashi sword and jammed it to his juggler, slicing his neck. The crimson coming from the executioner's neck was coming out at a rapid rate as he fell before the people.

People were screaming and panicking as Toji jumped down from the stage, and walked over to the other men who were holding his son. He didn't say much to know they had something of his and he'd like it back. They didn't hesitant giving him his son back. Toji gently takes his son, and just walks off.

No one was stopping him after what he did to that executioner. They don't know whohe is or where he came from. But all they do know is, he's not someone to fuck with.

News about this ronin spread and it spread FAST, it even got to the place of pleasure, Yoshiwara. Other women whispered to themselves about the strange man.

"Did you hear?"

"He slit the executioner's neck and blood was EVERYWHERE!"

The whispers were everywhere, it was fascinating at first but now it was annoying. There was individual that was just looking in the mirror. They had the look of annoyance about this ronin guy. They checked if everything was settled for their shift.

"Alright Y/N." You said. "Let's get these shitty clients out the way today."

"Y/N! Let's go! We've got men out here for company!"

You frowned heavily at the yelling, and for some reason, you blame your family for putting you in this position.

"The next time I see my father, I'm slitting his throat."

TAGLIST: @ryomens-vixen @littlemochabunni @lowkeyremi @bleach-your-panties @blkkizzat @buttercupblu

[thesapphicdiaries]

an unhealthy obsession ;; ellie w. x abby a. x reader ;; pt. 1

and i'll get done for somethin' stupid like disturbance of the peace. | (ghostface au)

NOTES: this is entirely self indulgent tbh ,,, but fuck it !! we ball. future chapters will b linked here <3 reblg if u want to be tagged idk that's it. modern au btw. ellie might be a little ooc? for the sake of the au

TRIGGERS: murder but it happens offscreen + blackmail under the threat of violence n manipulation. there's also smoking wed

You'd be the first to admit your interests tended to ebb on morbid.

Maybe, you muse, it had to do with the source of your upbringing: Jackson. It was a stereotypical small town, where, cliché as it was, everybody knew everybody. The town's history was clean as a goddamn whistle. While places like Seattle— Abby's hometown— were a hotspot for crime due to the sheer amount of people making it slightly harder to get caught unless you were a goddamn idiot, with the close proximity of everyone within Jackson from Dina to Tommy Miller, any crime you could commit would be shut down by the local police force in a month at most.

At least— that was what you thought.

So, you indulged your macabre curiosity elsewhere: you binge watched slashers despite your parents' vehement protests and you researched the violent happenings that often took place outside your sheltered hometown. Hell, you'd even indulged in one of those stupid fucking murder mystery games with some of the allowance you'd managed to spare that wasn't spent on various branded paraphernalia... and the other kind, but nobody needed to know that.

You weren't exactly surprised at how others seemed to be creeped out by you: Friday the 13th wasn't exactly a commonplace interest. Even so, you'd managed to make a few close friends whom you considered enough to get you by.

You jolt as your locker slams shut beside your head, and Abby's cackling is all too familiar.

"Fuckin' dick," you groan, feigning your exasperation— you'd finished putting your stuff away, anyway. "What happened to 'hello'? 'How was your day, Y/N?'"

"Your day's always the same," Abby provides helpfully, and you roll your eyes. "You wake up, come to school, indulge the same 3 people—" Her, Ellie, and Dina— "in the same rotation of conversations until they leave, go home, get violently high, watch whatever weird slasher your fancying that night, and then go to bed."

You blink owlishly. "Got my schedule memorized down pat there, Abs. You been stalking me?" You smirk, playfully, but your brow arches when she falls suspiciously silent. "Uh... alright."

"Anyway, you're having a change of plans," Abby finally says, and your eyes widen as you pipe up to speak. "You'll still get violently high and watch a slasher, don't worry. You'll just be gracing me and Ellie with your company while you do." She finishes, and you fall silent.

'Alright," you mutter. "Do I get to pick the slasher, or are you gonna pick some cornball shit like Chopping Mall?" You huff. Abby begins to answer, but your phone suddenly chimes with a notification from your news app.

Local man found dead from apparent stabbing.

Your mouth falls open slightly as Abby reads the headline over your shoulder. You fail to notice her nervous expression.

"Huh," you mutter, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "Something interesting finally happened in this town. Neat."

-

The choice in film, much to your chagrin, was Chopping Mall. Fortunately, you were too far gone to care.

Your head lolled of the side of the bed, your back strewn across Ellie's legs as you barely manage to register the words spewing from her mouth as you take another hit from the blunt she'd rolled.

"I just don't get how you like these," she complains. "I mean, it's the same damn formula every time. Does it not get boring?"

"That's the pointtttt," you groan. "The more formulaic they are, the better. Sure, some newer takes can be good: but sticking to the classics is a good play. Better safe than sorry." You wave off her concerns.

"Well, look at this little flim critic," Ellie teases as she stares at Abby, who's staring blankly at the ceiling. You'd never fail to find her lower tolerance hilarious.

"I mean," you and Ellie wait patiently through Abby's long pause. "They're right. Formulaic can be good. Patterns are more predictable— easier to keep up." She says, and you notice her and Ellie share a look.

"But they can also suck," she hisses. "Because if you're predictable, it makes it easier to connect. Like, in these movies how they're always killing off dumb, blonde bimbos— you can tell they're all copying eachother." She complains. You squint at the both of them, but don't comment on the subject.

