#this is so sick and fucking twisted!!! sick and twisted!!!

[thetriumphantpanda]

take me to florida | joel miller

summary | turning up on his doorstep covered in blood was not was Joel had expected of you, and when you open your mouth, he expects it even less. There's a shitstorm in Texas you both have to escape from, but how long can it last?

pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

word count | 4,496

warnings | it's a lot. Descriptions of murder (stabbing), blood, violence, domestic violence and the death penalty (yeah idk either don't ask), basically reader does a bad thing to someone who did bad things to her. One singular slap (reader to Joel). Mentions of adultery and cheating. Explicit smut - grinding/dry-humping, fingering, rough sex, biting, squirting. No use of y/n. No outbreak AU.

authors note | *taps mic* is this thing on? Hi! It's been a whilst hasn't it?! I've been doing life, enjoying being offline and in love and all of that stuff, but the new series has my brain WHIRLING and I wanted to share this with you all. I wrote most of this back in the autumn last year and was inspired to finish it, so here you go. Let me know if I've still got it! As always if you enjoy this, please like, reblog, comment or scream in my ask box. I've missed you.

Divider by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

It’s viscous, dripping down the back of your hand, seeping through the webbing of your fingers. Crimson staining the floor as it drips from the tip of the knife, pooling around the body, slumped against the wall now. Your limbs are heavy, vice grip on the handle easing, arm dropping to your side as the knife clatters to the floor. Your chest is heaving, sucking in air, you steady yourself by putting your palms against your knees, bending over, trying not to throw up. There’s a pool of blood forming against the toe of your shoe, deep red staining white canvas. No-one ever mentions how messy it is, but then again, not many people stick a knife into their husband’s ten times. There are splatters across the wall, you can feel some of the warmth seeping down your forehead, you can taste it on your mouth when you lick your lips to wet them.

You let out an animalistic groan as you straighten up, the fucker deserved it, you think, picking the knife up from the ground, wiping both sides of the blade against the white of your tank top. Pushed you and pushed you until you broke. Put his hands on you one too many times with no remorse, no punishment. Called you a useless whore for the last time. There was some sick sense of satisfaction the bloomed when your mind replays the the look of shock on his face when you’d stabbed him the first time, like he couldn’t believe you had the guts. By the fifth time, there wasn’t anything behind those eyes of his, but you added five more just to be sure.

There’s a rage simmering underneath your skin still. Rage at the fact that no matter how many police reports you’d filed, how many hospital trips for split lips and black eyes, the law were going to come for you, and you’d go down, no doubt about it. That distinct feminine rage that a man could push you to the limit and back, and it’s still going to be your fucking fault when you stand in front of a jury and plead your case. The mad woman, the violent woman, the unhinged woman. It makes you want to scream, makes you want to thrash, maybe it makes you want to stick the knife into your own middle and twist it deep. You don’t though. You take the knife, run it under the tap until the water down the drain runs clear, wipe it dry with the towel and then shove it into your bag.

The mad woman indeed, you think, unhooking your car keys from the hook by the door. Well, if they wanted to fucking fry you, they were going to have to catch you first.

The darkness makes this easier. The hood pulled up over your head, covering your face just enough that the few passing cars don’t notice a thing on the drive there. There’s only one place you think to go, one person you know will understand, probably getting ready to go to bed on the other side of town, none-the-wiser that you’re on your way to him, covered in blood with a murder weapon sitting on the front seat of your car.

His home is unassuming. Two levels, two bedrooms, one for him - brown wood and dark - the other for his dead daughter - still pink with the sheets messed up, not made or changed for years as some sort of fucked up shrine. His truck, parked on the driveway, right next to yours. Most of the houses on the road have their lights turned out, families tucked up and sleeping for the night, but the light in his lounge is on - hard day at work, you think - as your fist knocks against the wood.

It takes him a minute, but then again, it always does, with his aching knees and his sore back, but he opens the door anyway, looking at you with confusion for a second, like he’s forgotten you’d arranged something, until you look up at him, let the light hit your face and show the blood spatters, drying and flaking, then his eyes are concerned, his big hand on your shoulder, dragging you inside.

“What did he do?” He’s asking, voice gruff.

He does this a lot, when you turn up in the middle of the night, bruises on your arms or lip split and sore, threatens to kill him, threatens to kill the cops who won’t do anything. Soothes your wounds, puts plasters on you, and then fucks you into his mattress and promises to run away with you. Well, jokes on you Joel Miller, you think as he leans you against the kitchen counter to look at you, I already fucking did kill him, and now you’re going to have to run away with me.

“What did he do to you, baby?” Voice still gruff, but tinged with concern this time, his hands cupping your face, turning it into the light to try and find the injury.

You cup his face too, congealed blood in the palm of your hand smearing across his skin, catching in the coarse whiskers of his beard, “He didn’t do anythin’ Joel.” You whisper, watching as the realisation hits his face and he takes a step back from you, dropping his hands like you’ve burned him.

“What did you do?”

You smile at him, the way he looks a little scared, “I killed him, Joel.”

He sucks in a breath, takes another step away from you, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

You scoff, “Why the fuck do you think?” You snarl, “Had his hands around my neck,” You say, moving your head to show the red marks where his fingers had squeezed, “Told me I was a stupid whore and just squeezed harder.”

Joel’s eyes soften as he takes a step back towards you, “So I stabbed him,” It’s so matter of fact, “It was that or it was me Joel, do you understand?”

“Well then we go to the police,” He says, trying to reason with you, “One stab wound in self-defence and they’ll understand.”

“Ten.”

“What?”

“I said ten, ten stab wounds.”

He’s silent now. Those brown orbs staring directly into your soul. You can see the snarl of his top lip, the faint twitch in his left eye, “Fuckin’ hell, baby.”

And then it’s a whirlwind. You’re stood in his bathroom and he’s taking off your clothes, forcing you into the shower and scrubbing your skin raw like he doesn’t trust you to be thorough enough in doing it yourself. He shoves your blood-stained clothes into a bag, along with his own, worried that there’s enough blood on that shirt that they’ll come after him too. He dries at your skin, gives you the single set of clothes you keep at his house to change into, dressing himself frantically. Then he’s shoving more of his clothes into a duffle bag, avoiding your eye as he swipes the picture frame off his chest of drawers - the one of him and Sarah, soccer trophy in her hand - and shoves that in the bag too.

When he’s satisfied he has everything he needs, his palm grips the scruff of your neck and guides you down the stairs, like he’s scared you’re going to bolt, only letting go to put his boots on and pick up his keys. He makes sure to turn all the lights off, even the one on the porch, letting you go again to lock his door, then his hand is back on you, guiding you roughly to his truck, where he opens the door and waits for you to get in.

“Where are we going?” You ask.

“Just get in the fuckin’ truck baby.”

You’re two hours into the drive before he speaks, clearly trying to focus on getting as far away from the scene of your crime as he can. He’s silently fuming, having had to go back and put you back in your own car, have you drive behind him until he pulled onto the side of some deserted country road. He sat you back in the passenger seat of his truck, took the bag of bloodied clothes and put them in the boot of your car. You watched in the rear-view mirror as he doused it in petrol from a can and then set fire to it.

Neither of you looked back as you drove off.

“Are you okay?”

It makes you laugh, a full body-shaking laugh, the kind of laugh where you have to bite your lip to stop yourself. His hand is back on your shoulder, rough and tight, as it shakes you, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What the fuck do you think is wrong with me?” You spit, “I just killed my fuckin’ husband Joel, don’t ask stupid fuckin’ questions.”

He’s sailing down the highway, hand still gripping at your skin, “Do you have any idea what we’ve just done?” He asks, eyes forward, not looking at you, “You have any idea what they’ll do when they catch us?”

“Yeah, I got some notion.” You sigh, sinking back into the seat.

“What did you do with the body?”

You shrug, “I just left it there.”

“How long do you think we got?” He’s finally letting go of you, both hands back on the wheel.

“Couple of days,” You hum, “He ain’t due at work until Monday,” It was Friday now, “No-one’s gonna look for him until he doesn’t show.”

Joel nods, finally relaxing into his seat as much as he can, but he’s tense, you both are, and you’ve got to be careful. One wrong move and this is all going to unravel.

It’s silent then for another couple of miles until he speaks again, “I’m sorry,” He says quietly, “I’m sorry he did that to you and I’m sorry that you had to do that.”

“I’m not.”

It comes out at easy and breathing. Your asshole of a husband deserved it. Years of beating you around, of belittling you in front of your friends and family, all those nights of being curled up, forced to unravel and undress and lie there in the dark whilst he used you. You’re not sorry you had to do it at all.

You’re in a motel in Alabama when the news hits. It’s a shitty place, middle of nowhere vibes, with a receptionist who couldn’t have given less of a shit about the two of you when you arrived. Handed the keys to a room to Joel once she’d insisted on him paying cash for the three nights he wanted. Joel’s not long come back from the store down the road - a large bag of chips, two cans of soda and some candy shoved into a plastic bag, enough to stave off the hunger for the evening.

You’ve actively avoided the news until now, settling instead on trash tv for background noise, but it’s Monday, and you know that as soon as your shitty dead husband didn’t turn up for work, it would be a shitstorm back in Texas. There’s a woman, sitting behind a desk, looking incredibly morose over a dead man she doesn’t know. You listen intently to what she’s saying as Joel cracks open your can of soda and hands it to you.

It’s the basics right now, he’s been dead a few days, a brutal murder and the police are following all open lines of enquiry. They don’t mention you, they don’t mention Joel and there’s no appeal for witnesses. You sigh out some kind of breath of relief that you’re okay for now, but you know in the back of your mind you have to get moving. It’ll only be a matter of time before your photograph is pasted across the news channel, Joel’s too - you have to move on.

“Where are we going to go?” You ask quietly, sipping the sugary cold syrup from the can.

“Where do you want to go?” He replies just as quietly.

“Mexico?” You offer, it’s the only place you know that criminals go, crossing the border and down into South America to disappear into obscurity.

“Gone in the wrong direction for Mexico, baby,” He shrugs, “Maybe we head into Florida, lay low as much as we can, and then move on from there if the heat follows us?”

“Sounds good.”

There’s something about Florida that feels freeing. Sure, you’re in a dead end town, nowhere near a beach where you could enjoy the sun, but there’s something about the air here that feels different. Joel manages to find a small apartment for the two of you. Conscious that he doesn’t want anyone to know your faces when they start getting plastered across the news channels, he phones a number from a newspaper, asks for the keys to be dropped somewhere outside and three days ago you’d let yourselves in and settled down.

Joel had gone out and bought new clothes for the two of you, the old ones thrown in the bin, not sure any amount of laundry would have taken the smell away. He stocks up on simple groceries, and for the third night in a row, you sit down to spaghetti with tomato sauce from a jar. You’ve got the news on again, low on the volume, but just enough that you catch the news anchor speaking, “We have a development in the Austin murder case to bring you tonight.”

The spaghetti in your mouth turns to lead and what’s already in your stomach threatens to reappear when Joel turns around to find his face plastered across the TV screen.

“Austin local Joel Miller has been reported missing today by his brother,” The anchor continues, “And police have been open in explaining that they believe his disappearance is connected with the murder of an Austin man, found days ago in his home, stabbed to death.”

The camera cuts to a shot of Joel’s house, covered in police tape with an office stood outside his closed front door, and then to add insult to injury, the familiar face of Tommy Miller comes into view. He’d known about you, met you plenty of times, you think he liked you even, pulling cold beers out of the fridge for you and asking you how your day had been.

“I just wanna know where my brother is,” His Texan twang rings out, but you’re not watching him, you’re watching Joel, and the tick of his jaw as he grinds his teeth, “I don’t know where he is, but Joel, if you’re listenin’, come home brother, whatever has happened, just come home.”

Joel’s fist clenches the TV remote, turning it off, bathing the room in a dead silence that feels stifling. You don’t know what to do, except chew the spaghetti in your mouth for what feels like the hundredth time in an attempt to make you swallow it. He won’t look at you, instead he stares down into his bowl of unfinished food, jaw still twitching in the way it always does when he’s angry or stressed.

“Joel…” You trail off when he brings a hand up to signal you to stop talking.

“Don’t say anythin’.”

“They just think you’re missing,” You offer, trying to lessen the blow.

He snorts, shakes his head and looks up at you finally, his dark brown eyes blown almost black.

“Missin’, huh?” He scoffs, “And when Tommy airs this whole affair we’ve been havin’, tells the police everythin’ he knows about us, what then?”

You scoff right back, getting up from the table, chair scraping across the floor as you do, “So what, you wanna run on back to fucking Texas and leave me here?”

“I didn’t say that,” He sighs, standing up too, “I’m just sayin’ it ain’t gonna be long until they realise what really happened, and then what?”

“We move on, just like you said.”

“We don’t have that kinda luck baby,” He’s started to pace, “They’re gonna find us eventually, and I don’t know how you’re gonna talk yourself outta ten stab wounds.”

“Oh fuck you, Joel,” You spit, sanity hanging by a thread, “Yeah I stabbed him, maybe I even fucking enjoyed it, but you’re just as guilty in this as I am, you’re harbouring a criminal right now, even if they don’t know it yet.”

“I’m as guilty as you?” He pries, stepping closer to you, making you step back against the kitchen counter, “I didn’t stab him baby,” His voice is dripping in sarcasm, “That was all you,” He drags out, taking another step towards you, “They might arrest me baby, but when they catch you, they’re gonna give you the damn chair.”

It all happens in such a blur, his taunting tone and the way he’s caged you in against the kitchen counters. Before you even know what you’ve done, your hand has flown up and slapped him right across the cheek, following by a spitting “How fucking dare you.”

You’re both breathing heavily, the sound of sucking breath the only thing you can hear in the room. His eyes are darker than ever as he takes one more step, tangles his fist in the hair on the back of your head and tugs hard, before his mouth is hot and open against yours, tongue sliding against yours. It’s the first time he’s touched you like this since you left Texas, hot and full of want as he presses his entire body to yours, your lower back digging into the edge of the counter. You groan into his mouth, let your arms wrap around the broad expanse of his shoulders, and melt into the hand his puts on your lower back.

There’s a fumbling of limbs when he finally lets go of the grip he’s had on your hair, palms against the globes of your ass as he pulls you up, legs wrapping around his waist. He’s kissing you as he walks to the couch - it’s old, pattern faded, and when you sit on it you feel the springs pressing into you from below, but none of that matters when you’re legs are splayed wide across his thighs, straddling him as his hands rip open the blouse he bought not two days ago. It’s torn from your body, cups of your bra pulled down, nipple sucked into his mouth, his tongue swirling it into a stiff peak before he’s switching to the other one.

Your hand is on the back of his neck, gripping tightly to the unruly curls there, body leaning back in pleasure as your start to subtly grind your hips down into his.

“I fucking hate you,” You breathe, knowing you don’t really, not deep down, just for right now, “This is all your fault.”

“All my fault?” He asks, voice gruff as his teeth nip at the delicate skin on your breath, “I didn’t force you to stab him.”

He sucks your nipple back into his mouth, this time adding his teeth, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your cunt throb.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to me that night,” You moan out when he lets your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other one, “If I didn’t know you existed this never would’a happened.”

You hear him chuckle a little against your skin, as if it’s not a bare-faced lie. Whether he’d have been here or not, you’re sure that knife would have found it’s way into your husband one way or another. Joel just adds a complication, another person who doesn’t need to be caught up in this.

He doesn’t reply, all he does is grip harder to your ass through your jeans and drag you across the growing bulge in his own. You can feel him pushing up into you, the friction of the clothes between you making you sigh as you continue grinding yourself across his jean-covered cock.

It goes on like this for a while, kissing and biting at each other, until Joel has enough. His hands move from gripping painfully to your ass to effortlessly unbuttoning and unzipping your own jeans. You lift up just enough for him to pull them down over your ass, taking your underwear with them. There’s awkward fumbling whilst you try and manoeuvre them off your body whilst staying as close to him as possible, but eventually you get there.

Before you can settle back to rubbing your wet pussy along the bulge of his trousers, his hand cups you. The heat is stifling, almost unbearable, hot skin against hot skin, but when his fingers find you soaked, and he’s pressing two inside you, everything makes sense again.

Nothing outside of this room matters. Not for the next few hours. The police, the dead husband, the nightmares that have started to creep in at night. None of it matters anymore. Not when Joel curls his fingers just perfectly, making you cry out to the ceiling with your head tossed back. When it’s like this you remember why you did it, to be with him, and only him.

“Knew this would’a shut you up.” Joel murmurs into your skin, face pressed between your breasts as he nips marks into the skin there.

Your hips are working in time to the thrusts of his fingers inside you, shamelessly grinding yourself into his palm so it’s not just his fingers inside that are setting you alight, but the palm of his hand rubbing against your clit on every move forward you make.