"There's no right answer," you shrug. "I just find the middle ground. Sure, it's predictable, and boring. But it's also the safe call to make. People criticize these movies, but they make fuckin' millions. The original ones get better reviews, but they end up falling flat in the box office."

You don't realize Ellie and Abby's argument isn't referring to movies in the slightest.

"You sound way too fuckin' smart for the both of us," Ellie says, and you snort.

"It's because I am," your eyes flash toward Ellie's clock. "Shit. I gotta go. Parents will kill me if I'm not home soon." You shoot upward, trying to adjust to your surroundings. You cannot come home looking high out of your fucking mind. "See you guys later."

You watch as the two of them give you a halfhearted wave, and once you shut the bedroom door, you chalk up the strange shuffling to... something you don't want to know, honestly.

You don't realize it's much worse than you thought.

-

You surmise the punishment for being late is slightly lesser than the punishment for coming home inebriated, so you take the risk to sober up in a nearby alley between a convenience store and a small restaurant.

The alley is lit up by string lights and decorated with a few benches— perfectly habitable, and it's not what scares you— what does set you on edge is the unchecked darkness of the forest beyond the alley.

You elect to ignore the unease in your stomach, instead taking a hearty swig of the water you'd bought from the convenience store before coming outside. The tension in your shoulders almost releases, then—

You hear a scream.

A bloodcurdling scream.

Every nerve in your body tells you to run the opposite direction of the plea for help, every goddamn slasher you've watched over the years telling you playing the hero always gets you killed, but it's not heroics that lead you toward the source of the noise.

It's that same morbid curiosity that gets you watching slashers in the first place.

The noises grow louder as you draw nearer, and your eyes widen as you stifle a gasp when you see the bloodied body of Nora lying at the feet of two masked killers. You sigh in relief when you realize the treeline obscures you from view, but the noise comes out far too loud.

It hits you just how fucked you are.

You've made a few essential mistakes in the laws of survival so far, but you're not stupid enough not to run: you make a mad dash, but in a sick (and ironic) twist of fate, you trip over your abandoned water bottle and wince as the solid trunk of a tree collides against with your head with a loud thunk.

Through the blurry haze that is your vision, you see the two killers standing right in front of you. You prepare for the worst, when—

"Y/N?"

Oh, shit.

"El?" You hear the panicked rambling of another woman. "Abs? What the FUCK!?"

You almost kick out when Abby covers your mouth with a gloved hand, but know better than to get violent with the woman twice your size with a fucking hunting knife to boot.

"Ellie, El, this is bad." Abby's voice is shaking. "What the Hell do we do, man?"

The forest falls painfully silent.

"Well," Ellie finally begins. "The best course of action? Kill the witness." You whimper, and mentally hit yourself for showing any vulnerability. "But," she continues. "On the other hand, I kind of like this one."

You will Abby to take her hand off your mouth with a pleading look.

"So," you hiss. "What's your plan, here? I don't have all night. Either get this over with and slit my throat or hurry the fuck up."

Ellie grins. "I've always liked that you were a little feisty, Y/N."

"I said," you grit your teeth. "Hurry up."

"Here's the deal, darling," Ellie tilts your chin up with the hilt of the knife. You look away. "You help us out. And we don't kill you." She wrenches your head forward, just enough to look her in the eyes. "You say no, or you rat us out," she mutters, lowly. "And we slit your throat. Deal?"

It hits you there's not a lot of options on the table. You glance over at Abby, clearly the more emotionally charged of the two, and wonder if you can bargain with her. But, you decide, she's probably just as crazy as Ellie or too scared to say no if her going along with this in the first place was any indication.

And, a darker part of you whispers, you wonder how it must feel, if they're willing to do such heinous things.

Finally, you assent with a shaky nod.

"Alright," you wrench your gaze away again.

"I'll help you."

WC: 1.5K

[storiesofsvu]

A Dangerous Game Ch 4

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, alcohol consumption, minor talk of CM type violence, smut, fingering, oral, face sitting, daddy kink. Sorry not sorry at how long this chapter is. LOL. A/N: Emily's taglist is now up to 50, so if you find that you're suddenly not being tagged it's simply because I haven't seen you interacting with fics at all or in my notifs (while i understand that yes, life is busy, we have things like school, work, families that take priority over reading/interacting, there are also people out there who fill out a taglist form and then are never heard from again) and i want to be able to tag the people who are actively reading things, or at least bookmarking them to read later kinda thing.

Emily woke up to the sound of her phone buzzing on the nightstand, her eyes scrunching as she tried to avoid it but knew it would likely wake you up if she didn’t silence it. To her surprise when she rolled over the hotel room was empty, the sheets on your bed tossed back and you were nowhere to be seen. Sitting up she swiped open the messages on her phone, discovering that you and Spencer had found a lead and were already down at the precinct starting to put things together despite the sun not even being up yet.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Emily nearly grumbled as she strode into the bull pen, making a beeline for the coffee and you let out a small laugh.

“I managed to knock over the entire toiletry shelf when I showered and you didn’t budge an inch, I assumed you needed the beauty sleep.” Your voice had half a tease in it and Emily did her best not to roll her eyes, “figured we’d loop you in once we had something.”

“Which we do.” Spencer cut in, gesturing toward the white board, his laptop open with Penelope on a video call on the spare desk.

“And?” Emily asked.

“Wilson was right about the bracelets.” Garcia began, “we looked through everything and we found one in the exact same colours in the first case with the name Lorelei embroidered into it. The girl’s name was Jessica and the parents don’t know and Lorelei, so y/n made the call to start looking at men who had lost a daughter or sister around the age and description of these girls.”

“The unsub had some kind of contact with every one of these girls before they were abducted.” Spencer explained, “he was using the bracelets to mark them, to make them feel safe, so they’d be easy to spot in a group.”

“Updates?” Emily glanced between the three of you right as the rest of the team finally came into the building, tuning into the conversation and settling into the area.

“I’m waiting on a couple of run throughs but I’ve got three names and addresses for you already.” Penelope replied, clacking away before the swoosh noise echoed through the speakers and everyone’s phone’s pinged, “good luck.” She shot a grin to the camera before it went to black and the rest of you turned to each other.

As it turned out, your hunch was incredibly right, and it didn’t take long before you were able to track down the unsub. He’d watched as his younger sister was stalked, kidnapped, assaulted and killed, his parents wanted nothing to do with him, committing him until he was eighteen and allowed to be free, resulting in more tragedy for everyone else. Considering your find Emily let you take lead in the field and made sure you were comfortable with the take down before letting you have that too. She felt a little twinge of worry sending you in with a mentally unstable unsub, but everyone had your back. Instead she was pleasantly surprised with how well you handled it, you remained calm the entire time, though in her opinion as unit chief you did lower your weapon a little too early, but had she been in your position she would have done the same. It was about earning trust and getting him to let the girl go, let her come to you before he could be arrested to make sure she wasn’t harmed.

The entire unit let out a collective breath of relief when everything was finally done, and thanks to your overnight work, it was barely passed noon. Paperwork was tedious as always, but it managed to be finished shortly before dinner time, the BAU team finally making their way out of the local precinct.

“Well, we’re considering that a win,” Rossi started, clapping Morgan on the back as the group left the office, “should we get dinner, maybe some drinks?”

“You buyin?” Derek asked with a grin and Dave laughed.

“Only if it’s at that bar by the hotel.”

“Honestly, all I need are a good order of chicken wings and mozza sticks.” You laughed and Rossi cheered.

“Wilson agrees!”

“They have deep fried pickles?” JJ asked with a grin and Rossi let out a playful scoff with a nod, accepting that he would foot the bill for dinner and some drinks as everyone laughed, climbing into vehicles.

*

There wasn’t much surrounding the hotel you were staying at, meaning the diner down the road and the bar across the street saw a lot of the team over the last couple of days. It wasn’t anything fancy, not particularly a dive bar, but the vibes were there. Just big enough that patrons weren’t up in each other’s business, mainly regulars spread through the space, a couple of dart boards and a single pool table. The group’s table was covered in appetizers half picked through as everyone wound down from the case with a couple jugs of beer. Everyone was in good spirits, joking and bantering across the table, Derek was currently in a battle with Spencer, attempting to get him into a round of darts where the loser had to pick up the next round. Spencer in turn was trying to turn it around into a game of pool that he had a better chance of winning and Derek was firing back about how there was only one pool table, it could be hours before it freed up and the drinks were looking pretty empty. Spencer fired back with something about the statistics of the game which fired up an entire playful argument until you finally stood up, clapping Spencer on the shoulder,

“Okay, okay, boys simmer down. I’ll get the next round; no more arguing let’s try to keep the team spirit up.” You laughed, grabbing your wallet.

“You really are all about the team spirit, aren’t you?” Emily cut in with a smirk and you shot her a glare.

“Don’t…”

“Aw, c’mon, I’m sure we can find some pom poms somewhere, show off your moves Wilson.”

“You were a cheerleader?” JJ cut in and you let out a huff, rolling your eyes before glaring at Prentiss.

“I told you that in confidence!”

“Yeah, sure.” Emily laughed.

“Ohoho… so you play dirty?” You raised a brow and she grinned your way.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Before anyone else at the table even realized what was happening Derek cut in, leaning forward in his seat to get a better eyeline toward you.

“Were you a like, go team, yay sports rah, rah cheerleader, or a it’s its own sport, competitive cheerleader?”

“Competitive.” You said with a huff, quickly stepping away from the table before anyone else could get their questions in and you moved up to the bar.

Much to your disdain, by the time you returned to the table with fresh pitchers of beer the conversation of cheerleading was still going on. At the very least it wasn’t being directed toward you, and more a general conversation topic, but you knew it was only a matter of time before Emily would reroute it back to you and bombard you with questions.

It appeared that whatever higher power was up there tonight was on your side by the time everyone was just over halfway through their third round. Derek, while complimenting the actual competitive cheerleaders, was also lowkey mocking the stereotypical ones who merely pranced around with pom-poms doing silly arm movements and cheers. He went to demonstrate said arm movement and managed to aggressively knock over the beer that he’d just refilled. The glass somehow managed to not break but the entire pint splashed its way directly onto Emily who let out a dramatic gasp, attempting to jump back from the table, swearing in Derek’s direction.

There was no holding back, the table bursting out into laughter, especially as Emily grabbed an onion ring and hurled it in Derek’s direction. Through his laughter he did his best to apologize, swiping a pile of napkins so she could dry off, though the attempt was futile, she was covered in beer.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave.” She sighed, pushing her chair back from the table, “Morgan’s buying the next round on my behalf.”

“Hey! C’mon!” He protested and she simply laughed, waving a quick goodnight to everyone before she left the bar.

Rossi managed to grab a cloth from the bartender and actually get the table cleaned up while Derek got the next round for the group. Things seemed to calm down a little bit after that, you were picking at the plate of deep fried pickles with JJ, answering a few questions here and there about your past cheerleading, thankful the rest of the table had moved on with different conversations. The pool table finally freed up, Spencer and Derek disappearing in that direction and the three of you left at the table decided to call it a night, knowing it would likely be an early flight home the next morning.