You can feel yourself tightening around him, getting closer, and you know he can feel it too, his fingers getting harder inside you with each push.

“Come on baby,” He coos, “Let go for me.”

And it’s always been that simple. He only has to say it and you do. Soft screams filling the room as your cunt spasms around his fingers. Body shaking as he holds you to his own, working you through it.

There’s no real reprieve for you after. Joel shifts you so you’re lying face down on the couch, and through the haze you can hear his belt buckle being undone and the zipper of his jeans being pulled down.

His hand fishes underneath your body, pulling you up so you’re draped across the arm of the couch, ass splayed upwards and legs spread wide. His hand runs up and down your swollen cunt a few times, gathering your wetness which you know he’s using to pump his cock with, before you feel the head of him at your hole.

He’s unforgiving when he pushes in, giving you everything all at once as he surges forward inside of you. He’s touching the deepest parts of you and you swear you see stars. You hear him sucking in breath behind you, his two hands gripping your ass to pull you open you he can watch himself slide in and out of your cunt.

There are no words spoken between the two of you, the only sounds that can be heard are the sounds of his skin slapping against yours, the obscene squelch of you cunt when he pushes in, and the moans you both let out.

He’s rough, but you don’t mind. You want it to consume you, the pleasure and the tinge of pain every time his cock nudges at your cervix. It means you don’t think about anything else, just how good this feels, how good he makes you feel and how right it feels now that there isn’t someone else to think about. Joel has always felt right, like the person you were always meant to find, but it’s different now.

One of his hands comes up to grip your wrist on the arm of the couch, dragging it underneath you until you feel your cunt.

“Rub it for me baby,” He growls into your ear, “I wanna do this one together.”

So you do - you circle your clit with your middle finger, pressing harder and harder on every circle as he pounds into your cunt like it’s the last time he’ll have you like this. He’s gripping the back of your neck, pushing you further down into the material of the couch.

“Come on baby,” He groans above you, “You can do it.”

“Joel,” You squeak out, almost pathetically, “I think I’m gonna-”

“Go on then baby,” He says, “I’m right behind you.”

You let yourself go, feeling your cunt squeeze his cock as you gush around him. Your mouth is dropped open but there is no sound, only the hot spark that flushes across your body when he buries himself as deep inside of you as he can and stills, filling every inch of you with his cum.

His body falls onto yours, both of you struggling to catch breath as you recover. Joel eventually moves enough so that you can both lay down, pressed up against his body, almost uncomfortably so. His skin is hot to the touch and you can see small bruises on his neck and chest starting to rise where you’d bitten him - you suspect you must look the same.

There’s silence for a while, his hand tracing gently up and down your back, before you can think to ask anything.

“What are we gonna do, Joel?”

It takes him a while to respond, probably weighing up his options. There aren’t many. He goes home and has to explain everything to the police and goes to jail, or he stays here with you, keeps running and hope for the best.

He’s quiet when he says it, but you can tell when he does speak that whatever he’s feeling is genuine. He’s too far in now, there’s no going back, and you both know that.

“We keep runnin’ baby.”

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ when i feel you (from within), i exist. : second half.

wnba!paige x wnba!azzi. men & minors dni.

hey, sugar. read the first part here.

cw: that weird blurring of lines in your friendship when you’re both in love with each other, light sexual content, mentions of weed, love confessions, avoiding each other at public events, the embarrassment of wanting someone so badly you'd do anything for it, being mean to each other because it's easier than taking the leap.

notes: i hope you guys enjoy this. i feel a bit kinder about it than the first part. still giving credit to where credit is due. dedicated to the beautiful @loeysoi simply because i love her and appreciate her warm, creative spirit so much.

anyway, i hope you all enjoy. all my love. always.

they don’t talk about it, but it consumes them. it almost seems to up the stakes. they think about it all the time. 

paige thinks about it, gasping and shuddering underneath the ho,t spraying shame of the shower. azzi thinks about it, lying on her side in the dark with her eyes pressed shut and her mouth parted. 

they both get invited to the same athletic philanthropy event. something clean and public and charitable, which makes it worse, somehow.

azzi sees paige first. she always does. paige is near the drinks table, talking with her teammates, backlit by the golden wash of some fake candlelight. when paige finally sees azzi, it’s later, deliberately so. she has that practiced distance, the kind that makes you feel childish for wanting anything. the realization, once made, makes azzi’s face flush with the salt-heat that comes with tears. 

she turns to go three hours in, her blown-out curls now flat and devoid of any further interest to beautify her tonight. she looks beautiful as she leaves (she comes to this conclusion later via an instagram fan page) in her gown: blue leopard, cut down to her belly like an incision. her chest peeks out delicately, something azzi often feels she isn’t, and she’s careful to be camera-aware as she bends to scoop teammates and friends into loose, departing side hugs. 

she makes it down the long velvet hallway on her own. it smells like mildew. old money and old fabric. it’s a museum, so there are exhibits to catch her eye. she’s calling her driver. she’s almost out. but it’s on the stairs that she finally falls. 

she trips over air, or maybe all of her carefully built emotional architecture, built just for this evening, has found the crack in its foundation. 

either way, she’s going down. one step, one twist of the foot. 

she lands hard. hits the middle spread of the staircase, the step wide enough for her to bring her knees to stone and crack the front of her foot against the edge before rolling over with a sick little cry. she winces as she examines the sole of her foot, the awkward roll and bend of her ankle. lets out a mewl of pain as she presses into the center. 

there’s a sharp cut there, beading with blood like a stigmata. there’s not a lot, but there’s just enough to embarrass her. 

and then paige is there. of course. not running, not even striding. just appearing, like she’d been there all along. she’s at the bottom of the stairs, hands in her pockets, mouth drawn into something unreadable. 

her eyes move over azzi’s body. assessing, maybe. amused. azzi feels the salt-heat climb back into her face. she wants to get up on her own, to say something casual, to pretend none of this matters. 

she wasn’t going to say anything, really. she wasn’t. she was going to be good about it with a slight grimace and roll of her eyes as if to say god, i’m so clumsy, even though they both know it’s not true. but instead, her skin-brain connection is corrupted, and the pain wins out, and she says it before she means to.

“fuck you.”

it comes out low and neat. not thrown, not spat. in the same way her flatmate in london used to drink whiskey during that one semester abroad. measured and burning. it seems to hit paige like a slap. 

one light eyebrow lifts, then both. cartoonish surprise. azzi tries to push herself up, mortified, but her ankle screams and she crashes back down, dress blooming around her like a wave.

somewhere in the distance, someone puts on “empires” by niki and the dove like a sick joke.

nothing stays the same i've learned my lesson well if you wish too hard it eludes you just the same but my love is young, it's young it burns the edges of my heart i'm dying for ya

her scream gets swallowed up by the synths. it’s grotesque and a little funny. she hates that.

paige moves then, her body always responding to azzi’s own, and practically flies up the steps to where her best friend is heaving hard through her nose. azzi isn’t in any position to refuse her help, but she digs her nails into paige’s pale shoulder when she bends and smiles, sharp and bittersweet, at the pained grunt she gets in response. 

maybe that’s why paige is purposefully so slow when she picks her up, strong hands sliding up beneath azzi’s clenched thighs and gathering up every bit of her dress as she swings her off the ground. it’s definitely that and not the fact that there’s love between them threatening to be lost. love, along with the memory of their bodies wet and pressed together in the sanctity of that dallas shower. 

her face gets rushed with that burst of tears again, and she tries to turn away, but once again paige proves that she knows her innately, is so intimately involved with the fabric of who azzi is. paige slows, a hand coming up to tenderly bring azzi’s face into the open by the base of her neck. 

“hey,” she says, and azzi begins blinking fast because everything is fine. it is. “hey. azzi, mama, look at me. does it hurt?”

azzi lies, but not really. “yeah.”

“shit, maybe we should take you to the er. they can—“

“charge me thousands for what i already know?” azzi snaps. “i just need to put ice on it.”

paige is quiet for a moment, and then she says, “okay, princess.”

and azzi knows when they get to her car, paige is going to climb right in after her and sit with her hands curled around the delicate bridge of her calf as she keeps her foot elevated. and then they’re going to arrive at azzi’s apartment. 

and then paige will never leave. 

which azzi used to want. but since the kiss, she’s not sure anymore. because paige let her leave. well, maybe azzi could’ve—

the car pulls round and azzi looks right into the headlights, lets the mean shine bleach out all of her doubts.

✈︎

“god, are you trying to kill me?” 

paige looks up from where she’s bandaging azzi’s foot. 

“i don’t know,” she answers drily, and azzi rolls her eyes. “i could be asking you the same question.” 

azzi flushes then. 

when they’d entered her apartment she’d immediately demanded paige put her down and had shimmied out of her dress until she only had her ass tucked into a pair of deep blue briefs and a bare chest. she’d ignored the hitch of paige’s breath from behind her and hobbled into her bedroom to grab an oversized loewe cotton tee. 

she’d planned to hobble her way back out, but paige had come into the room with a hard look and swung her back up until she could dump her onto the l-shaped sectional.  

“bitch,” azzi mutters and paige presses her thumb into the bruise right above her ankle. 

azzi cracks her jaw with the clench of it, and paige’s mouth quirks up. 

“watch your mouth, az.”

and just like that, she’s back in doctor mode. her hands are clinical, confident. azzi watches her and aches.

it reminds her of high school, college. when bruises were an invitation. when paige used to press into her softest spots, those mottled blooms of gold and violet, under tables and behind closed doors, pushing until azzi broke. her eyes or her cunt, one of them always leaking. 

they never talked about that either.

god forbid. 

paige’s eyes are still trained on the swelling like it’s got secrets. if she keeps pressing it, something’s going to speak.

so, she presses again. slower this time. thumb dragging just slightly across the indigo strip of pain swatched across azzi’s brown skin like she’s testing ripeness. like she’s wondering: which one is wet?

something in azzi’s stomach flips.

it’s not a question out loud, but it hangs in the room like steam. and azzi knows what she means. or doesn’t mean. or can’t say. her thighs twitch a little, involuntarily, and she hates herself for it. hates how paige notices. how her steel blue eyes flick up, fast and sharp.

“does that hurt?” she asks, the words so soft they’re nearly a coo. her thumb stills, warm and heavy against the throb.

azzi nods. lies again. or maybe doesn’t.

“here?” paige asks, sliding the edge of her thumb lower, closer to the hinge of azzi’s ankle. slower this time, like she’s waiting for the wince, or the breath hitch. like she wants to feel it in her teeth.

“paige,” azzi says, and it’s not a protest. it’s a warning. or a plea.

“hmm?”

azzi leans back against the couch like she’s trying to melt into it. tries to tilt her face away, but paige’s free hand catches her at the neck again, not rough but definite. they’re always like this: somewhere between a chokehold and a cradle.

“you’re flushed,” paige murmurs, the thumb still circling now in a pattern azzi can’t ignore. “you hot?”

“you know i am,” azzi says, and it’s an irritated whisper.

paige hums again and lets the sentence curl in her mouth before she licks it clean and says, “yeah. i know.”

she shifts forward, her hand never leaving azzi’s ankle, and the other trailing up her calf now, slow and reverent. “still wanna ice it?”

azzi can’t answer. 

doesn’t want to. 

she just lets her legs part a little wider and watches the way paige’s mouth changes when she notices. but then. but then paige gets closer, and once again, azzi just blurts it out, her mouth a river with no dam. 

“will we always be like this? just pressing?” 

and it’s so revealing. the ache persists in the way she says “just pressing.” it’s tactile and vague and brutal all at once. it reveals how their bodies are always so close but never aligned, always almost.

paige doesn’t answer. maybe her hand presses just a little harder, and azzi gasps. 

her whole body folds in on itself like a piece of fruit bruising from the inside out, and paige—sweet, stubborn, unbearable, in love paige—presses again like she’s asking something with her hands that she doesn’t have the language for. 

and azzi, caught in that taut place between wanting and wincing, kicks out reflexively. not hard, not really, but it’s the wounded foot. the one she’d been babying. the one paige had carried her because of.

the contact is enough. it doesn’t injure, but it startles. azzi’s ankle throbs, and her chest feels worse, like it’s been punctured. when paige reaches out again, softly this time, carefully now, azzi jerks away, and her eyes are welling, and they both realize they’re standing on the edge of something they can’t unknow.

azzi is tearing up and trying not to, and it’s worse because she knows what it means now. knows that pressing can’t be only “play” anymore. not if it makes her cry. not when it’s been echoing in her chest since they were kids, since bruises under tables and reverent touching on court.

paige opens her mouth to say something. another sorry, maybe. azzi just shakes her head and says, quietly and shaking:

“we can’t keep doing this. it’s not just touching anymore.”

paige seems to drop like a body in a fall, and she bends until her forehead is on azzi’s shin and she can smell the thick slather of coconut oil and honey cream on the skin. she gathers strength that quickly dissipates as she thinks of what azzi may say if they do talk about it. 

“i asked you,” azzi continues, “not to be sorry. and then i texted you to talk about it because i knew we would end up just like this.”

“you broke the rule,” paige mumbles, and azzi pulls her bun so that the other woman lets out a hiss of pain. 

“it’s a stupid rule, madison.”

paige sits up then, her middle name coaxing out the meaner part of her that azzi secretly likes.

“don’t fucking call me that, azzi.”

“then stop being mean.”

“is this what you wanna do?” paige asks, squaring her shoulders. “because i can get real mean.”

“oh, fuck you, bueckers,” azzi huffs, and she tries to swing her legs off of the couch but paige holds her down with a warm palm on her good ankle. “always so big and bad.”

“nah, because you know that’s not the first time we’ve done that, but you want to talk about this one.”

something about that makes azzi feel as though she’s backed into a corner, so she verbally lunges with venom sweet and dripping from her teeth.

“i want to talk about this one because you can’t be a coward, and justify not talking about it because we're not teammates anymore.”

paige’s eye twitches, and azzi lets her sit there and flinch like she’s been buzzed by an electrical wire. she manages to get up and lets out a thin yelp from between her teeth. paige lets her be in pain, and that almost makes azzi cry. 

almost.

with a drawn-out sigh, she begins to hobble her way to her bedroom because she’s already embarrassed; she might as well commit to the bit. it’s a pitiful, miserable little escape, teeth gritted and eyes shining, and she can feel paige watching her go the same way you’d watch someone walk out into traffic. 

she makes it a few, bumbling, shuffling steps forward before paige pushes off the sectional and dives for her. they’re kids again: two newborn basketball prodigies with a rivalry running under the bone of the friendship. 

paige goes lower as azzi tries to weave out of the way, and snags her leg with an open hand. her fingers curl, long and hard, around the muscle, and azzi can’t pry it loose. so, as expected, she begins to fight. which means she falls. 

azzi yanks her leg up, trying to slide it out of paige’s hand, but paige has never been above playing dirty with her. her palm glides sweetly around azzi’s good ankle and then switches to the other, the one with the bone bruise and thirty thousand leagues of pain. she clutches it, and azzi lets loose a sharp “holy shit!” at the white flash of agony and stumbles.

she loses her balance, begins to plummet toward her shiny apartment flooring. paige catches her without thinking, rolls onto her back underneath her just in time. azzi lands heavy on top of her, her breath knocked out in a sharp, startled gasp.

their faces are too close, and azzi can feel the vibrational echo of the way their ribs knock together. paige’s hair has come loose. azzi can smell the cheap, scentless conditioner she always uses when she’s traveling. azzi plants her hands on paige’s chest to push herself up, but doesn’t.

her best friend’s hand is splayed wide over her spine. she can feel the tremor in it. the heartbeat. she feels it as it moves lower, as it dips to squeeze at the fatty crease of her ass and thighs. it’s less erotic than it would be with anyone else. 

paige always liked the fuller parts of her. azzi thinks it's because it makes her feel comfortable enough to take more. 

azzi narrows her eyes, narrows them further when paige mockingly does the same. she asks, breathless and wrecked,

"if i hadn't booked that flight to dallas, would you have ever called me?"

paige’s eyes widen, blue and startled. azzi’s hands are idly on her tits, and it would be slightly funny if azzi wasn’t desperate for the truth. instead, she presses down on the tissue. thinks of paige’s nipples, rosy pink and hard in the mornings when she takes those frigid showers, and then crushes them like the flowers they remind her of.

paige grunts, and she pushes uncomfortably on the base of azzi’s spine.

“chill,” is all she says, and azzi grabs her face and squeezes.

“i told you not to be sorry. i asked you not to regret it,” she says again.

paige shrugs. “‘nd i didn’t, ma.”

“you didn’t respond to my text message.”

“right, cause imessage is the place to have life-changing conversations. i wonder if our government’s tried that.”