You swung the door to your hotel room open, unsurprised to hear the shower running after Emily’s beer mishap. You flicked on the tv for some noise, mainly to alert Emily that you’d returned, you didn’t want to scare her when she came out of the shower. Wandering around the hotel room you made sure you’d collected everything previously scattered around the space, packing up your go bag and plugging in your iPad and phone. You took a couple of minutes scrolling through your phone, clearing notifications before making sure your alarm was set for the next morning. Standing from the bed you began stripping out of your clothes, folding them up into your bag before you found yourself distracted with the tv, zoning out from reality while your attention was focussed there.

“You always wear such lacy shit under your work clothes?” Emily’s voice broke through your trance and you jumped, turning to her.

“Jesus.” You swore, unsure whether it was because of her scaring you or the fact that she was wrapped in an almost too small hotel towel, water droplets still clinging to her skin, her hair pulled up off her neck to stay out of the shower stream. She bit her lip between her teeth, trying to make sure her eyes weren’t lingering on your body for too long and in the minute of distraction you managed to find your words, taunting her with the same phrase she’d teased you with at the bar. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Emily chuckled, a smirk taking over her cheeks as she stepped up to you, “it is rather fun to use my imagination.” Her hand raised, fingers ghosting over your jawline, “though as pretty as that lace is, I’d prefer it off.”

“But…” You breathed out, the proximity to her, the fact that you were both only seconds away from being naked, the alcohol surging through your veins, everything was fighting against the ethical thoughts in your brain.

“What’s the harm in one more night?” Emily asked, her voice dropping, fully as affected as you were in that moment, though she dropped her hand, wondering if she should take a step back.

“We shouldn’t…?” You managed to actually string the words together, even if there was a question at the end, because you knew that rules didn’t fucking matter to you, especially right now.

“If you don’t want to then we can forget this, I’ll get dressed.” She was about to actually step back when the words slipped from between your lips and she the spark surge through her body.

“Like hell I’m letting you put clothes on right now.”

She chuckled darkly, closing the space between the two of you, her lips meeting yours in a fiery kiss, one that both of you moaned in to. Neither of you could help it, it had been too long, too many days of yearning to feel the other’s body against yours, too many nights of pretending it was them touching you instead of your own hands or toys. Emily’s hands wound around you, easily undoing your bra and you let it fall to the floor, a second later and they were groping at your chest, pinching at your nipples and you let out a whine into the kiss.

Emily took advantage of that, slipping her tongue into your mouth, groaning over the taste of you, one she had been craving for weeks. Your tongues danced with grace against each other and it wasn’t long before your fingers slipped into Emily’s towel and it fell to the floor. She practically shivered, exposed to the cool hotel room air and in retaliation nipped at your lip, pulling a gasp from you that broke the kiss.

“You still going to be daddy’s good girl?” She husked, her lips kissing right below your ear and it was your turn to shiver.

“Yes…” you felt your body pulse at the way she kissed down the column of your neck, knowing you were going to lose all your coherent thoughts in a mere matter of minutes. Instead your hands ghosted up her sides, toying with her chest, squeezing her, feeling the vibration of her moan against your skin as she continued to kiss your neck. One of your hands slid down her body, slipping between her legs and Emily sucked in a heavy breath, her eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your fingers sliding through her folds, “I want to taste you.”

Emily felt herself flutter at your words, a small chuckle escaping her lips before she bit into your neck, her hands resting on your hips, tugging you to her as she backed herself up towards one of the beds. Your lips met once again, moving with grace as you fell back onto the bed, shifting slightly so you were both comfortable as your hands roamed each other’s bodies. Emily wasn’t about to protest as you began to crawl down her body, leaving little kisses and nips on her skin as you went, her legs practically falling open the instant you were between them. She’d been aching for your touch for as long as she could remember, each time your fingers brushed hers, every moment that you’d poked her to get her attention she’d wished the feeling would last a little longer, that your hands would find their way to where she really wanted to be touched. Your hands grazed up her thighs, a hand sliding onto her pussy and your fingers spread her open, a small swear leaving your lips.

“Fuck…”

She was already glistening in the low light of the hotel room and you weren’t about to waste a minute before your mouth surged toward her, wrapping around her lower lips and you sucked her into your mouth briefly. Emily let out a light gasp, one of her hands shooting down to tangle into your hair and you couldn’t help the grin, knowing you were on the right path. Your tongue lapped out, swiping through her, flicking at her clit and she shuddered before you returned to her cunt, tongue dipping in as far as you could. She tasted like absolute heaven, better than you ever could have imagined and you knew that you’d never be able to get enough, burying your face in between her legs.

“Oh fuck…” she whined, “just like that angel…”

You groaned into her, the vibration sending shivers down her spine, her thighs twitching around you as you continued your movements. Your tongue pulled out as much of her wetness as it could, smearing it around her pussy, nose nudging against her clit and she gasped. You shifted your mouth up, lips wrapping around her clit as you sucked it into your mouth, tongue dancing patterns across it and her hips rocked up suddenly, a moan leaving her as her fingers tightened in your hair.

“So good.” She praised, her eyes fluttering shut as her head dropped into the pillows, heat coursing through her body.

Your mouth dropped down again, eager for another proper taste of her, sucking her juices from her while her hips rocked against your mouth. She let out a quiet cry, her legs threatening to squeeze tight around you and you let out a small chuckle, knowing the vibrations from it were enough to make her gasp once more. You shifted back up to her clit, a heavy broad lick across it before you wrapped your lips around it again. Emily let out a whimper and you felt yourself pulse around nothing at the sound, the desire to make her come growing larger with each second that passed. Your hand snuck up, toying with her dripping cunt before slipping two fingers in and she moaned.

“Fuck, yes baby… oh fuck!”

Even with just one pump of your fingers you could already feel her pulsing around you, pussy wet and warm around your digits. You thrusted them in time with the way your tongue was lapping over her clit before they curled within her, searching for that sensitive spot. It took a couple of tries but when she cried out, her hips jolted up off the bed and you knew you’d found it, not letting up as you continued to fuck her. Your fingertips brushed against the spot with each curl of your fingers, your mouth increasing suction around her swollen clit with each thrust of your hand you could feel her pussy pulsating around you, little whimpers leaving her lips as her body began to shudder.

“Oh fuck! Fuck!” The cry escaped her right as her hips thrust up, her fingers clenching in your hair, holding your face into her cunt and her body shook, juices dribbling their way down your wrist. Emily panted, thankful that you pressed a gentle kiss to her clit before your mouth left her body, your fingers gently fucking her through her orgasm.

You barely had enough time to crawl up her body before she was praising how good you were and flipping you on your back to return the favour. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that she was as talented with her mouth as she was but you still found yourself gasping for air, your entire body tingling at the way her tongue lapped through you, teasing at your clit with each lick. Her hands pinned your hips down to the bed, giving you only a little leeway to rut up against her, begging for more contact. Your breath picked up, your chest practically heaving when her fingers slid into you and her mouth wrapped around your clit.

“Oh god!” You cried out, “fuck, fuck.. feels.. so, fucking good!” A hand found its way into her hair, tugging at the roots as she continued to eat you and you couldn’t do much more than whimper. Her fingers pumped inside you, your pussy clenching down around them harder with each thrust of her hand, electricity shooting through you as the coil got tighter and tighter. It didn’t take much longer, a hard thrust from her hand as her tongue flicked against you and you were coming, body trembling, juices leaking out onto the bedspread as Emily chuckled against your skin.

You were smarter than to think that the two of you were done after only that, Emily crawling back up over your body, lips meeting yours in a lazy kiss while you caught your breath. Her lips trailed down your neck, teeth nibbling at your collarbone before she sucked a nipple into her mouth and your breath hitched in your throat, your nails scratching into her skin. Your hands began to trail across her body before one of them found its way between her legs again.

Neither of you were sure how many rounds you had gone, or how much time had passed since you first stepped into the hotel room and neither of you cared in the least. Emily currently had you on your back, fingers deep in your drenched pussy, squelching sounds echoing through the room as she straddled your thigh, grinding down onto it, smearing her juices along your skin.

“You’ve got one more in you angel, I know you do.” She cooed, her fingers crooking inside you and you groaned, your body jolting toward the touch, your thigh clenching just right that you pulled a gasp from her as her hips rutted against your body. The pleasure was prickling just beneath the surface of your skin, causing a shimmer of sweat to be contributed to the stickiness in the room.

“Fuck… fuck…” you cried, “more! Please daddy!”

Emily shifted forward, two of her fingers slipping into your mouth and you happily accepted them, tongue swirling around them, sucking them deeper between your lips. You figured it was an attempt to keep you quiet, but you didn’t care either way.

“God, look at you.” She murmured, a dark chuckle leaving her, “next time I’ll have to pack the strap, I just know those pretty lips would look so fuckin gorgeous wrapped around my cock.”

You released her fingers with a gasp, moaning into the room as the fingers in your cunt picked up their speed, matching the rhythm that Emily was riding your thigh. She shifted her weight back onto it, letting out a low moan before she spat onto your pussy, the spit slicked fingers that had been in your mouth moving to your clit, rubbing furiously. Your hands quickly found her hips, guiding them in the same pace that she was fucking you, urging her to grind down harder on you as a string of whines left your lips.

“Feels good doesn’t it baby?” She gasped, her fingers nearly stilling as they pressed up hard against your g-spot and your body began to tremble, “you gonna come for me? Come for daddy, angel…”

Her breath was ragged, nearly as ragged as yours as you felt the heat burst deep within you, letting out a moan as shook underneath her. She let out a dark chuckle, hand shifting from your clit to brace against your hip, picking up the pace she was riding your thigh. You grabbed at her wrist, pulling her fingers from you with a whimper while you caught your breath, tugging her upwards.

“Get up here.” You muttered, “want you to come on my face.”

Emily laughed, crawling up you as you readjusted quickly before she settled over your face and lowered her dripping pussy to your lips. You eagerly lapped your tongue out, groaning over her taste, one you knew you would never grow tired of; you wanted as much of her as possible tonight, no clue if you’d get another chance or not. She braced herself on the headboard, beginning to ride your face, moaning when your nose brushed against her clit. You shifted your lips upward, wrapping around it, you could tell she was close by how heavy she was grinding down on you, the fact that each roll of her hips was accompanied by a louder moan. Suddenly she grabbed at your hand, pulling your fingers into her mouth, muffled moans vibrating around them before she slipped off them,

“Touch yourself,” she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut, “wanna come together.”