“we could’ve facetimed,” azzi protests, slightly outraged. “you know that i’m always available for you.”

something flickers across paige’s face. azzi seizes it. 

that twitch, that terrified, guilty twitch, like a rabbit’s nose. she can see paige’s beautiful, pink brain begin to expand; she’s finally realizing the full weight of her, sitting on her chest, of how they sit in one another’s lives.

azzi tilts her head, lashes low, almost tender as she says,

"why. wouldn’t. you. call. why were you lying all alone, getting high like the loser you like to pretend to be? say it."

paige's throat bobs. she squeezes the meat of azzi’s thigh like she’s grounding herself there. she mutters, almost inaudibly:

"didn’t know if you wanted me to."

azzi lets out a little sound, high and bitten-off, like it tears straight out of her chest. she fists her hand harder in the collar of paige’s t-shirt.

“why wouldn’t i want you to, p?” paige relaxes slightly, knowing they’re back on softer ground with the use of the nickname. “what exactly was i doing that would’ve ever taken precedence over you?”

“you were in your skims dress,” paige says, and azzi’s face twists with confusion. “you posted a picture on your story. that’s your date dress.”

azzi sits back, eyes fluttering like she’s receiving a premonition. 

“you weren’t mad about losing the game,” she says, and it's not a question.

paige grins against her mouth, that stupid cocky grin azzi wants to punch out and kiss at the same time, and says:

“that’s the point of the game, princess. someone wins and someone loses.”

azzi closes her eyes. 

“there is something seriously wrong with you, paige.” she opens them again and reaches down to pinch the side of her best friend’s neck. "i was at a last minute brand event."

“hey!” paige squeals, and azzi lets a wry smile tug at her mouth. "how was i supposed to know that?"

"by calling me, madison," azzi hisses, sliding off of paige’s stomach to sit on the floor. she sighs.

“would you ever tell me that you loved me, if you did? like loved me. for real.”

she hears paige shifting, sees her rise in the periphery of her eyesight. she’s not sure why it surprises her when paige turns her head by the chin, fingertips fragile enough to allow azzi to pull away if she wants to.

“azzi,” she says, her face so soft it’s like a wound, “i do love you for real.”

azzi’s whole body jerks like she’s been struck. this is the body when it has forgotten how to process tenderness and has spent so long bracing for impact.

she blinks at paige, wide-eyed and trembling, mouth parted. for a second, they just stare at each other.

paige’s hand is still there, cradling the hinge of her jaw, thumb slipping instinctively higher, brushing the soft undercurve of azzi’s lip. she sends it higher, slips it inside. she tastes like azzi’s skin.

“are you into that?” paige murmurs, eyes never leaving her finger on the slick petal of azzi’s tongue. “tasting yourself?”

it’s too much.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” azzi answers.

paige smiles. azzi lets out a noise. it’s hoarse, punched-out, almost feral. she launches forward.

the kiss lands clumsily, all teeth and open mouths, azzi’s hands scrabbling at the loose fabric of paige’s t-shirt like she’s trying to climb inside her. paige catches her like she’s been waiting her whole life to. she’s still conscious of keeping azzi’s foot out of the collision, and that makes azzi kiss her harder.

she fists a hand in azzi’s curls and yanks her closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, until there’s no air left between them.

it’s not delicate. it’s not even sweet.  it’s desperate.

they are both swollen with greed.

azzi pulls back just an inch, just enough to pant against paige’s mouth, to feel her breath coming in hard waves. she searches her face, studies the flushed skin, the slack pink mouth, the wildness in paige’s blue eyes. 

paige must see the same thing reflected in her because she shudders, almost shakes. she grabs azzi’s shirt like she’s ripping off a band-aid. azzi lets it go. the cotton burns up somewhere behind them.

her mouth finds azzi’s breast like instinct, like muscle memory, needling at the peaked nipple with her teeth. azzi spasms so hard she almost tears away.

"mmm," she breathes out.

"yeah," paige answers, voice low and heavy like fruit. “c’mon, mama.”

then paige’s hand is slipping into the elastic of her shorts, blunt fingers dragging through slick, through heat, until they find the saltwater taffy pink of her, the electric pearl right above it. she presses there. not gently, not cruelly, just certain. azzi’s hips chase her touch.

azzi almost bites through her own tongue, trying not to scream. she knows what is wet this time.

she curls over paige like she’s trying to fold them into one person. she cups paige’s jaw, palms the strong lines of her throat and cheeks like she's memorizing them. paige presses her forehead to azzi’s, hand still working slowly, dragging circles, and mouths into the wet, open space between them:

"azzi."

paige lifts her head.

azzi cradles her face in both hands like she’s trying to crush paige and save her at the same time.

"p," she manages, and paige rubs against her with new urgency.

forehead to forehead. breath and blood and everything loud between them.

the wanting’s already unspooling through both of them, irreversible.

it’s good sometimes, azzi thinks, to break the rule.

© hcneymooners.

[saymyname-aufic]

That night, Audrey stayed awake even when everyone else went to bed.

When Audrey found the first signs of a spirit seeking her out, she chased it. She opened the the door, having memorised the password.

It was sitting on the porch and Audrey sat next to it. The wind whipped her hair around as she got comfortable, the spirit having no words for her yet.

The spirit was quiet and calmer than most. When he turned to Audrey, she gasped.

"John?"

"Hello," he said. "How are you doing?"

"What the actual fuck? What are you doing here?"

John smiled coyly, "Well that's a shitty thing to hear from a goddess."

Audrey blinked, "Since when do you even believe in that? I thought you were a cynic who believed in nothing?"

"Well, it's hard to be optimistic about anything when you're dead," John said, looking at her. "Besides, I always believed in you."

Audrey swallowed, looking away, "So, what's your unfinished business?"

"Is that what you call it?" John laughed, shaking his head.

"Shut up and tell me."

"You are, Audrey. You are my unfinished business."

Audrey felt as if the ground opened up beneath her. And, maybe if it had, if this was all a dream, then Audrey could pretend it was nothing more than a sick twist of the mind, "What?"

"I never...we never reconciled."

"I'm here now."

"Yes and immortal no less," John laughed. He turned to her, smiling, "In less than a summer?"

"I'm told it was after I got married."

Do you think covid existed in the Season? Do you think that for 2020-2021 Zeus couldn't host two Seasons. He had to wait until 2022 when restrictions finally lifted?

I'm gonna assume that covid didn't exist for my own sanity

[sturnsblogs]

SPIRALING DEPRESSION

Loser!Matt X Popular!Reader

—

Matt had never been the way he was being right now with you. He had never been this sad in his life. Usually, he wouldn’t give two fucks about girls. It was just how he was — careless, nonchalant, always the first one to stop caring. But you? You were different. You weren’t just some girl who would fade out of his life after a couple months. You were it. You were the thing he thought about when he woke up and the thing he wished he could dream about when he went to sleep. Losing you felt like the entire world dropped out from under him, like he couldn’t breathe right anymore, like nothing even mattered.

He didn’t go to school for a couple of days. Didn’t text anyone back. Barely even touched his phone except to scroll mindlessly until he felt sick. He didn’t leave his room. Didn’t eat. Didn’t even get up to shower. The only thing he did was smoke — over and over and over again until the air in his room was thick and heavy and the walls practically dripped with the smell of weed. His sheets smelled like it, his hair, his skin. It was all he could do to feel anything, even if it just made him feel worse afterward.

Nick would sometimes knock on his door, trying to sound casual, but he always ended up getting frustrated when Matt wouldn’t answer.

“Dude, seriously? Get your fucking act together,” Nick said one afternoon, standing with his arms crossed, his face twisted in a mix of worry and irritation. “You’re gonna ruin yourself over this shit? Over her?”

Matt didn’t even look at him. Just pulled the blanket further over his head, mumbling something that didn’t even make sense.

Chris handled it differently. He would sneak in quietly, set a plate of food down on Matt’s desk, and sit there for a while without saying anything. Then eventually, when Matt still wouldn’t move, Chris would sigh and come sit on the edge of the bed, nudging his shoulder gently.

“C’mon, Matt… please?” Chris said one night, his voice soft like he was talking to a little kid. “You gotta eat, bro. You’re scaring us.”

Matt shook his head, sinking deeper into the mattress, his voice hoarse and low.

“M’not hungry…”

Chris stayed sitting there for a minute longer, staring down at his brother, not knowing what else to say. What could he even say? That it was gonna get better? That Matt would forget about you? They both knew it would be a lie.

Matt didn’t want to forget you.

He just wanted you back.

And it was eating him alive.

Chris sat there quietly for a while, not moving, not saying anything else. He kept glancing at Matt out of the corner of his eye, his heart sinking with every second that passed. It wasn’t like Matt to shut down like this. Yeah, he could be distant, closed off — but never like this. Never so completely… gone.

Finally, Chris shifted closer, carefully lifting the blanket and sliding under it next to Matt like they were little kids again. He didn’t say anything at first, just laid there, wrapping an arm around Matt’s shoulders, pulling him close. Matt stiffened for a second, like he was embarrassed, but he didn’t pull away. He just let Chris hold him.

Chris tightened his hold slightly, resting his chin lightly on Matt’s head.

“You’re allowed to not be okay, you know…” Chris murmured, his voice so soft it barely made it over the sound of Matt’s shaky breathing. “You don’t gotta pretend with me.”

Matt didn’t answer.

He didn’t even nod.

He just laid there, eyes burning, throat tight, chest heavy like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried.

Chris squeezed him a little tighter, trying to get something out of him — a word, a sound, anything.

“Talk to me, Matty,” he whispered. “Please, man. Just… say something.”

But Matt couldn’t.

He couldn’t even move.

It felt like if he opened his mouth, he would just start crying and he wouldn’t be able to stop. It felt like if he let himself speak, he would fall apart completely, and maybe he wouldn’t ever be able to put himself back together again. He was so tired. So angry. So heartbroken. It all just sat in his chest like concrete, heavy and cold.

Chris felt him trembling a little, felt how tense he was, and it made his stomach twist painfully.

“You don’t have to fix it all right now, okay?” Chris whispered. “You just gotta let someone be there for you.”

Still, Matt stayed silent, his hands fisting the blanket tightly. His jaw was clenched so hard it hurt. His heart was pounding in his ears. He wasn’t okay.

And he didn’t know how to be anymore.

Chris stayed.

Held him tighter.

And didn’t leave.

Later that night, Chris sat on the edge of his bed, his phone burning a hole in his hand. He kept thinking about Matt — the way he barely moved, barely breathed. It made him sick. It made him angry. He didn’t even care if it wasn’t his place. He couldn’t watch Matt be ripped apart like this and stay quiet.

His fingers moved faster than his brain could catch up.

He opened your contact and started typing.

He didn’t even stop to think.

Chris: “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

He barely gave you time to respond before another text came flying through.

Chris: “You think it’s funny? You think it’s cute how you broke him?”

Chris: “You have NO idea how bad he’s been. He’s not eating. He’s not sleeping. He’s not even talking.”

His hands were shaking with how pissed off he was.

Chris: “You don’t even care. You’re so wrapped up in that fake piece of shit you don’t even see what you did to him.”

Chris: “He would’ve given you the world and you picked that!?”

He took a second, breathing hard, seeing the little “typing…” bubble pop up for a second — but he didn’t care what you were going to say. He wasn’t done.

Chris: “He’s fucking broken. Because of you.”

Chris: “And what’s sad is he STILL would probably take you back.”

He tossed his phone on the bed, running his hands through his hair, pacing because he couldn’t sit still. His stomach twisted up in knots, guilt biting at him but anger pushing harder.

Because Matt didn’t deserve this.

Not even a little bit.

And if no one else was gonna say it, Chris would.

Your hands were trembling as you read the messages. Every single word felt like it was slicing straight through your chest. You couldn’t even breathe properly, your heart hammering against your ribs. Without even thinking, you typed back fast, your fingers shaking.

You: “chris pls let me come over. please.”

There was no hesitation in his response.

Chris: “No.”

Just one word. Cold. Harsh. It made your stomach drop. Your throat tightened as you typed again.

You: “please. i’m begging you. i never meant for it to be this way.”

You: “i didn’t know he was hurting this bad. i didn’t know.”

You: “please chris. i need to see him. please.”

You stared at the screen, willing him to answer. Every second felt like it stretched on forever. You wiped your eyes harshly, holding your breath — until finally, three little dots appeared.

Chris: “Fine.”

Chris: “But if you come over and make it worse, i’m kicking you the fuck out. i’m serious.”

You didn’t even wait to respond. You grabbed your shoes, slipped them on with fumbling hands, and practically ran out the door.

Your mind was spinning the whole way there.

You didn’t know what you were going to say.

You didn’t even know if Matt would want to see you.

But you had to try.

You had to fix this.

Somehow.

You barely even knocked on the front door before Chris was yanking it open. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at you. He just jerked his thumb toward the stairs, his face hard and tired.

You whispered a tiny, “Thank you,” but he didn’t respond.

You didn’t expect him to.

Your legs felt like they were made of lead as you climbed the stairs. Every step felt heavier, slower, the air thicker. When you got to Matt’s door, your heart just about broke. It was cracked open a sliver, just enough to see the dim light spilling out from inside, and you could hear the faint sound of music playing from his phone. Something soft and low and sad.

You pushed it open a little more.

There he was.

Curled up in his bed, hoodie pulled up over his head, blanket wrapped around him like a shield. His whole room smelled like weed and sadness. His back was facing you. He didn’t even turn around. He must’ve thought it was Chris again.

You swallowed hard, blinking back tears.

You took a slow, tiny step inside.

Your voice barely came out.

“Matt…?” you whispered, so gentle, so soft, like you were scared you might break him even more if you spoke too loud.

He froze. His whole body stiffened under the blanket.

Slowly, so slowly, he peeked his head out from under his hood, his red puffy eyes meeting yours.

The second he saw you, everything just dropped. His tough guy act, his anger, his walls — it all crumbled in one second.

His lip trembled just a little. His chest rose and fell in a shaky breath. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

You crossed the room without thinking, barely giving him a second to stop you. You sat down right beside him, your hands so, so careful, so delicate, like touching him wrong might shatter him completely.

You brushed your fingertips against his sleeve, a question in your touch.

He answered without words — he grabbed onto you.

Desperately.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like if he let go, you might disappear.

Matt buried his face into your shoulder, dragging you into him like he needed you to breathe, like your presence alone could fix the giant hole in his chest. His hands fisted the back of your hoodie tightly, squeezing you against him like he was scared you’d run.

You could feel how fast his heart was beating. How tense he still was.

You whispered against his ear, “I’m here, Matt… I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out the tiniest, broken noise. His arms wrapped around you even tighter, his nose nudging into the side of your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen.

“I missed you,” he mumbled, voice raw and hoarse. “Missed you so much. Needed you…”

You just held him, your fingers tangling into his hair, gentle and slow.

You didn’t tell him it was going to be okay — because you didn’t know if it would be.

You just let him cling to you.

And that was enough.

You sat with him like that for a while — no words, just quiet breathing, the weight of everything between you pressing down but not crushing you yet.

Eventually, you felt him start to shake a little.

It wasn’t from crying.

It was weakness.

You pulled back just enough to see his face — pale, drained, his eyes barely staying open. Your heart twisted painfully.

“Matty…” you whispered, brushing the hair out of his eyes, “you need to eat something.”

He immediately shook his head, stubborn, like a little kid.

“M’not hungry,” he rasped, voice scratchy from days of barely talking. He buried his face back into your neck like he could hide from the world there.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him tighter.

“Please? For me?” you murmured, your voice so gentle it almost didn’t even sound like yours.

He hesitated.

You felt the way his body sagged, the smallest bit of his fight leaving him.

Finally, with a tiny, reluctant nod, he gave in.

You kissed the top of his head softly, whispering, “Good boy…”

He blushed, hiding even further into you, but he let you tug him out of bed.

You kept your hand laced with his as you led him downstairs, slow and careful, like he was made of glass. Chris and Nick watched from the living room but didn’t say anything — they just exchanged a look. Relief, maybe.

You grabbed a bowl of fruit, the softest thing you could find, and sat him down at the table. You knelt in front of him, holding up a piece to his mouth like you were taking care of a patient.

Matt gave you this tiny, almost embarrassed glance — but he opened his mouth and let you feed him.

“Good,” you whispered, smiling softly.

You fed him slowly, piece by piece.

Every time he chewed, you whispered little praises under your breath.

“You’re doing so good, Matty…”

“I’m so proud of you, baby…”

“Almost done, okay?”

When he finished, you kissed his hand and smiled up at him, and for the first time in days, his eyes didn’t look so completely dead.

—

Later, you helped him back upstairs.

You could tell he still felt gross and heavy, his skin clammy, his clothes reeking of smoke and sadness.

Without thinking, you whispered, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

He blinked down at you, confused — like he wasn’t sure if you were serious.

But when you tugged him gently into the bathroom and turned the shower on warm, he didn’t fight you.

He just stood there, staring at you with wide, exhausted eyes.

You helped him pull off his hoodie, your fingers delicate, like you were undressing something fragile. His shirt next.

You glanced up at him — he looked almost shy, almost vulnerable in a way you had never seen him before.

You smiled sweetly, stepping back a little. “Go ahead, baby. I’ll wait right here.”

Matt nodded, stepping into the shower. The second the warm water hit him, he sagged against the wall, like he could finally breathe.

You sat on the floor outside the tub, leaning your back against the door, talking softly to him the whole time so he wouldn’t feel alone.

When he got out, you wrapped a towel around his shoulders and dried his hair carefully with another.

He didn’t stop looking at you the whole time — his eyes wide, almost glassy with emotion.

“You’re so good to me,” he mumbled, voice breaking.

You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“You deserve someone being good to you, Matty,” you whispered back.

He leaned into your touch like he needed it to survive.

After you finished drying him off, you knelt there for a second, just holding the towel around his shoulders, breathing with him. He looked better already — the warmth back in his skin, the slight pink on his cheeks from the steam.

You stood up carefully, grabbing one of his hoodies from his dresser — an old faded one that you knew was his favorite — and a pair of clean sweats. You turned back to him, smiling softly.

“C’mere,” you whispered.

Matt obeyed without a single word, stepping closer to you like he was in a trance. You helped him into his clothes, your fingers brushing against his skin in the softest, most careful touches. Every time he flinched or shivered, you would just pause, rubbing small circles into his arms until he relaxed again.

Once he was dressed, you tucked him gently back into bed like he was something precious.

But you didn’t stop there.

You looked around the room, your heart sinking at the state of it — the overwhelming smell of smoke, the mess, the thick heaviness in the air.

Without needing to be asked, you cracked open the window, letting fresh air in.

You found an old candle on his desk, lit it, and placed it on his nightstand.

You picked up the empty bottles, the dirty clothes, quietly making the room feel livable again — a safe place instead of a graveyard.

Matt just laid there watching you, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling slowly under the clean hoodie.

“You didn’t have to do that…” he rasped out when you finally sat back down on the bed.

You just smiled at him, brushing his damp hair out of his eyes.

“I wanted to,” you whispered.

For a second, it felt okay.

Better.

Like maybe — maybe — everything could be okay again.

But then Matt spoke again, his voice small and shaky.

“I don’t trust him,” he mumbled, almost like he was scared to say it out loud. “Noah. I swear, Y/N…he’s not who you think he is.”

You felt your heart tighten.

You hated seeing him like this — so broken, so worried — but you also knew how messy everything was, how complicated.

You reached out, squeezing his hand softly.

“Matt,” you said gently, “I know you’re just trying to protect me. I get it, I do. But…Noah’s been good to me.”

Matt’s jaw tightened, his whole body going tense.

“I swear to God, if he hurts you—”

“He won’t,” you interrupted, voice still soft but firm. “Please…please just trust me on this, okay?”

He looked like he wanted to argue — so badly — but when he saw the look in your eyes, something in him just crumbled.

He nodded stiffly, looking away, biting at his lip to keep the words in.

You crawled back into bed next to him, pulling the covers up around both of you.

Without even thinking, Matt wrapped his arms around you, holding you against his chest like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart again.

And you let him.

Because you needed him too, more than you wanted to admit.

—

A/N- Her calling him baby makes me wanna die even tho i wrote it.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @sturnl0ve @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill @fadedstvrn @ikyoudreamofme @mattsdemi @kitkatbar1275 @skelet0nsinmyycloset @lezleeferguson-120 @bells-sturn @sturniolosymphony @kenziesturniolo54 @kikirasweatsweathoho @emely9274 @cherryystemm @realuvrrr @zenithsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @eeyoresturnz @elizasturn @ribread03 @sturnslux3 @costalgirlyr @pizzapocketpocketpizza @arianna1342 @mattsplaything @ed1tssturnn @ivysturnss @ilovemenwithlonghairr @whore4-chrissturniolo

[mediumgayitalian]

Will wakes up a little bit stuck and a lot bit hot. It’s just past sunrise, from what he can see out of the mostly-shuttered window, which means he’s just past late. Fuck.

“Nico,” he whispers, trying and failing to delicately free himself, “Nico, un-octopus. I gotta pee.”

He does have to pee. Moreso, he needs to wake up and leave, but if Nico hears so much of a syllable pertaining to his abandonment he will never let go. Ergo. Will has learned some creativity.

“Mmfggh,” groans Nico, maturely. He tightens his arms around Will’s waist and buries his face deeper into the (boiling, suffering, sweating, etc) crook of his neck. “No. Suffer.”

“Nico.”

“Sh.”

“Nico.”

“Sh. I’m sleeping.” Will feels more than sees one eye opening, eyelashes tickling his skin. He can guess at the glare. “Don’t you want me to be well-rested and healthy.”

“Right now I kind of want to flick you, honestly.”

Nico hides a smile along Will’s spine.

“That’s because you’re sick and twisted.”

“Mhm. Get off, di Angelo.”

Nico pouts but, finally, relents: he loosens his hold not enough for Will to roll out but enough that he can actually fill his lungs with enough oxygen to wiggle his way to the edge of the bed. Nico, as soon as Will is not glued to him, huffs and rolls over, smothering himself in Will’s pillow.

“I see how it is,” he complains, muffled. “You don’t want me. Fine. See if I hold you next time you come in here all needy and affectionate.” He shifts just enough to glare, once he’s sure Will is looking. “I’ll close the door in your face.”

Will rolls his eyes, smiling. He’s late, but he lingers a moment, tracing his fingers across Nico’s spine, his ribs; trailing along the reddened scratches over his shoulders and ignoring Nico’s nooooo leave them leave them as he heals them.

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“I mean it!”

“Right. You meant it yesterday, too, and yet…”

“You seduced me,” Nico says, emphatically. He sits up quickly and catches Will’s hand, staring at him hard and serious — enough so that Will almost believes him, except the corner of his mouth twitches. “You — did some kind of spell fuckery on me, no doubt purchased from your various witchy sources, and all restraint — gone. Poof. And I have restraint in abundance, so obviously it was not my weakness.”

“Obviously,” Will agrees. “Not like you say my name in your sleep and wake up pouting if I so much as breathe near the door. ‘Course not.”

Nico goes pink. “I — do not.”

Will grins. “You do. Sometimes you try and kiss the air where you imagine I am.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Whatever you need to believe, darlin’. It’s not like I’m allergic to lying.”

He leaves Nico sputtering, cackling on his way to the ensuite. It is half the reason he’s dating Nico, honestly. How come Will’s cabin doesn’t get an ensuite? They’ve got like a billion people in there. They need it more than he does.

But, well. Will needs an ensuite to get ready most mornings, because he’s up before the harpies are cleared for the night, so he supposes he will just have to sleep at Nico’s more often than not. Shame. Tragedy, really, because he is just so attached to his twin bed that is not long enough for his legs. Too bad.

“I can hear you rearranging products in there,” Nico calls, still grouchy. “Cut it out.”

Will turns the last tube of hair gel so it is just slightly off-centred from the rest of the products. He smiles around his toothbrush.

“Wouldn’t be such an issue if you didn’t have so much hair shit,” he responds, spitting into the sink.

“You should have more hair products! Look at yourself!”

Will does not. He does not have a sister who continues to look judgementally upon his mess of a head and passive aggressively but lovingly gift him hair supplies for all birthdays. He also does not have time to do his hair. Less people should maim themselves for Will to handle all day, and then maybe he’ll do something with his hair.

“You think my hair is sexy,” Will says, walking back into the main cabin. Nico harrumphs from under the covers, notably not denying it, and stares unabashedly — not that there is much to see, since it’s still pretty dark out — at Will while he changes. Will slips on a scrub top and then walks over and pinches him.

“Ow,” Nico whines, rubbing the spot as if he did not try to hide the stab wound he got sparring from him yesterday. “You hurt me.”

“Mhm. You objectified me.”

“…Only a little!”

Will shakes his head, smiling, and leans down — holding Nico’s wandering hands away from the hem of his shirt, he has places to be and has been distracted enough already — to kiss him. It’s a challenge, pressing his smile to Nico’s pout, but very quickly Nico sighs, eyes fluttering shut, and Will can kiss him properly.

“I’ll come wake you up again around noon if you’re not already up,” he murmurs. “I have to open the infirmary, but then I’m practicing for the rest of the day. You’re coming to my game, right?”

Nico tries to slide his hands up Will’s chest. Will bats his hands away.

“Yes,” he says, mournfully. “I will come watch you hit a ball around with other such interested jocks.”

“Bring your pom-poms,” Will says, cheeky, “and I wouldn’t remiss a matching skirt.”

He pulls away to Nico’s snorting laugh, wiggling his fingers in a wave as he heads to the door. He hears Nico’s quick have fun, goober as he pushes the solid obsidian shut behind him and blows a kiss at the window. He stands on the veranda, stretching, and relaxes with a sigh, staring across the common.

Gods, it is early.

And cold.

He trudges his way to the infirmary, anyway, already anticipating tonight’s koala cuddling.

———

next

[prythiansprincess]

DELIRIUM | a stalker! theo au.

"you're so fucking special; I wish I was special."

word count: 5,662.

warnings: please read all trigger warnings before proceeding. dead dove do not eat, noncon, murder, coercion, stalking, assault, manipulation, gaslighting, knife play, blood play, abusive behavior.

author's note: I don't say it lightly when I say that this fic is very dark. I fully understand that the topics and themes discussed are not for everyone, so please be mindful of the warnings before engaging. special thanks to @writingsbychlo for proofreading and encouraging my over all psychophathy.

♫ creep - radiohead. nav. stalker! theo.

There was something wrong with Theo Nott. 

Perhaps it was a result of his traumatic upbringing or perhaps it was simply encrypted into his genetic code, but whether nature or nurture was to be blamed, this simple truth was certain: a sick, twisted, and insatiable monster lurked within him and its hunger could be satiated by one thing and one thing only — you. 

In the deepest and darkest depths of his inky black heart, Theo knew that he was completely and utterly fucked up. This thing inside of him — this madness — rendered him incapable of forming healthy relationships. Time and time again, his passions and proclivities hinted towards a more sinister nature. Some called him deranged, delirious, delusional, but Theo simply thought of himself as a hopeless romantic. 

Theo was not the type of man to harbor a crush or entertain a fling or succumb to a fleeting infatuation that eventually faded over time. When he loved, he loved with his entire being. He loved until it became a fixation, a compulsion, an obsession. This has and always will be his fatal flaw. 

From a young age, Theo learned that he was not normal. When he presented Pansy Parkinson with the front teeth of the boy who dared knock her off the swings, that was not normal. When he gifted Daphne Greengrass the rotting carcass of a bird that had kept her up with the incessant tapping of its beak against her bedroom window, that was not normal. When he offered to carve the initials of Mattheo Riddle into his skin to prove his loyalty, that was not normal. 

Theo was bereft when his friends cried and fled from him, feeling distraught and disappointed by their reactions. After all, he had only done those things to make them happy. Why couldn’t they see that?

When his mother found him crying in the Nott Manor gardens, she explained to him that he was a very special boy. That his capacity for love would be misunderstood by those around him because they simply could not feel the way that he did. The intensity of his emotions surpassed their understanding; they didn’t know what it was like to be irrevocably consumed by love. His devotion could be misconstrued, his affection scorned, which is why it became imperative for Theo to shield himself from the world until the right person came along. 

So, he conformed, he adapted, he survived, but Theo knew it was only a matter of time before his carefully constructed mask slipped. 

In the back of a crowded restaurant, Theo swirled the glass of wine in his hand before taking a long sip. The waiter had recommended the red vintage, droning on and on about the quality of the 1978 Barolo Montorfino and the meticulous aging process of the Nebbiolo grapes to produce this particular bottle. Theo fought the urge to roll his eyes. He already knew all of this, given that the wine was produced by his family’s vineyard in the Italian countryside. 

The complex flavor danced on his tongue. On any other occasion, he might have savored the hints of cherry, roses, and truffle peeking through its rich-bodied profile, but Theo tasted nothing but ash in his mouth. Because across the rooftop sat the woman of his dreams, drinking and laughing and dining with another man. Theo gripped the stem of his glass until his knuckles turned white. 

Needless to say, the night was not going as Theo intended it to. It was supposed to be him feeding you little bites of tagliatelle, topping your wine off with a wink, and listening to your melodious voice recount silly anecdotes about yourself. Instead, Adrian fucking Pucey was blattering on like a bloody twat, failing to appreciate the goddess seated across from him. The stupid prick was probably too busy gauging whether or not he was going to get lucky tonight. As if Theo would ever let that happen. 

No, that simply wouldn’t do. 

Sure, he had enjoyed the game of cat and mouse between you over the past few months. Since the day you moved into the house next to his, there had been this constant push and pull between you. The flirtatious banter as he helped you carry your dresser into the foyer after he found you struggling in the yard, the freshly baked goods you presented to him as thanks after the fact, the shy way you smiled at him every time you crossed paths when you departed and arrived back home. 

Something awakened within him the second he laid eyes on you. Something dark, something dangerous, something that he thought was long buried in the depths of his depraved soul. 

It wasn’t all in his head. Hell, you had invited him in on that very first day. You wanted him there. You wanted him near you. You wanted him.

All the darkness that he tried so hard to push down seemed to resurface all at once. Suddenly, Theo found himself falling back into old old habits. Watching you through your bedroom window while you undressed, sneaking into your house while you were away at work, planting cameras in every room without your knowledge, and even going so far as stealing your lingerie. 

But Theo wasn’t stalking you. 

No.

He was merely keeping an eye on you. 

Clearly, you needed someone to look after you if you were putting your trust in a man like Adrian Pucey. You were too soft and sweet and innocent for this world. Theo wanted to protect you. In his eyes, Pucey was a threat to your relationship and there was only one way to deal with a threat — eliminate it. 

The opportunity presented itself after that sordid dinner. After dessert was served, Theo quietly slipped out ahead of the happy couple. Well, the two of you wouldn’t be happy for long. Not if he had anything to do with it. 

Surrounded by silence and darkness, Theo laid in wait until he heard the tell-tale sounds of the front door unlocking. He observed in quiet rage as Adrian kissed his girl. The door snicked shut, but the two of you barely noticed as you stumbled through the foyer, his lips sucking at your neck, his hands roaming underneath your dress, his cock pressing against your core as you mewled for him. Theo couldn’t stomach a second more of this. The sound of Pucey’s name falling from your lips was enough to awaken the monster within him. 

A sickening thud echoed through the house as Pucey dropped to the floor. With wide eyes, you scrambled in the darkness, blinking in disbelief at the sight before you. The silk strap of your dress fell from your shoulders at the abruptness of the attack. Your pupils, which were previously blown from desire, now shifted into fear. 

“T — Theo?” Disbelief colored your expression as you looked up at your neighbor. Dressed in all black, his tall and lithe form blended in with his surroundings. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t really think I’d let this prick weasel his way into your bed, did you?” 

You blinked in confusion. On the floor of your living room, Adrian nursed his broken nose, trying and failing to staunch the blood flowing through his fingers. 

“Do you know this asshole, Y/N?” 

“He’s my neighbor,” you answered. Theo’s face twisted in anger at your response. You cowered under his gaze and scooted backwards against the wall. “Theo, what’s going on? Why are you doing this?” 

Theo sneered. “Isn’t it obvious, bella?” Your blood ran cold when a flash of silver appeared in his hand. “I know why you went on this date tonight. You wanted me to fight for you, so here I am. I love you and I won’t let anyone keep us apart.”

“What are you talking about, Theo?” You cried as he stalked towards you. “I barely know you. We’re neighbors, just neighbors, that’s all.” You pleaded, begging for him to listen to reason. “Please, just stop this. You don’t have to do any of this.” 

“Shh, my sweet Y/N,” Theo cooed as he wiped a stray tear away with his thumb. His blue eyes bore into you with such intensity that it made you shiver. There was something lurking behind that dead eyed stare and you feared for whatever it might unleash. 

Theo caressed your cheek with reverence while you trembled in fear. “You just don’t know any better, cara mia. But don’t worry, I’ll show you how much I love you. I’ll protect you; I’ll keep you safe.” He pressed his forehead against yours. “I’m going to take care of this. He will never come between us again.” 

Before you could protest, Theo had already rounded on Adrian. The brunette threw his hands up as Theo pulled him up by his collar. “I almost feel sorry for you, you know,” Theo taunted. “You probably thought you were so smart, preying on someone as sweet and innocent as Y/N. You never deserved her.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Adrian retorted, crimson staining his dress shirt as he struggled against his captor’s hold. “It was just a few harmless dates.” 