You did exactly as she asked, your hand rubbing at your clit as you increased the strength you sucked at hers, moaning into her cunt, feeling the way her juices were smearing over your chin. Her clit was throbbing between your lips, aching each time your tongue flicked over it and in some miracle she cried out at in the same moment you groaned into her pussy, reaching your peaks at the same time. Her thighs trembled on either side of your face, her fingers gripping the headboard tightly as she tried not to drop all her weight down onto you. Panting, she collapsed down onto the bed beside you, her hand tickling at your bare skin while you both caught your breath.

*

The alarm blared through the room what felt like only a moment after you’d closed your eyes and you grumbled, reaching a hand out to silence it, knowing you had multiple set.

“Please tell me there’s enough time for coffee and breakfast.” Emily groaned and you chuckled, rolling onto your back you grimaced slightly. As you woke up fully you could feel just how sticky your body was,

“More than that.” You replied, “god knows I need a shower.”

You pushed up to sitting, swinging your feet off the bed and the sheet slipped off you, goosebumps breaking out on your skin in the cool morning air. Behind you Emily’s eyes were dragging up your body and when you glanced over your shoulder you caught her smirk.

“What?” You laughed.

“Care if I join you?” She raised a brow and your eyes widened every so slightly.

“Oh.. I thought last night might’ve been alcohol fueled…”

“Certainly didn’t hurt. Still would’ve done it stone cold sober.”

“Well then… I guess you’re more than welcome.” You giggled.

“What happens it Vegas stays in Vegas.” She shrugged, slipping from the bed and you laughed.

“We’re in Atlanta…”

“Saying still applies.” Emily smirked, spanking you before nudging you toward the bathroom.

*

The jet soared through the air, a relaxed vibe shifting through it, Rossi and Spencer were on the left side, half involved in the conversation, half reading their own things. You somehow had ended up beside Emily, across from Derek who was beside a currently empty seat. JJ returned with yet another coffee refill, dropping down into the spare seat with a groan,

“Did anyone else have a terrible sleep last night or was it just me? I feel like I woke up every twenty minutes.”

“Might’ve been the couple up fucking all night that woke you up.” Derek muttered, grin on his cheeks, his voice shifting into a mocking tone, “oh, harder daddy, please!” He laughed, “some people into some kinky shit.”

“Oh please.” Emily laughed beside you, managing to cover up the way her body had stiffened at his words, “as if you aren’t into some kinky shit.”

“Baby girl you wouldn’t even believe what I’m into.” He grinned across at her and she rolled her eyes before he nudged at your foot with his, “what about you, you sleep okay?”

“Like a baby.” You cast him a friendly smile and prayed your years with the FBI was enough to handle covering up a lie.

“Yeah? Prentiss didn’t keep you up all night?”

“What?” You did your best not to stutter and Emily tensed again beside you while Derek let out a loud laugh again.

“I’ve bunked with her before, she snores like a sailor!”

“Oh I do not!” She let out an offended scoff, swatting at him with the book she was holding.

A playful scuffle broke out before Dave called for the ‘kids’ to calm down and things finally did. It wasn’t much longer before the jet landed back at Quantico and you all went about your separate ways, taking the rest of the day off to recoup from the trip. It was only when you got to your car you realized your keys were still in your desk drawer. Letting out a heavy sigh you turned around, trudging back through the building. The BAU floor was practically deserted, but right as you reached your desk you heard an office door close in the direction of Emily’s.

“You forget something?” She asked, shouldering her back as she wandered through the bull pen.

“Keys.” You held up the ring, sliding the drawer they were in shut, slightly surprised when she approached you. From the moment you’d landed, there was something different about her, the way she slipped back into this Quantico role, the one where she was the boss, where this was work and that was it. Something slightly different about the way she held herself. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.” You shot her a smile and turned to head for the door when she called out.

“Y/n!”

“Yeah?” You turned back to her, your head tilting at the frown on her face and you raised a brow.

“It can’t happen again.” Her head shook, “if any of them find out—”

“I.. have no clue what you’re talking about.” You replied and it was her turn to look confused.

“What…?” She fumbled and you simply shrugged,

“What happens in Vegas...”

_______________

@ssa-sapphic @mickey-gomez @clarawatson @cabotfan42 @momlifebehard @alexusonfire @melindawarnersgf @itisdoctortoyousir @emilyprentiss4life @softgamerking @httpjupiterbby @somethingimaginative17 @temilyrights @alexxavicry  @mysticfalls01 @anya-casablanca @daddy-heather-dunbar @evilregal2002 @aliensaurusrex @alcabots @7thavenger @ladysc @rustyzebra @ilovemycrayons @mandy-asimp @thegrantwater @leftoverenvy @kades95 @disneyfan624 @dextur @m00nkn1ghts @gamma-ray-bursts @augustvandyne @supercriminalbean @bookpillows @daffodil-heart @msvenablesbitch @its-soph-xx  @going-gray @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @hopelesslyfallenninlove @peanutbutterprincess  @kdaghay @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @bluetodie @awolfcsworld @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy

[lizamango]

Cruel World 2/? (Brainwashed Black Widow!Reader x Steve Rogers)

summary: A war between SHIELD and HYDRA rages on in the shadows of the world. You live for the kill as a Black Widow until you discover Steve Rogers, the weapon for the opposing side who makes you question the side you’ve been fighting for. (inspired by Underworld, just go with the lore on this fit pls)

warnings: smut later, cussing, canon typical violence

wordcount: 1425

Part 1

I decide it would be safer for Steve to stay on the ground while I deal with the repercussions of “disobeying” Rumlow’s orders.

“You know, I can handle myself.”

“I can’t just bring in a stranger. You’ll get thrown into a cell-“

“A cell?” he interrupts. “Geez.”

“So stay here. Please.”

“I just think it would be good for you to have back up.”

I walk towards him, forcing him to take a couple steps back towards the barred radiator.

“Steve…” I look up into his eyes. His dreamy blue eyes that, in the dark of the night, look like the sky full of stars. I lift my hand to his cheek and press my lips to his, softly at first. He immediately springs to action, kissing me back. I feel alive as he kisses me, his warm breath on my cheek as he tries to tease my lips open.

He pulls back suddenly at the cold contact of the metal. Looking down he frowns. “What are you doing?”

I smile up at him though it’s more of a smirk. “So you don’t go anywhere.”

He tugs at the cuffs. “Fuck.”

I leave the cabin and make my way to the Red Room.

The greeting is less than warm as soldiers find me and escort me to the hall where Rumlow is pacing.

“How dare you defy me.” He orders everyone out. “Embarrass me! Everyone knows that I am in charge here, how could you disrespect me? I had plans for us.”

“Rumlow, when are you gonna get it through your brain? There is no us and there never will be.”

“Why did you spend a night out there? Did you find what you were looking for?”

I think back to how Rumlow’s allegiance is to Schmidt and how he lied to everyone about killing Captain America. “No, I didn’t.”

“So I was right.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes.

“Get yourself cleaned up. Schmidt will be here tonight to awaken Pierce.”

I leave the hall. “Zasranets,” I whisper to myself. Asshole. I walk towards the Cryochambers. It’s time to put an end to this.

The guard looks up at me as I enter. “Melina is looking for you.” He nods and leaves. I’m still trusted.

I lock the doors and disable the cameras from the control centre the guard just abandoned. Sitting at the machine I feel as though I am committing treason, which I suppose I am. To my knowledge no one has attempted cerebral messaging to reanimate cryogenic suspension other than our three leaders: Dreykov, Schmidt and Pierce. This requires training and discipline of the mind. Skills I have not refined. Cerebral messaging allows the former leader to pass down their memories of their term to the next leader to rule for a decade and the cycle continues. They planned this to prevent usurpers and to keep the peace among the faction. This cycle has not been broken. Until me.

“My Lord, please forgive me. I desperately need your guidance. I apologise for waking you ahead of your time but I fear the power is in the wrong hands. You may be in danger if left in cryo… I believe that Schmidt lied about killing SHIELD’s Prize for he is alive and well. I also believe SHIELD to be more organised than ever before as they were the ones to find him. I hope that when you wake, you will believe me and set things right.” I leave the machine and disable the cryogenic chamber, turning the cameras back on and exit without a trace. I decide to pick up some clothes that would fit the Captain on my way back to my quarters.

“Sestra!” I turn back and see Yelena. “Big problem.” She grabs my arm and speed walks me in the direction I was going in anyways.

“What?” I ask annoyed.

“Please tell me why I found a golden retriever wandering the grounds looking for you? What did you do?”

“Fuck.” I open my doors and see Steve sat on my ottoman looking through a book.

He stands up startled as he sees me. “I- I broke out of the handcuffs.”

I cross my arms and raise a brow. “I can see that.”

“Wow, he looks even better in the light,” Yelena comments.

“This is Yelena, one of my sisters. Widow. Yelena, this is Grant.” I lie. I’ve never lied to one of them, omitted a truth or kept information classified but never a lie.

Steve goes along with it. “Hi,” he smiles in his charming way.

“You can leave us now, Sestra.”

Yelena rolls her eyes and groans. “Fine, you’re both just boring.” With the door closed I inhale sharply and look at Steve disapprovingly.

“What are you doing up here?! How did you even- actually, I don’t want to know.”

He starts with saying my name so seriously it’s a jarring contrast to how he acted while Yelena was here. “Why is there HYDRA insignia all over this place?” he asks in a grave tone.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Steve. I - I left you down there because I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand? Understand that you’re the evil! HYDRA started the war-“

I shake my head almost to the point where it hurt. “You’re wrong. You don’t understand. You don’t know what you’re talking about, they’ve lied to you.”

“No. It’s you they’ve lied to.”

“You’ve been asleep for 70 years, I hardly think you have any right making such outrageous claims,” I shut him down and open my closet, stocking up on Widow’s bites, bullets and bigger guns. I throw the clothes I collected at him. They’re more appropriate tactical gear rather than having him run around in jeans and a tee, James Dean style. “Put these on.” He changes in front of me and I distract myself with the armoury. “Schmidt will be arriving here tonight, we don’t want to be the ones caught off guard.”

“You’re bringing me with you? You’re going to trust me? After what I just told you.”

“You’ve told me nothing, you’ve just made a bunch of nonsense up and I blame being frozen for decades. Now come on.”

“I’m starting to notice a pattern where I just follow you wherever you tell me to go…” he whispers.

“As you should. You wouldn’t make it out of here alone.”

We sneak off back to the quinjet, avoiding the guards since I know their rotations like the back of my hand. Firing up the quinjet I take off.

“We have to get somewhere Schmidt won’t find us. Somewhere he doesn’t know about…” I say more to myself but I know Steve is thinking.

“New Jersey. The barracks I used to train at.” He stands from his seat. “Let me pilot.”

I look up at him skeptically but I give him the controls. “If you think I’m so evil, why aren’t you trying to fight me?”

“I don’t think you are.”

His answer makes me frown.

“It’ll take a couple of hours for Dreykov to fully wake and get his strength. We’ll need to lay low before then.”

Steve just nods. “I never thought I’d see Johann Schmidt again.”