“A few harmless dates?” Theo repeated in a mocking tone. “Christ, you can’t truly be that stupid, can you? You don’t even understand how lucky you are to have gotten the chance to be in her company. She’s a fucking goddess and you — “ Adrian groaned when Theo yanked his hair back to give him a proper view of you. “Well, you’re nothing.” 

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. I was just lookin for an easy fuck — “

Fury simmered in Theo’s gaze. The careless words that Adrian spoke cut you deep, but not nearly as deep as the blade that sliced his throat open. The crimson river flowing from Adrian’s neck bathed Theo in blood, covering his face, his hair, and his clothes. 

You screamed as Adrian slumped to the floor, his lifeless body discarded onto your cream rug as his vacant gaze stared at nothing. The gravity of his death sent a surge of adrenaline in your veins. You needed to get the fuck away, The instinct to survive kicked in and you darted for the door, but unfortunately, Theo was quicker. 

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you away from your only form of escape. You struggled in his hold, clawing and kicking and screaming as Theo dragged you through the living room. 

“You killed him!” You screamed while you continued thrashing. “He’s dead, you killed him, oh my god — “

“Don’t be like that, cara mia,” Theo said in a soothing voice. “I thought you would be happy. With our little problem out of the way, we can finally be together.” 

“You’re a fucking psychopath!” 

With a swift kick to the balls, Theo stumbled backwards which gave you time to frantically reach for your purse. The slick blood that coated the wooden floors now sullied your dress, but you pushed the thought away as you recovered your phone. As you tapped on the screen, it came alive with a bright light. With shaking hands, you tried to swipe up to dial emergency services, but the screen buzzed with static before completely dying out. 

“No!” You screamed in frustration as you pressed the dead screen over and over again. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening!” 

Behind you, Theo sighed and shook his head in disappointment. Crouching down before you, the warmth of his palm felt like a slap to the face as he cradled your jaw.

“You’ve been a bad girl, bella,” Theo purred. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you’ve left me no choice.” 

Your eyes widened as he produced a set of handcuffs from his pocket. “No, please, you don’t have to do this. Just let me go and I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” 

“Let you go?” Theo repeated in a cold, menacing voice as he clamped the handcuffs over your wrists. “After all that I’ve done for you, do you really think I would be capable of just letting you go?” He tutted in disapproval as he tugged you towards the stairs. “You’re all mine now, you’re not going anywhere.” 

The short walk to your bedroom felt like a march towards death. You began to shake violently as Theo guided you towards the bed, instructing you to lie down as he tinkered with the handcuffs. Tears blurred your vision as your heart hammered against your ribcage. 

“Are you going to kill me?” you whispered. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Theo said with a scoff as he rearranged the cuffs and chained you to the bed. “You wouldn’t be any fun if you’re dead.” 

Fear gripped every fiber of your being in a chokehold. Theo leaned back and admired his work. The intensity of his gaze felt like a brand against your skin as he drank in the sight of you spread out for him. The silk of your dress was stained with blood, the fabric nearly see through from how soaked it was. 

“You’re such a pretty little thing all tied up like a present for me, principessa.” 

His blue eyes were nearly black as he gazed at you with unadulterated desire. The pale moonlight streaming through the window casted sinister shadows on his face. 

“If you’re not going to kill me, then what do you plan on doing?” 

“I’m so glad you asked,” Theo declared with a deranged smile as he brandished his knife. “I plan on worshipping every inch of your body.” The cold edge of his blade traced the curve of your jaw. “I plan on making you see God with my tongue, my fingers, my cock.” The knife continued its path down the valley of your breasts. “I plan on possessing you, owning you, and ruining you for every other man.” 

“You barely even know me,” you pleaded, shying away from the blade that now rested on the hem of your dress. “I’m not yours, Theo.” 

The air left your lungs all at once as his hand wrapped around your throat. The lack of oxygen made you dizzy and you grew limp against the bed, barely even registering the blade caressing your skin. 

“I’ll carve my name into your thigh if that’s what it takes to get it through your pretty little head that you are mine.” 

You coughed as he released his hold, disoriented by the sudden rush of air into your lungs. “Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me, oh fuck —“ 

Your hips jerked at the sudden cold sensation between your legs. Theo watched in amusement as he pressed the hilt of his blade against your clothed core, drinking in the way you writhed underneath him. 

“What was that, bella?” Theo teased. “I can’t hear you over all that moaning.” 

Your cheeks burned with shame as you continued his ministrations against your clit. It was a purely physical response, but it felt like your own body was betraying you. This wasn’t supposed to feel good. You hated the way you reacted to his touch, his words, his gaze. You hated him. 

“You’re a sick fuck,” you yelled as you tugged at your restraints. Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, you couldn’t tell if it was from fear or pleasure. “This is vile, this is evil. I hate you. I fucking hate you —“ 

Theo chuckled darkly as he tugged your panties to the side and slipped the hilt of his blade through your folds without warning. “Then why are you so fucking wet for me?” 

“I’m not!” In all your life, you had never felt more degraded and humiliated. The conflicting emotions warred in your mind, but the truth of the matter was that you had absolutely no control over your own arousal. “I’m not.” 

“You are,” Theo growled as the handle of his blade squelched in your slick. “But by all means, keep lying to yourself. In fact, I quite prefer it if you put up a fight. I like it rough.” 

You groaned, delirious with need as he fucked you with his knife. “When I make you cum, I know that I’ve earned it.” 

You bit down on your bottom lip until blood filled your mouth. The horror of the scene unfolding before you filled you with dread yet you couldn’t stop the moans and whines that escaped past your lips. When you looked up, Theo was transfixed by the sight of your greedy cunt taking his knife.

“That’s it, Y/N,” hummed Theo. “This will be a lot easier if you just stop fighting it. You want this. You want me.” 

“I — I don’t! I don’t want —“ 

“I —I don’t want,” Theo mocked. “How fucking pathetic. You can’t even finish that sentence without moaning.” He pulled out his knife and slid two fingers in without warning. His cruel laugh echoed in the bedroom when the sound of your slick filled the silence. “If you don’t want me, then why are you riding my fingers like this, hm?” 

There was no answer as he plunged the hilt of his knife into you again, stretching and filling you in the most delicious way. His thumb rubbed your sensitive bundle of nerves in tantalizing circles, pushing you towards the edge of pleasure. 

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of an orgasm, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no stopping the intense pleasure that barrelled through your body. As you crested over the finish line, your vision went dark. The depravity of the act filled you with mortification and indignity. Theo, on the other hand, looked euphoric. 

“You’re so beautiful when you cum,” he whispered softly. 

You wanted to claw and scratch and hit him for the way he made you feel. Theo presented the knife to you with reverence. The blade was soaked in blood, but the hilt dripped with your cum. His tongue darted out and licked and lapped at your arousal with long, languid strokes as his eyes rolled back in euphoria. The way he moaned when he tasted you was obscene. 

“You taste so sweet,” Theo rasped in a choked groan. “Such a good girl for me.” 

This was beyond fucked up. 

Theo was beyond fucked up. 

You watched in alarm, waiting for disgust to overwhelm your senses, but it never came. Instead, your pussy clenched around nothing at the sight. What the fuck was wrong with you? 

Theo leaned over you, his brown curls brushing against your nose as he smirked. “Don’t I get a kiss as a reward for making you feel so good?” 

The absence of pleasure finally made you come to your senses. “Fuck you.” 

The depth of his blue eyes was swallowed by a void that threatened to suffocate you. The man before you transformed into a monster as he growled and held his knife against your throat. “Let me rephrase that,” he hissed as the blade nicked your skin. “If you don’t kiss me, I’ll slit your fucking throat.” 

You whimpered as the blade dug deeper into your neck, causing small droplets of blood to stain your sheets. Theo stared at you with malice, his face hovering a few inches from yours as he waited for your next move. His cool breath fanned over your skin while his lips ghosted over yours. 

“Please, Y/N?” Theo pouted as he blinked down at you through his thick, dark lashes. “Just one kiss, please.” 

It was apparent that he wanted you to make the first move. As if it would absolve him from this abhorrent act. As if it would exculpate him despite the threat he made on your life if you refused to comply. In some sick, twisted way, you knew that the second your lips touched his, Theo felt absolutely vindicated. 

The growl that crawled out of his throat was purely animalistic. It spoke of need, of desire, of lust that had simmered underneath the surface for far too long. The taste of you, soft and supple and sweet, was better than anything Theo could have ever imagined. His cock strained against his pants as he deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping over the seam of your lips to demand entrance. 

A part of you wanted to fight back, to pull away from him, but it was nearly impossible when he harshly grabbed your jaw and forced his way in. You opened for him reluctantly, but that was all he needed. Theo was the type of person to take a mile when given an inch. His hands roamed your body while his tongue massaged yours, moaning, panting, licking the roof of your mouth with unabashed glee. Theo squeezed your tits and gripped your hips and wrapped your legs around his waist. He felt like a dog in heat as he rutted himself against your clothed cunt. 

Fuck, he was so hard it hurt. 

Dazed and drunk with desire, Theo pulled away, his gaze sweeping over your kiss bitten lips and flushed cheeks. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

It was fucking horrible, horrendous, atrocious. You wanted the deepest pits of hell to open up and swallow you whole. Because that kiss had lit a fire in your belly despite your disgust for the man forcing himself on you. 

Before you could think twice, you reared back and spit right into his face. Theo blinked in surprise. You expected anger, but amusement greeted you instead. The motherfucker was enjoying this. 

“You’re a feisty thing, aren’t you?” Theo drawled as he unclasped his belt. The sight caused panic to grip you from all sides. “Don’t worry, principessa. I’ll fuck the fight right out of you. I will break you until you become the good girl that I know you can be.” 

“Theo please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you sobbed and begged. “Don’t do this, please.” 

Theo chuckled darkly. “You’re not sorry,” he said as he cut your dress open with his blade. “But you will be.” 

Exposed and vulnerable, you struggled against your restraints as Theo trailed kisses down your torso. His lips were a searing brand against your skin, sucking and biting and marking your skin as though he was staking his claim on your body. His deft fingers unhooked your bra and his pupils were completely black as he ogled your chest. 

With his lips latched around your nipple, Theo blinked innocently up at you. “I’m so fucking in love with you,” he murmured as he flicked his tongue over the stiffened peak. “You make me crazy, Y/N.” 

You moaned as he sucked fervently, losing himself in the heat of your skin and the scent of your perfume. Roses and vanilla. Sweet and simple, just like his pretty girl. Theo groaned as he lavished your other nipple the same treatment. 

There was such reverence and awe in the way that he touched you. For a brief moment, you forgot how truly vile he was because the second his fingers slipped inside of you and curved against that sweet spot, every ounce of common sense abandoned you. 

“I bet Adrian would’ve never gotten you this wet, huh?”

Your eyes snapped open at the reminder. Somewhere underneath you, Adrian’s lifeless body was still bleeding out on your wooden floors. “You’re fucking awful — o —oh —“ 

The involuntary whimper that crawled up your throat was pathetic, but you couldn’t help it. Theo had ripped your panties to shreds and positioned the head of his cock over your folds, teasing and taunting at your entrance as you continued to resist. 

“Theo, Theo, please,” you pleaded as he began to breach your cunt. You kicked your legs in the air and tilted your hips away from him, anything to keep him away from you, but it didn’t work. 

Theo held your hips down, his large hands forming bruises on your skin. “Stay fucking still,” he growled against your neck before biting down hard. 

Shocked, you stopped struggling and cried as the sting broke skin. Theo took the opportunity to push the head of his cock inside of you, making your eyes water from the sheer length of him. He was too big, it didn’t fit, it fucking hurt. But the desperate pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears as Theo fully sheathed himself in your warmth. 

“So fucking tight,” Theo grunted as he slowly dragged his cock out of your pussy, entranced at the way your bodies melded together, watching your cunt clench around nothing before slamming all the way in. Your teeth clattered together from the force. “Dio mio, you feel so fucking good. I want to ruin you.” 

Once more, he pulled out and pushed into your warmth, savoring the way you squeezed around him. The sensation made you dizzy with desire. Try as you might to fight it, every breach of his cock only stretched and filled you even more, the filthy sound of your pussy squelching with every thrust echoing in the room. 

“Wanted this for so long,” Theo grunted. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me, cara mia.” His hips snapped against your ass while he drove deeper and deeper, thick cock kissing the tip of your cervix. “But now I finally get to have you all to myself.” 

Your knees buckled, every brush of his cock within your snug walls weakening your resolve as he fucked you into the mattress. His pace was relentless, punishing, and it was all you could do to lose yourself in him completely. 

“Don’t fight it, bella.” Theo murmured as he hiked your legs up over his shoulders. “I could be so good to you.” He punctuated his statement with a slam of his hips. “I know everything about you. Probably better than you know yourself. I’ve watched, I’ve waited, I’ve wanted.” Another slam caused you to writhe and arch your back off the bed. “No one else could ever love you like I do.” 

A breathy moan pushed its way past your lips without your consent. Self-loathing made you flush with embarrassment; your body was betraying you in the worst way as your own slick dripped down your thighs while Theo angled your hips to sink in deeper. He had spoken true about knowing you better than you knew yourself, because he seemed to know how to caress you, how to kiss you, how to command you until you were teetering off the edge once again. 

His long fingers circled your clit, stroking the sensitive bud in the exact same way that he had watched you touch yourself over the past few months. Theo was diligent in every sense of the word; his studious nature pushed him to perfection. The focus in which he devoted into pleasuring you was singular. He was obsessive and possessive; he was determined to make this good for you. His pretty girl deserved nothing but the best. 

“You can’t deny that we’re a perfect fit,” he murmured, dead-eyed gaze drinking in the sight of him slipping in and out of you. You tried to avert your gaze, but Theo gripped your chun and forced you to watch. “Look how well you’re taking me. It’s like we were made for each other, my love.”

Words failed you at the heat of the moment and even if you regained the ability to speak, you wouldn’t know what to say. Theo took your silence for submission, his lips pressed against yours, tongue sweeping over your bottom lip while he pounded into you. 

The instinct to fight dimmed with each urgent thrust, buried deep within the recesses of your mind. All you could do was moan in pleasure and Theo eagerly drank in every gasp and pant and whimper, studying your face as though he was committing every detail to memory.

“Please, please,” you panted. You weren’t quite sure whether you were begging him to stop or urging him to continue, but either way, Theo seemed to know exactly what you needed. 

His kisses were open mouthed and filthy, swallowing your protests with the flick of his tongue. You jerked when Theo slapped your pussy, chuckling against your mouth before he kneaded his thumb against your tender nub harder and faster. 

“Theo —“ The realization that your climax was near filled you with both excitement and indignation. 

“Be a good girl and come for me, Y/N.” 

You clenched as Theo squeezed your throat in his fist, momentarily robbing you of oxygen. Somehow its absence intensified the sensations. The combination of Theo pushing his cock into you again and again while his thumb stroked your clit harder and harder sent you barreling over the edge. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, making your legs shake and your walls spasm around his cock. 

“Oh fuck,” Theo cursed, his resolve close to breaking. “Just like that, cara mia. Squeezing me so tight, milking my fucking cock dry.” 

Stars burst behind your lids as his balls slapped against your clit, coaxing yet another orgasm out of you. Your mind went fuzzy with static. A faint ringing echoed in your ears while you trembled and convulsed. 

“Such a good girl,” Theo grunted as he chased after his own pleasure. You were limp and boneless underneath him, unable to respond save for a pathetic whimper. “I’m going to fill this pretty pussy up with my cum, bella. You’re going to let me, aren’t you?” 

You started to shake your head, but Theo paid the action no mind. “Take it, cara mia,” he said forcefully. “Take my cock, take my heart, take all of me.” 

Your tits jiggled as he fucked you through his own orgasm, his thrusts growing erratic as he spilled his thick, hot cum inside of you. His eyes rolled back at the thought of filling you and stuffing you full of his seed. It overflowed past your sensitive, puffy folds and dripped down your thighs. Even when he pulled his softening cock out of you, Theo made sure to push it all back in with his fingers. You whimpered at the sensitivity between your legs as he leaned back to admire his work. 

Theo seemed to take pity on you, tutting at the red circles around your wrist. “M’gonna take the cuffs off now, okay, bella?” 

You nodded, trembling slightly when he finally unchained you from the bed. Theo cooed over your raw wrists, kissing and fawning over the sensitive skin. Taking full advantage of the distraction, you snatched the knife Theo had carelessly discarded by his thigh and drove the blade into his shoulder. 

Theo hissed in surprise, his blue eyes widening. “You fucking stabbed me,” he declared incredulously. “You really fucking stabbed me.” 

“Oh my God —“ you sobbed, regret flooding you all at once as your hands shook over the blade. “Theo, I didn’t mean — fuck, are you okay —“ 

The shock caused you to let your guard down, tears streaming down your face as the realization of what you had just done crashed over you. Despite the blade sticking out from his shoulder, Theo seamlessly switched positions so that you were straddling his lap. 

Your right hand was frozen in place, still holding the blade while shaking violently. You expected anger and fear, but Theo only flashed you a lovesick smile as he wrapped his slender fingers around your wrist. “Don’t be shy, Y/N,” Theo teased. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” 

You screamed as Theo drove the blade further into his shoulder, the wound splattering a rain of blood all over your face and hair. “Stop, stop it! Don’t. Theo, stop, please —”

Theo tilted his head and examined you with a curious expression. His gaze softened as you sobbed and trembled in his lap. In his silky voice, he whispered soothing words in your ear and stroked your back to calm your growing hysteria. 

“Aw, you’re worried about me? That’s cute, bella.” The timbre of his voice almost sounded proud. “I wouldn’t waste your tears, though. I'll be fine. It’s just a silly little nick. Besides, now that I’ve had you, it won’t be that easy to get rid of me.”

You gasped as his hardness poked against your ass. How could he be fucking hard at a time like this? There was goddamn knife sticking out of his shoulder, for fuck’s sake!

“Look at you, crying over me.” His voice was husky with need as he rolled his erection against you. It seemed that not even a murder attempt could faze the man underneath you. If anything, Theo seemed turned on by it. God, he was so fucked up. “It’s a good sign, bella. It means that you care. To think, just moments ago, you said you hated me, but here you are concerned for my well being.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to listen to him speak. It only confused you more. Theo kissed your tears away and caressed your cheek. His violation of you earlier was a direct contradiction of the way he handled you with such gentleness and care, almost like you were something precious to him. You couldn’t reconcile the warring versions of him in your mind. 

“Please, stop,” you murmured as you tried to cover your ears. “You’re confusing me.”

“There’s nothing to be confused about,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Clearly, you care about me. Otherwise, you would have aimed for my heart.” 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you whispered in a broken sob. “I just wanted — I wanted —” 

In truth, you didn’t know what you wanted. It was all too traumatic and taxing to fully process. Theo pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Shh, hush now, principessa. I told you, I’ll take care of you. You never have to worry about anything ever again. You can trust me, I promise. I would never let anything or anyone hurt you. I’ll kill anyone who tries. I love you so fucking much.” 

Theo gently pried your wrists away and kissed your fingertips. “You don’t love me yet,” he admitted in a wistful tone. “But you will, bella.” 

[janejennyojeny]

Watched it today, my take is that black mirror portrays our world in an enhanced way. Subscription to stay alive will be there in the near far future. Greed is the plague of our times. Human life worth less than a buck. The part when rivermind representative introduces the couple to another premium package revealing that the most premium one's features are used at the expense of "common subscription" users time, health, wellbeing? made my blood BOIL. Such a great representation of huge corporations. I do hate billionaires I think they lack moral compass. What do you mean you have billions of dollars stacked somewhere and you use it only for pleasure, luxury or to make more money? What the fuck do you mean you hoard it just cause you can. This kind of money could change hundreds of thousands of lives, and you just sit there, at the very top, giving 0 fucks about anyone else but yourself. Moreover, this kind of money is impossible to obtain with a clear conscience - meaning that empire like that was built on the lives and hands of an army of other people who got a dogshit paycheck out of it at best. This is so crazy to think about and so, so, so depressing. We are all a part of this system and it makes me sick, we are in a black mirror episode already, open your eyes and see just how fucked up everything is. They say ignorance is bliss, the more years pass the stronger that statement becomes because the more you know the more likely you are going to loose your fucking mind at how unfair, disgusting, twisted everything is. This makes it that much harder to appreciate the small and good in the world. If we take it as ying and yang its not 50/50 anymore, I do not think it ever was. The bad is more than a half, you can see it in people you meet, in the street you live on, the news, whatever political situation is in your country, state of the earth and environment, fucked up prices of just LIVING. WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE FLAT COSTS MY WHOLE PAYCHECK? Everything is so fucked and it's getting worse each day. I would really like to stay positive but fuck, man. Sometimes it is just impossible to do, being indifferent to all that is impossible when you actually see the pain around you or are affected by it. Empathy is gone, take a random person on the street and ask them what they think about homeless people, people affected by war in the Ukraine, oppressed minorities. Ask about whatever subject that needs empathy to understand and grasp. This will tell you all you need to know. What the fuck do we do? I have no fucking idea. The urge between giving up and fighting back flips back and forth. I do not think there's that many people who feel the same way for the revolution to start. They make it so YOU FEEL SMALL in comparison to their big ass everything. If you're a threat to their big wealth you're gone. Suicide with 6 gunshots to the back of the head. You get it. People do not quite get the "eat the rich" movement. They do not know how serious it is and how dangerous that elites decide on our lives. We are nothing to them. Just a statistic. I wish things could be different. Placing this brick as an act of rebellion, talking about it to people I know as an act of rebellion. Changing people's minds bit by bit as an act of rebellion. Speak your truth even if they look at you like you're crazy. Add your fucking brick. Speak up in important matters, sign petitions, donate to legit organizations, be on the lookout for manipulation and brainwashing, minimize your damage, do not be scared, spread love and awareness, support people that deserve it, do not give your views, likes, support to internet clowns who send the wrong message. People guided by greed do not deserve respect, recognition, praise. People who seek power do not deserve it. People who put billionaires on the pedestal are delusional. "You will own nothing and you will be happy". I could go on and on but the most important thing is: fight the good fight, it will ALWAYS be worth it.

I had another 5 paragraphs to write but tumblr won't let me. I think ya'll get it.

subscription-based brain, memories stored in the cloud. making them say ads without even knowing it. slowly decreasing their awake (streaming) time unless they upgrade to the next tier, and making their current tier more and more useless..... black mirror we're so back

[sh4nksslvt]

One Month With You

In the final month of your life, you cherishes fleeting moments with your crew, hiding a terminal illness until only memories—and a letter—remain.

red hair pirates x reader | whitebeard pirates x reader | strawhats x reader | ONE SHOT tags: angst, sfw, ooc, major character death, grief, terminal illness a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe and akward word count: 2.6k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

RED HAIR PIRATES

The sea was calm that morning, the kind of quiet that made even the waves seem to hold their breath. The deck of the Red Force was alive with chatter and light laughter, but you stood by the railing, letting the wind sweep through your hair. Your fingers curled around the wood, your gaze far off—not at the horizon, but somewhere past it.

One month. That’s what Hongo told you when he unknowingly confirmed your own suspicions. You’d been hiding the worsening symptoms for months—fatigue that sank deep into your bones, the relentless pain in your chest, the occasional blood you’d spit out into the sea, unnoticed.

You knew he’d figure it out eventually. He was too good not to.

But you hadn’t expected him to burst into your quarters the night before, shaking with barely restrained panic.

“What the hell is this?!” Hongo had yelled, thrusting a tattered medical report into your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?!”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to be watched like a ghost who hasn’t died yet.”

Silence. Deafening.

“...You have a month, Y/N, maybe less. You’re—” His voice cracked. “You’re dying, and you're acting like it's nothing?”

“I have a month, Hongo,” you had said quietly. “Please… just let me have it. Don’t tell the others. Let me spend it with them. Please.”

He didn't answer for a long time. When he finally did, it was with a whisper: “You’re a fucking idiot.” But he pulled you into a hug and didn’t let go until your shoulders stopped shaking.

From that day, you lived more fiercely than ever. You laughed at Shanks’ dumb jokes and drank with him until the world blurred. You challenged Benn to silent stargazing contests, betting on how many shooting stars you’d catch. You dragged Limejuice to island carnivals and flirted shamelessly until his face burned red. You played cards with Hongo, even when your hands trembled too much to hold them.

They all noticed. The Red-Haired Pirates weren’t stupid.

“You’re real clingy lately,” Limejuice teased one night, bumping your shoulder with his. “You sure you’re not sick or something?”

You smiled, heart twisting. “Would you be mad if I said I might be?”

He laughed, oblivious. “Nah. I’d carry you myself if you keeled over.”

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned into his warmth.

Shanks was the hardest. He noticed too much. Noticed how often you disappeared below deck when the coughing fits hit, how your eyes stayed on the ocean longer than they should have.

“You thinking of leaving us?” he asked once, half-joking.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “No,” you lied.

Benn just watched. Always watched. He didn’t say much, but you could feel his eyes lingering on you, searching. You gave him your brightest smiles.

The day you left, the crew didn’t know.

You made breakfast with Chef-level effort, joking with the kitchen staff, slipping kisses to Limejuice's cheek and hugging Shanks tighter than ever. You sat with Benn for hours on the deck, your head on his shoulder, watching the sun creep across the sky.

“I think you’re my favorite,” you whispered, teasing.

He snorted. “Don’t let Shanks hear that.”

He didn’t know that was the last time he’d feel your heartbeat against his side.

That night, you slipped away. A letter for each of them tucked under your pillow. A note for Hongo too:

"Thank you—for letting me pretend I wasn’t dying. I love you all too much to say goodbye."

Morning broke in chaos.

“Where the hell is Y/N?!” Limejuice shouted, tearing through the ship.

“They’re not in the galley, or the crow’s nest!” Benn called out, panic rising in his usually calm voice.

Shanks was quiet, unusually still, staring at the empty hammock where your scent still lingered.

The notes were found soon after. One by one, hands shaking as they read your last words.

You didn’t say goodbye, but each letter bled with love.

“To Shanks — Thank you for making me feel like I belonged in the stars.”

“To Benn — You saw through me. Thank you for not saying anything.”

“To Limejuice — Thank you for reminding me how fun life could be.”

“To Hongo — I’m sorry I made you carry this alone. Thank you for letting me be selfish.”

They thought you ran. Were taken. Benn demanded a search party. Shanks was pale, silent, gripping your letter so tight his knuckles bled. Limejuice punched a wall. Hongo said nothing—for two days.

And then, he snapped.

He threw your medical file onto the table during a heated meeting, eyes wild. “They didn’t leave!....They died. And...I let them.”

The room fell to a breathless silence.

“You knew?” Benn whispered.

“They had a month. They begged me to let them spend it with us, like nothing was wrong. And I let them lie.”

Shanks stumbled back, as if struck. “No. No, they were… they were fine.”

“They were dying, Shanks! They couldn’t breathe without pain, they were—” Hongo’s voice cracked. “They spent their last strength loving us.”

No one spoke.

Limejuice fell to his knees. “We didn’t even say goodbye.”

Later that night, Shanks sat by the railing where you always stood.

“I hope you’re watching the stars from up close now, Y/N,” he murmured, tears streaking his face. “Because we’ll never stop looking for you in them.”

WHITEBEARD PIRATES

You’d always imagined dying quietly, maybe on an empty shore, wrapped in salt and wind. But fate had other plans. Your end would come not with isolation—but surrounded by laughter, drink, and the stubborn, unbearable warmth of the Whitebeard Pirates.

The diagnosis came on a cold, cloudy day—so ordinary it felt like a betrayal.

You'd passed out during training. Woke up with Marco’s worried face looming over you. He’d examined you in complete silence. But his shaking hands and tight jaw told you everything.

“It’s not good, is it?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

“No,” Marco had said, the word cracking as it left him. “It’s... terminal. A rare degeneration of the lungs and heart. I don’t—there’s nothing I can do.”

You didn’t cry. Instead, you laughed. “So, what—you’re saying I won’t outlive my goldfish?”

He didn't laugh. He looked like he’d been stabbed. “You have a month. Maybe.”

You made him promise to keep it secret.

Just him and Whitebeard.

When Oyaji found out, he sat beside your bed and gripped your hand with those massive, shaking fingers. “You are my child,” he rumbled. “And if this is your last voyage… then let it be the greatest of your life.”

You had never cried before. But you cried then.

From that day, you threw yourself into every moment.

Ace was all fire and impulse, but when he was around you, something softer flickered beneath the surface. He took to dragging you along for sparring matches, even when you claimed your muscles ached.

“I need a challenge,” he’d smirk, sweat glistening down his neck.

“You just want to show off,” you’d tease, raising your fists anyway.

He was always careful not to hit you too hard. Not that you said anything—but he seemed to know. When you tripped one day, coughing blood into your sleeve when he wasn’t looking, he’d jogged over, helping you up without a word. His hand lingered on your arm just a second too long.

That night, you sat beside him, both of you perched on the edge of the ship with your legs dangling into the air.

“You’re weird lately,” he mumbled, eyes on the moon.

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

He blinked at you. “To be with us?”

“To be with you,” you said, gently. And he froze, eyes wide, like he didn’t know what to do with that.

“…You’re gonna break my heart, aren’t you?” he whispered.

You smiled, because you already had.

Izo became your confidant without even knowing it. With every eyeliner flick and matching kimono, you gave yourself permission to feel alive. They would hum as they painted your face, hands warm against your cheeks.

“You’re glowing,” they said once, adjusting the red ribbon they tied in your hair.

“Death becomes me, huh?” you joked, and they slapped your arm, scandalized.

“You joke about dying too much.”

You didn’t mean to, but your voice cracked. “It’s easier than pretending I’m not scared.”

Their fingers paused, lips parting. “…Are you scared?”

You looked at them in the mirror, the shimmer of gold powder across your eyelids catching the light. “Yeah,” you said. “But not when I’m with you.”

They smiled then, a bit sad, and leaned in to kiss your temple. “Then let’s live like hell until we drop, dear.”

Thatch was joy personified. It was impossible to be sad around him for long, and that’s what made it hurt worse.

He caught you sneaking dessert at 2 a.m. once and acted like you’d committed a crime.

“Oh-ho! So this is where my pudding went!”

“Your pudding? I thought it had my name on it.”

“I’ll accept bribes in the form of kisses or cleaning dishes.”

You kissed his cheek, and he nearly dropped the bowl.

Every stolen moment in the kitchen became a memory—dancing while covered in flour, whipped cream fights, drunken baking experiments that ended in fire. You’d laughed so hard your sides hurt, even as your lungs begged you to stop.

“You’re making memories,” he said one night, tousling your hair. “That’s what this is. You’ve been clingy lately. Like you’re trying to make every second count.”

You froze, the spoon halfway to your mouth. “…Would you hate me if I was?”

He blinked. “Nah. I’d probably try to hold on tighter.”

You didn’t tell him then. Just leaned into his side and let him talk about his dream of opening a cake café after he retires.

You knew you’d never see it.

Marco was the one who saw the cracks, and it destroyed him. You kept him close because you trusted him most—and that made it hurt more.

You caught him once crying at your door. He didn’t think you were awake.

You opened it, silently wrapped your arms around him, and whispered, “I’m still here.”

“You shouldn’t be this calm,” he rasped into your shoulder.

“I’m terrified,” you admitted. “But I’d rather spend what time I have being loved than dying slowly in a bed.”

He pulled back, staring at you with reddened eyes. “You could have told them.”

“They’d look at me like I was already dead.”

He said nothing, and you reached up to cup his cheek. “Promise me… promise you’ll wait. Let me leave on my own terms.”

“…Okay,” he whispered. “But I’ll hate you for it.”

You kissed his forehead. “I hope you do.”

You left them on a quiet morning.

Then you slipped away, leaving only a bundle of letters on Marco’s desk.

Your final message was simple:

“Don’t let them hate me for this. Please. Just let them think I ran.”

The ship erupted into panic by nightfall.

Ace punched through a wall. “They’re gone?! What do you mean GONE?”

Izo ran through the corridors, calling your name until their voice broke.

Thatch turned the kitchen inside out like he expected you to be hiding in the cupboards, laughing.

Marco couldn’t speak.

He stood at the rail, gripping the wood so hard it splintered beneath his fingers.

Whitebeard stood behind him, silent, his massive shadow cast across the deck like a shroud.

“Do I tell them?” Marco rasped.

“No,” Whitebeard rumbled. “Not yet. Let them rage. Let them mourn in their own way.”

“But—”

“They wouldn’t understand it now,” he said. “Wait.”

A week passed. Then two.

No sign of you.

Your room remained untouched. Your absence echoed louder than any cannon fire.

They scoured islands. Questioned strangers. Considered kidnappers, Marines, even betrayal.

Ace refused to accept it. “They wouldn’t leave us! Not without a word. Not without—something.”

He went to Marco, desperate. “You know something. Tell me.”

Marco finally broke.

He gave Ace your letter.

Ace read it once. Then again and again. Then crumpled to the ground, screaming into his fists.

“They died?! All this time—they were dying?!”

Marco stood frozen, guilt crawling like acid beneath his skin.