When I really think about it, Steve was actually there but he’s telling a completely different story to the history we’ve been taught. I shake the thoughts out of my head. Treason. If anything, this is Schmidt’s doing…

“You should get some rest,” Steve says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap stubbornly but he only chuckles. I walk to the passenger seats behind the cockpit and take off my jacket, rolling it up as a pillow. Sleep comes shortly but not without the company of nightmares.

***

Johann Schmidt’s stronghold is based in Germany so his travel to the Red Room is arduous. As such, he does not expect to be met with news of rebellion.

“Tell Commander what you told me,” Rumlow states as he pushes Melina to the ground. Widows are lined up in the gathering hall.

“There has been talk of treason, Commander,” Melina whispers but Schmidt hears loud and clear. “Talk of America’s Prize being alive and well.”

“Lügen! Wer spricht von diesen Lügen?” he spits out like venom. Who speaks of these lies?

Rumlow answers with a name.

“Dreykov’s experiment?” Schmidt enquires.

“Yes, Commander.”

Schmidt clenches his jaw. “You are all dismissed.” As the Widows leave, Rumlow believes he is the exception to stay.

“Commander, what are you going to do?”

“Set course for Serbia.”

“Yes, Commander.”

🖤

please comment any feedback i beg

[tapioca-puddingg]

Master Eraqus Ain't Shit

So I decided to wake up and choose violence today.

"Oh brother, this guy stinks!"

In Dark Road, we see that Eraqus has always had the same black and white mentality. He’s always believed that only light should exist, and that darkness should be destroyed. Even Xehanort, who was the same age as him, could understand that there needs to be a balance between light and darkness.

And even well into his old age, Eraqus never changed his mindset.

This line of thinking was so pervasive that it stopped him from making Terra a keyblade master. If Terra had never visibly manifested his darkness, it’s possible that both him and Aqua could’ve been made keyblade masters. Not that I’m blaming Terra or anything, I’m just sayin.

Xehanort told Terra in Radiant Garden that he could study under Eraqus for years, and yet he would never make him a master. I think he’s 100% right.

Both Terra and Aqua would end up internalizing this mindset in different ways:

Since he was on the receiving end of the darkness slander, Terra developed a deep insecurity. And some of the villains, especially Xehanort, were able to take advantage of him partially as a result of this insecurity and partially due to his own naivety. His journey was all about finding out how to control it, but bc he wasn’t properly mentored on how to do so, he failed.

Aqua took on this mentality along with Eraqus’s self-righteousness. She was about to prematurely attack or possibly even kill Lady Tremaine, Anastasia, and Drizella if she hadn’t been stopped by Fairy Godmother. And later on, I feel like this mentality contributed to her thinking differently of Terra. But then again, there was a lot of miscommunication between the three of them. And that miscommunication caused a rift in their friendship.

And with Ventus, when Eraqus learned that Xehanort was planning on using him to form the X-blade, his immediate response was to kill him. Albeit, with some remorse.

Like sir, that’s your friend. You decided to let him back into your life after he wrote that sorry ass apology letter to you. You invited him back into your home. That means he manipulated you too. If he’s the one that’s putting your kids in danger, you need to go after him, not Ventus.

Imagine for a second if Terra had arrived too late (or didn’t arrive at all) and Eraqus succeeded in killing Ventus. The amount of emotional damage that would’ve done to him and Aqua is unfathomable. He put both Ven and Terra in so much danger. Yes, in the end, he realized the atrocity that he almost committed, but it was too little too late. He was lucky that the best-case-scenario happened. Well, I guess the best-case-scenario would have been for all of them to survive and jump Xehanort, but it's better that the kids survived.

As a follow up to that, imagine if Terra lost the fight and was killed. Eraqus is a master keyblader after all, so he's no slouch in battle. He whooped my ass many times when I played it recently. But anyways, that could’ve been two bodies on Eraqus’ hands. He is so unfit to be a mentor to anyone.

SPOILERS for Dark Road: now given what Eraqus and Xehanort went thru in DR, it makes sense as to why he would have such an extreme response to darkness. The fact that darkness is what killed their classmates, and the fact that Xehanort had to put down Baldur himself when he got corrupted. That moment would change the both of them forever. And any child would be deeply traumatized in seeing their friends get murdered on by one. But it doesn’t excuse what he attempted to do. Again, he put the lives of two of his three students in danger.

As a rewrite for this scene, maybe he could’ve contacted Aqua and told her to come home immediately once he realized what was happening. Maybe go to Yen Sid’s tower and link up with Mickey, Donald and Goofy, and the six of them plan a coordinated jumping on Xehanort. Sometimes ppl need to be jumped, you know? Like “Hey, Xehanort has gone off the deep end. He nearly used Ven to try to form the X-blade. We need to stop him before he tries this again.”

EDIT: I did really enjoy the reunion scene in KH3. It was nice that the Wayfinder trio at least got to see him one last time.

And in his character file, Terra feels immense guilt and wants Eraqus's forgiveness. I can only imagine the amount of guilt one would feel after an experience like that. There was no way he could predict the consequence of being Xehanort's pawn for 10 years.

But as a childhood trauma survivor, I know as much as the next survivor that you don't owe your parents/parental figures forgiveness. They owe you. Eraqus should've been the one asking for Terra's forgiveness, not the other way around.

I think bc he's presented as one of the "good guys" some folks may have been quick to overlook some of his actions.

But then again, if he did everything perfectly, this wouldn’t be as interesting to talk about.

TDLR: Eraqus fucked around and found out

Thanks for coming to my TED talk