“They didn’t want you to mourn them before they were gone,” he whispered. “They wanted to be loved, not pitied.”

Ace couldn’t answer. He just sobbed, curled around your crumpled letter like it could still warm him.

That night, Whitebeard gathered his sons and daughters.

He read your letters aloud. One by one. Each one aching with truth, memory, and love.

“To Ace — You made me feel alive, even when I was already halfway gone.” “To Izo — Thank you for making me beautiful when I felt invisible.” “To Thatch — You made every day sweeter, even the ones I didn’t think I’d survive.” “To Marco — Thank you for holding my secret when it crushed you. I love you most for that.” “To Oyaji — You gave me a family when I had nothing left. Thank you… for letting me die a Whitebeard Pirate.”

By the end, the deck was silent.

No sobs. Just breathless grief.

They didn’t throw a funeral.

They held a feast.

Not because they weren’t mourning—but because they knew you’d hate to see them broken.

They told stories. Passed your favorite drink around. Laughed, cried, and danced with ghosts.

And when the fire died down, Ace stared at the embers and whispered, “I hope you found peace, flame-heart.”

STRAWHAT PIRATES

You didn’t plan on dying at sea, but the Grand Line has a way of making plans for you. The first signs were subtle: a lingering fatigue you chalked up to busy days, aches you blamed on training, the dull pain in your side that you laughed off when Chopper asked if you were okay.

You knew before he did. Deep down, your body had been whispering the truth long before the words made it onto paper.

It wasn’t until you collapsed in the hallway between the kitchen and the infirmary that Chopper realized something was seriously wrong. When you woke up, it was to the sterile smell of the medical bay and his wide, terrified eyes.

“I ran every test,” he said, voice trembling. “And then I ran them again. It’s… it’s bad. Really bad.”

You nodded. Your throat was too dry to answer.

“I—I can’t fix it. Not with what we have on board. Maybe if we got to a major medical port, but even then, I don’t know if—”

You reached out, resting a hand on his tiny shoulder. “How long?”

He hesitated, ears flattening. “A month. Maybe.”

You didn’t cry. Not then. Not even when he begged to tell the others.

“No. Please. Let me have this. Just a month, Chopper.”

“They’ll never forgive me.”

“They will,” you said. “If they knew now, it’d ruin everything. I don’t want pity. I want memories.”

So you began to live. Fully, recklessly, as if the pain eating away at you was just a shadow at your back.

You started with Sanji. He was the easiest to be around, the one whose affection was loud and constant. Every meal became a moment: you insisted on helping in the kitchen, even when he protested. You chopped vegetables until your hands hurt, stirred sauces while leaning against him, snuck little bites when he wasn’t looking.

“You’re here a lot lately,” he said one afternoon, handing you a bowl of soup.

“I like watching you work,” you replied.

He grinned. “You trying to steal my heart, love?”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Maybe.”

He went quiet for a beat. Then, more softly, “You look at me like you’re memorizing my face.”

You didn’t answer. Just smiled.

Zoro came next. You sparred with him almost every day now, ignoring the way your lungs burned, the way your legs shook. He didn’t say anything the first time you collapsed mid-match, just silently carried you to the infirmary.

“You’re pushing too hard,” he said.

“I need to,” you whispered.

“Why?”

You looked at him, really looked. “Because I don’t want to forget what it feels like to fight beside you.”

He frowned. “You’re acting like you’re running out of time.”

You forced a smile. “Aren’t we all?”

That night, he found you on the deck, staring at the stars.

He sat beside you, arms crossed. “You’re not saying something. I don’t like it.”

“I’m just tired.”

“I’d carry you, if you asked.”

Your heart ached. “I know.”

Luffy was harder.

He didn’t notice at first. You were careful around him—too careful. You laughed with him during meals, ran across islands with him, challenged him to stupid games on the deck. But he began to notice the way you lingered during hugs. The way you stared at him too long. The way your smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes.

One evening, you lay beside him on the figurehead, watching the horizon.

He turned his head toward you. “Are you gonna leave?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You look like you’re saying goodbye.”

You looked away. “I’m not. Not yet.”

He was quiet for a while. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to either.”

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and didn’t let go until you both fell asleep.

ou made time for everyone else too.

With Nami, you spent lazy afternoons in the library, pretending to study charts. She taught you how to draw maps. You traced the oceans of the world with your fingers and imagined places you’d never see.

“You’re getting good at this,” she said.

“I want to leave something behind,” you murmured.

She didn’t understand then. But she would.

Usopp was a light in the dark. You asked for bedtime stories, exaggerated tales of heroism and romance. He performed them with full sound effects, arms flailing, voice booming.

“You always laugh now,” he noted one night.

“It’s easy, when I’m with you.”

He blushed, scratching the back of his head. “You’re acting like I’m the best part of your day.”

You smiled. “You are.”

Robin gave you quiet comfort. She didn’t ask questions. She simply read to you, let you rest your head in her lap, brushed your hair back from your face.

“You’re calm,” you told her.

“You’re storming,” she replied.

You didn’t deny it.

Franky built you a swing on the back of the Sunny, facing the sea. You spent hours there, feet brushing over the waves, eyes on the endless blue.

“Super chill, right?” he said, adjusting the ropes.

You nodded. “It’s perfect.”

He caught your hand before he left. “You’re not okay.”

You looked up at him. “No.”

“Okay,” he said, voice tight. “You don’t have to be.”

Brook played lullabies for you. Sweet, simple things. You danced with him once, slow and clumsy.

“If I still had a heart,” he said softly, “I think it would ache.”

You rested your head against his chest. “Mine already does.”

Chopper was breaking. Every day, he looked at you like you were already fading. You caught him crying in the storage room once, holding one of your jackets.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered.

“You’re stronger than me,” you said, hugging him.

“I hate lying.”

“I know.”

You waited until they docked at a small island for supplies.

You left at dawn.

Left behind the stargazer chair. The flowered book. The slingshot. The meals. The love.

Left behind a stack of letters in Chopper’s room.

When the crew realized you were gone, Luffy panicked first.

“They wouldn’t leave! They’d never leave!”

Zoro was already on the dock, scanning the shoreline. Sanji lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

They searched the island. They waited at the ship. They called for you until their voices cracked.

You didn’t come back.

That night, Chopper gathered them in the infirmary.

“I didn’t want to break the promise,” he said, voice trembling. “But… they’re gone. They were dying.”

No one moved.

“…What?”

“They only had a month. They asked me to let them live… without pity.”

Nami burst into tears. "They should’ve told us,”

Zoro punched the wall.

Luffy stood in stunned silence, until he screamed your name into the ocean wind.

They read your letters together. All huddled in the infirmary, hearts shattered.

“To Sanji — You made me feel wanted, even when I felt like a ghost.” “To Zoro — You were my anchor. I always knew where I stood when I was beside you.” “To Luffy — Thank you for being the sun. I needed the light more than you’ll ever know.” “To the Crew — You made me part of a family. You made me more than a dying story.”

They held a quiet vigil on the deck.

Brook played your song one last time. Robin scattered petals into the sea. Chopper lit a lantern and let it drift across the water.

They stayed on that island for days.

Then, they sailed forward—quieter, heavier—but with your memory in their hearts.

You were their nakama.

You were their heart.

You always would be.

[last-starry-sky]

I see a lot of childhood best friend headcanons for gaz, soap, and ghost, but never price.

I need that old man running into “the girl next door” that he lost touch with ages ago. The one that got away after you both grew up and life got busy. I need him making contact after 10, 15 years. I need him pulling you into a tight, overly familiar hug when you meet up at an out of the way cafe. I need him reminiscing about long summers spent together as kids and teens: riding your bikes all over town, swimming at the community pool, buying ice cream with your pocket change, all while you smile and laugh. Because, honestly, you haven't been this happy in ages.

Stalking your socials didn’t quite scratch the itch for him like it used to. It used to be enough to swipe through your photos and imagine being there. On dates in cute little pubs and parks. Taking you on surprise sunny little holiday getaways. Putting a ring on your finger.

That one hurt. Really fucking hurt. He tried to be happy for you, grimacing as he swiped through picture after picture, one gushing congratulation after another. He really did. You’re almost too beautiful in your wedding pictures; airbrushed and photoshopped to perfection in your white gown as you gaze lovingly at your new husband on the chapel steps. Bastard doesn't know how lucky he is.

Well, was.

So what if a sick part of him twists when suddenly that album is deleted, hubby’s name disappears from your profile, and your relationship status updates to “single”? He lays careful traps, small bits of bait to lead you right where he wants. Then, he waits patiently for the noose to tighten, the cage to clatter down around you. You tell the whole sad tale as he nods, pretending not to know every detail already. How you tried to make it work. About your regrets. Maybe things moved too fast because you pushed for a commitment, you say as you laugh through tears.

Or, he suggests as he lays a heavy hand over yours, maybe he wasn’t right in the head because he’d marry you in a heartbeat. Your laugh then is musical. His heart soars. He let you slip out of his hands once, when he was too young and stupid to know better, but he won’t let that happen again. You let him wax poetic about life and loss. He knows what it really means to have your life on the line, he says, to fight like hell and somehow come out the other side. So, he continues, eyes casually following the swirling dregs at the bottom of his cup with your hand still clasped in his, you'd never have to fight for him. Never.

[lazy-ahh]

MM anon back again u know what I’m craving 😈

I HATE YOU (I LOVE YOU)

pairing mohawk! mark grayson x male reader

mark grayson is seventeen, stupidly powerful, and completely incapable of handling you—his childhood rival, his best friend, the person who drives him absolutely insane in every way possible. you fight, you shove each other into lockers, you steal the last fry off his tray every damn day. and yet, somehow, you're the only thing he can't seem to live without.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you’re annoying.

you’ve always been annoying, ever since second grade when you stole the last red crayon right out of his hands during art class. mark still remembers the way you smirked at him, all sharp edges and defiance, like you already knew he’d spend the next decade trying (and failing) to one-up you. you were loud, stubborn, and so infuriatingly good at everything—spelling bees, kickball, even that stupid multiplication table race mrs. lawson made you do. he hated how his stomach twisted when you won. (he hated even more how his stomach twisted when you lost, because seeing you pout felt wrong.)

through the years, nothing changed—except it did. middle school brought fistfights in the hallway over stupid shit like who got the last chocolate milk at lunch. high school turned those fights into wrestling matches in his bedroom, into shoving each other into lockers, into whispered insults that sounded a little too much like i missed you when one of you was sick for a day. you were always there, like some kind of fucked-up constant—his rival, his best friend, the person who knew him better than anyone else and still chose to stick around. you were the first one to call him out when he was being an idiot, the first one to throw a punch when someone else tried to mess with him. you were his, in every way except the one that mattered.

and now? now he’s screwed. because somewhere between the insults and the roughhousing, between the way you roll your eyes when he talks too much about comics and the way you always steal his fries but leave the rest of yours for him, he fell in love with you. hard. it’s in the way his chest tightens when you laugh, the way he memorized the exact shade of your eyes in sunlight, the way he can’t imagine his life without you in it—loud, stubborn, annoying you.

even now, you're still annoying.

that’s the first thing mark thinks when he sees you, sprawled out on his bed like you own the place, flipping through one of his comics with that stupid smirk on your face. your fingers tap against the page, impatient, like you’re waiting for him to say something—to bite back, to snap, to rise to the challenge like always.

and god, he wants to. he wants to shove you off the bed, call you an idiot, wrestle you onto the floor until you’re both breathless and laughing. but right now, he can’t. right now, he’s stuck staring at the way the sunlight cuts through the window and spills over your skin, turning you golden. at the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks when you blink. at the way your lips quirk up when you find a panel you like, like the artist drew it just for you.

(he wonders if the artist could ever capture the way he sees you—perfect, infuriating, his.)

he’s enamored.

he’s enamored with the way your fingers move—long and deft, drumming against tabletops, flipping pages of comics, gripping the edge of his desk when you lean over to mock his homework. he’s enamored with the way you chew your bottom lip when you’re concentrating, teeth worrying at the soft pink until it’s red and swollen, and he wants to be the one biting it instead. he’s enamored with that beauty mark just below your ear, the one he’s traced a thousand times in his head with his tongue, wondering if you’d shiver if he ever got the chance.

he’s enamored with your scars—the faint one on your eyebrow from wiping out on your bike in fifth grade, the jagged line on your knee from when you both tried (and failed) to jump the quarry fence, the fresh split on your knuckles from when you punched him in the mouth last week (he definitely deserved it). he wants to press his lips to every single one, map them like constellations, learn the stories they tell.

but more than anything, he’s enamored with your stupid laugh—the way it bursts out of you, loud and unapologetic, like you can’t contain it, like it’s too big for your body. it’s the kind of laugh that makes his ribs ache, that makes his stomach flip, that makes him want to shove you against a wall just to see if he can pull it out of you himself.

and god, he’s horny.

it’s pathetic, really, how badly he wants you. the way your muscles flex when you stretch, lean but defined, all coiled strength under smooth skin. the way your shirt rides up when you reach for something, giving him a glimpse of your stomach, the sharp v of your hips leading down to—fuck. the way your thighs strain against your pants when you sit, thick and powerful, and he knows how strong they are from all the times you’ve pinned him down, thighs squeezing his waist until he taps out.

he’s imagined it too many times—how you’d look under him, over him, how you’d sound when he finally gets his hands on you, when he finally makes you his. the thought of your hands on him, rough and demanding, makes his breath stutter. the thought of your mouth, all sharp words and sharper teeth, dragging down his neck, his chest, lower—

he’s so fucking gone for you it hurts.

"what’s up, asshole?" he says instead, tossing his bag onto the floor hard enough that it slides and knocks over a half-empty can of soda. it rolls lazily, spilling sticky orange onto his carpet, and mark already knows his mom’s gonna yell about it later. but right now? he doesn’t care. not when you’re looking at him like that—all smug amusement, like you’ve been waiting all day just to piss him off.

you glance up, grin sharp enough to cut glass. "oh, you know. just realizing your taste in comics is as bad as your haircut." you flip a page dramatically, wrinkling your nose at some over-the-top action panel. "seriously, who even likes this guy? he’s got, like, twelve muscles too many."

mark rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts, but his chest is tight anyway. he wants to kiss you. he wants to tackle you. he wants to pin you down and bite that stupid smirk right off your face—

"earth to grayson." your foot connects with his shin, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to snap him out of it. "you gonna keep standing there like a creep or are we gonna do something? i’m bored."

"oh, you’re bored?" mark scoffs, but he’s already moving, lunging at you before you can react. his hands shove against your shoulders, sending you sprawling back onto the bed with a loud oof. "there. now you’re entertained."

you kick out instantly, catching him in the stomach—not enough to wind him, just enough to make him grunt—and then you’re both a tangle of limbs, wrestling like you’re twelve again, like nothing’s changed. your elbow digs into his ribs, his knee knocks against yours, and somewhere in the chaos, mark’s head thumps against the mattress hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

"you’re such a dick," he gasps, but he’s laughing, breathless, and so are you.

"takes one to know one," you shoot back, grinning down at him, all messy hair and flushed cheeks.

and mark thinks—god, i love you.

(he doesn’t say it. not yet. but the way your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, the way you’re both still laughing like idiots, the way the sunlight catches in your eyes—yeah. he will.)

1.2k words full of mohawk mark for MM anon! hope i satisfied your craving for this little gremlin heheh <33

[raikkoberg]

"Your state has been violently occupying for decades" lil bro go do your homework first.

The whole Indian subcontinent (excluding SL) was divided into Pakistan, Bangladesh and Kashmir as a result of policies being imposed by the British regime.

According to the Treaty of Kashmir signed on 26th of October 1947, by Maharaja Hari Singh, ruler of the princely state J&K used to be back then, the king agreed to accede his state to the Dominion of India.

Why? Because of the FATA invasion. Stemming from Afghanistan and Pakistan, they slaughtered and raped millions of Kashmiri inhabitants.

60% of Kashmir falls under India's governance, 30% under Pakistan's and the rest under China's, all recognized internationally.

How come is it just a particular 'state' and its people you dare target? I'll tell you how, because you see what you wanna see. Believe what you wanna believe.

If you want to talk, do your homework.

OP is so sick for even saying "why were you vacationing in a land...." because then what if you go on a holiday to Napoli and get gunned down there? What are you going to say then?

"Why did you come to Napoli knowing it has criminal records?"

Are you seriously blaming the victims who became a prey of this act of extremism in the old-fashioned "it was your fault that you were there in the first place" way?

If tomorrow, hope not, someone close to you, gets shot at a place they went to spend their holiday at, I hope your first thought isn't "Oh shucks, I hope they didn't choose that place though. Would have still been alive....."

Foreigners from all over the world go to visit Kashmir, just like us Indians. What does it do? It helps grow the economy of the state, it helps the people in their earn money for support themselves and their families. It helps our fellow countrymen, who have seen nothing but destruction for almost all of their lives. It gives them strength.

No, you do NOT think the loss of lives is tragic, because if you did, you wouldn't have even entertained saying something so heartless and disgusting.

No, you DO NOT get to label this as Islamophobia for your own sympathy gain and propaganda.

No, you do NOT get to twist this heinous act for being what it truly is.

If you cannot call it what is truly is-- not a tragedy, but a pre-mediated act of terrorism committed by a bunch of extremists of a certain religion, take your deepest sympathies and shove them right up your arse.

It is blatant Hinduphobia and calling it that does not automatically make you Islamphobic.

Not calling terrorism for what it is just because you do not want to look like an Islamophobe is INSANE, INHUMANE, SHAMEFUL and DISGUSTING.

There's a hell lot of difference between a Hindu nationalist, and simply a concerned citizen who is worried about the propaganda being spread in their country by weaponizing religion in the worst way possible.

Kashmir has been under heavy military scrutiny because of the violence which has always been present there, since the time of killing and exploitation of Kashmiri Pandits.

You cannot talk peace and harmony with those who only understand the language of violence and blood, calling it liberation. You cannot justify the relentless assault Kashmiri Pandits have faced because you are too busy playing politics for your own fun.

Hope you get gifted with some brain power soon 🙏🏼 because this sort of fucked up mentality can be really harmful to you as well as the people you love and care about.

the loss of life is tragic but why were you vacationing on a land that your state has been violently occupying for decades in the first place?

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |17|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Seventeen: Delayed Motion Sickness

warnings: graphic depictions of cannibalism and discussion of consuming human flesh, severe psychological trauma and mental health issues , graphic descriptions of vomiting/illness, discussions of grief and death, brief mention of potential suicidal ideation, emotional distress, and existential horror.

note(s): tai: "so where the hell are we gonna get food?" lottie: "we're gonna dig up y/n's dead girlfriend!" y/n: "yeah, dumbass, we're gonna dig up- dig up y/n's dead girlfriend?!?!??"

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The world returns in fragments—voices filtering through darkness, the sting of cold against your face, hands gripping your shoulders. You register movement, being half-carried back toward the cabin, someone murmuring reassurances that don't penetrate the fog of horror enveloping your mind.

"Get her inside," Tai's voice cuts through the haze, authoritative even in crisis.

Your stomach lurches again as they maneuver you through the doorway. You twist violently in their grasp, desperate to avoid fouling the cabin floor.

"She's gonna be sick again," Mari warns, just as you double over.

Someone thrusts a bucket beneath your chin just in time, and you empty whatever's left in your stomach—bile mostly, burning your throat and bringing tears to your eyes. A hand holds your hair back; another rubs circles between your shoulder blades.

"It's okay," Travis murmurs from somewhere above you. "Get it all out."

When the heaving finally subsides, you're guided to your sleeping area, hands gently pressing you down onto your makeshift bed. A cup appears at your lips—water, blessed water to wash away the acrid taste. You sip gratefully, hands trembling too badly to hold the cup yourself.

Through tear-blurred vision, you make out faces hovering around you—concerned, wary, exchanging glances loaded with meaning you can't decipher. The cabin has gone unnaturally quiet, everyone waiting for whatever comes next.

"What happened?" Tai finally asks, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.

You open your mouth, but the words lodge in your throat. How do you articulate the horror unfolding in your mind? The memories bursting through barriers you didn't know you'd constructed?

"Jackie," you manage, the name barely a whisper.

Something passes between them—a look, a silent conversation flowing above your head. Confusion crawls through your fog of panic.

"She remembered," Lottie says from somewhere to your left, her voice strangely calm. "What we did."

You turn toward her voice, finding her perched on the edge of a nearby trunk, her expression serene despite the tension crackling through the room.

"What are you talking about?" you rasp, though part of you already knows—the part that's been drowning in repressed memories since you stepped outside.

No one speaks. The silence stretches, taut with unspoken truths.

"Someone fucking tell me," you demand, voice gaining strength born of desperation. "Tell me I didn't... that we didn't..."

"You really didn't know?" Natalie asks, incredulous. "This whole time?"

"Know what?" The words tear from your throat, edged with hysteria.

Another exchange of glances, another silent communication from which you're excluded. Then Van steps forward, crouching beside your bed.

"After Jackie died," she begins carefully, "things got pretty bad. Food was scarce, and we were all starving, and—"

"No." You shake your head violently, as if the physical motion can dispel the horror taking shape. "No, we buried her. We waited for the ground to thaw and we buried her."

Van's eyes are soft with pity. "We didn't bury her, Y/N."

Your name in her mouth somehow makes it worse—makes it real in a way nothing else has. You pull away, pressing yourself against the wall.

"You're lying," you insist, gaze darting from face to face, searching for someone to contradict her. "We wouldn't... I wouldn't..."

"It was your idea," Lottie says, the simple statement falling like a stone into still water.

Your breath catches. "What?"

"Not exactly," Tai interjects quickly, shooting Lottie a warning look. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" The question emerges as a plea, begging for an explanation that could somehow make sense of the fragments surfacing in your mind.

Tai sighs, settling on the floor beside your bed. "We were starving. Really starving. The hunting had failed for days, and the last of our rations were gone. Jackie was... she was already gone. Her body was just—"

"Meat," you finish, the word tasting like poison.

Tai nods once, her expression grim. "It was about survival. We all agreed."

"Including me." It's not a question anymore.

"You were... different after Jackie died," Travis offers hesitantly. "Not really yourself."

"Different how?" Despite the dread pooling in your stomach, you need to know.

Travis looks to Tai, clearly uncomfortable with being the messenger. Tai meets your gaze steadily.

"You were obsessed with her body," she says bluntly. "You wouldn't let us move her at first. You'd sit with her for hours, talking to her like she was still there. You'd arrange her hair, fix her clothes."

The memory surfaces unbidden—Jackie's frost-stiffened fingers in yours, combing through her tangled hair with a makeshift brush, carefully braiding the strands while chattering about nothing, everything, as if she could still hear you.

"You'd dress her up," Mari adds softly. "Change her outfits. Put that lipstick we found in her bag on her."

Your stomach lurches again, but there's nothing left to expel. "Oh god."

"When we finally decided to... use her body," Tai continues carefully, "you were the one who volunteered to... prepare her."

The knife in your hand. Blood on snow. The weight of flesh being carved from bone. Your breath comes in short, painful gasps as the memories assault you.

"Stop," you plead, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could physically block the images. "Please stop."

A hand touches your shoulder—Lottie, moved from her perch to kneel beside you. "The wilderness provides," she says softly. "Jackie provided. There's no shame in that."

You recoil from her touch, something primal and panicked clawing at your insides. "Don't. Don't fucking touch me."

Lottie withdraws her hand but remains close, her eyes locked on yours with that same unnerving intensity from the forest. "You didn't do anything wrong."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "I ate the woman I loved, but sure, no big deal, right?" The words hang in the silence, your declaration of love for Jackie spoken aloud for the first time. "Where's Shauna?"

The question seems to catch them off guard, heads turning to scan the cabin. Shauna is nowhere to be seen.

"She was just here," Van says, frowning. "She helped bring you in."

The realization dawns slowly, a new horror layering over the first. "She knew," you whisper. "She knew I didn't remember."

No one contradicts you. The silence is confirmation enough.

"Why didn't any of you tell me?" Your voice cracks on the question. "Why let me go on thinking—believing—"

"We thought you knew," Natalie interrupts, looking genuinely confused. "You were there. You participated. You ate the same meals as the rest of us."

"I don't remember!" The shout tears from your throat. "I don't remember any of it! The meals, the... preparation. None of it!"

"That's not possible," Tai says skeptically. "You were functional. You talked, you worked, you—"

"I don't remember the first few weeks after she died," you insist, desperation lending strength to your voice. "It's all... fragmented. Blurry. I thought it was grief, or shock, or..." You trail off, the implication of your words sinking in.

"Dissociation," Lottie supplies calmly. "Your mind protected you from what you couldn't handle."

"Until now," you finish bitterly. "Until I fucked you in the same shed where we..." You can't complete the sentence, nausea rising again at the connection your mind has made.

Lottie doesn't flinch at your crudeness. "The body remembers what the mind tries to forget."

"Jesus, Lottie, give it a rest with the fortune cookie wisdom," Natalie snaps, then turns to you. "Look, this is fucked up. The whole situation is fucked up. But none of us knew you'd blocked it out."

You shake your head, trying to reconcile their version of events with the gaping holes in your memory. "I thought we buried her," you repeat, softer now. "I had this... this mental image of us digging a grave when the ground thawed. Saying goodbye."

"We did have a ceremony," Van offers gently. "After. We said words for her, thanked her for... for helping us survive. It was Lottie's idea."

"A ritual," Lottie corrects. "To honor her sacrifice."

The door opens before you can respond, a gust of cold air preceding Shauna as she slips inside. Her eyes find you immediately, widening slightly at your conscious state. She looks different somehow—younger, vulnerable in a way you rarely see.

"Hey," she says awkwardly, hovering by the door. "You're awake."

"Where were you?" The question comes out sharper than intended.

Shauna shifts uncomfortably. "Just needed some air."

"Right," you reply, a bitter edge creeping into your voice. "Me too."

A tense silence falls. Tai stands, motioning to the others. "Let's give them a minute," she suggests, though it's clearly an order rather than a request.

One by one, they filter away to various corners of the cabin, providing the illusion of privacy in a space too small for secrets. Only Lottie lingers, her gaze flicking between you and Shauna with undisguised interest.

"Lottie," Tai says pointedly. "Come on."

With visible reluctance, Lottie rises, her fingertips brushing your arm as she leaves—a touch so brief you might have imagined it. Shauna watches the interaction, her expression tightening before she approaches, taking the spot Lottie vacated.

"You knew," you say without preamble, keeping your voice low enough that it won't carry to the others. "You knew I didn't remember."

Shauna doesn't deny it. "I suspected," she admits. "The way you talked about Jackie, about... after. It didn't line up."

"And you didn't think to mention it?" The hurt in your voice is unmistakable. "To say, 'Hey, by the way, we ate your dead girlfriend'?"

"Your relationship wasn't exactly public," Shauna replies automatically, then winces at her own tone. "Sorry. That wasn't... I didn't mean—"

"Whatever." You turn away, facing the wall. "Just go away."

"Y/N, please." Her hand lands on your shoulder, gentle but insistent. "I thought I was protecting you."

"Protecting me?" You twist back to face her, incredulous. "By letting me live in a fantasy world where my biggest crime was leaving her body in the snow?"

"You were broken after she died," Shauna says quietly. "You'd sit with her body for hours, talking to her, brushing her hair like she was a doll. You weren't eating, weren't sleeping. We were afraid you'd—" She stops, swallowing hard.

"Kill myself?" you finish for her.

Her eyes answer you, never leaving yours. "Then the food ran out. Everyone was getting desperate. Lottie suggested that Jackie... that her body could..."

"And I volunteered," you supply, the memory surfacing like something dead rising to the water's surface. "To cut her up."

Shauna flinches at your bluntness but doesn't contradict you. "You said it should be someone who loved her. That she'd want to help us survive."

A hysterical laugh bubbles up your throat. "That's rich. I'm sure she'd be thrilled to know we treated her like a fucking Sunday roast."

"It wasn't like that," Shauna insists, her voice dropping even lower. "It was... respectful. As much as it could be."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" The tears you've been fighting finally spill over, hot trails down cold cheeks. "That we said grace before tearing into her like a bunch of paganists?"

Shauna's hand finds yours, gripping it tightly despite your half-hearted attempt to pull away. "We thought you'd processed it."

"I forgot it," you correct bitterly. "Locked it away in some dark corner of my mind where I wouldn't have to look at it."

Shauna's thumb traces circles on your palm, the gesture achingly familiar. "Why tonight?"

You close your eyes, seeing again the congealed stew, feeling the texture on your tongue. "The food. Something about tonight's dinner just... connected."

Shauna is quiet for a long moment, her hand still holding yours. "The way you talked about Jackie... it was like you had this whole narrative in your head about what happened after she died. A story where we honored her properly, buried her, moved on naturally."

"And you just let me believe it." The hurt resurfaces, sharper now.

"At first, I wasn't sure," Shauna admits. "I thought maybe you were just... I don't know, coping differently. But then that fight we had yesterday, when you asked about the baby..." She trails off, shaking her head. "I realized you really didn't remember. But by then, you were already so angry with me, and then with Lottie, you were—"

You pull your hand from hers, a new memory surfacing. "The baby."

Shauna's expression shutters. 

"You still never told me what happened..." Your words hang between you, loaded with implications neither of you is ready to face.

"Please don't," Shauna whispers, echoing your own plea from earlier. "Please don't ask me that. I can't go through this conversation again. Not tonight. Not when you're already dealing with..." She gestures vaguely, encompassing the situation, your breakdown, everything.

The refusal should anger you—another secret, another piece of truth withheld. Instead, an odd calm settles over you, a numbness that's almost comforting in its completeness.

"Okay," you agree, surprising yourself as much as her. "Not tonight."

Relief flashes across her face, quickly followed by wariness, as if she doesn't quite trust your acquiescence. "Are you... how are you feeling?"

"How am I feeling?" You repeat the question with a hollow laugh. "I just found out I ate someone I loved. Processing that might take a minute."

Shauna winces but doesn't back down. "Do you need anything? Water? More blankets?"

The normalcy of the offer—its domestic banality in the face of your horrific revelation—strikes you as absurdly funny. A giggle escapes you, then another, building quickly into semi-hysterical laughter that you can't seem to control.

Shauna watches with growing alarm. "Y/N? Hey, it's okay. Just breathe."

"It's really not okay," you gasp between fits of laughter that are rapidly transforming into sobs. "It's so far from okay that okay isn't even visible from here."

Arms wrap around you suddenly—Shauna pulling you against her chest, holding you through the storm of emotions. You should push her away, maintain the anger that's been your shield since returning to the cabin. Instead, you collapse into her embrace, sobs wracking your body as the full weight of reality crashes down.

"I ate her," you choke out against Shauna's shoulder. "I ate Jackie."

"We all did," Shauna murmurs, her hands making soothing motions across your back. "We survived because of her."

The distinction feels meaningless in the face of your guilt, but you cling to Shauna anyway, desperate for any anchor in the storm of your fractured memories.

"I loved her," you whisper, the admission worn smooth with repetition in your mind but rarely spoken aloud.

"I know," Shauna says softly. "She knew too."

Something in her tone makes you pull back slightly, studying her face. "And I love you."

Her eyes meet yours, something vulnerable and raw in their depths. "You should get some rest."

The dismissal hangs between you, neither reciprocation nor rejection but something in between. 

"You're right..." you say, exhaustion suddenly washing over you. 

Shauna's hand finds yours again, squeezing gently. "Don't disappear again. Please."

The plea in her voice tugs at something in your chest. "I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise." The word feels binding in a way few things have since the crash upended your world.

Shauna nods, seeming satisfied. She starts to rise, but your hand tightens on hers, keeping her in place.

"Stay?" The request slips out before you can reconsider it. "Just... I don't want to be alone with my thoughts right now."

She hesitates only briefly before settling back beside you. "I'll stay."

Across the cabin, you catch Lottie watching, her expression unreadable in the firelit shadows. She inclines her head slightly when your eyes meet—acknowledgment without challenge. Whatever existed between you in the forest, in the meat shed, feels distant now, overshadowed by the horrors unearthed from your own mind.

You lean against Shauna, allowing your eyes to close, hoping for the oblivion of sleep without dreams. The memories will still be there tomorrow, waiting to be examined, processed, somehow integrated into your understanding of yourself. For now, though, there's just the warmth of human contact, the steady rhythm of Shauna's breathing, and the fragile promise of not facing the darkness alone.

"You'll be okay," Shauna whispers, her lips brushing your hair. "We both will."

You don't answer, don't point out the hollowness of such assurances in the face of your collective trauma. Instead, you let yourself believe it, just for tonight—a comforting fiction to cling to while the truth settles its weight upon your shoulders.

Outside, the wind howls through bare trees, a sound too similar to human keening. Inside, wrapped in Shauna's arms, you finally surrender to exhaustion, sliding into darkness with Jackie's name on your lips and the taste of memory like ashes on your tongue and you can't help but feel a wave of deja vu wash over you. 

[evergumi]

✦ 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒, 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄. apocalypse!m. fushiguro x reader

chapter one. megumi x reader, apocalypse!au, zombies!au, haters to lovers, aged up, gory gory chapter, mean megumi, angst if you squint

✧ THE WORLD didn’t look like it used to.

the ground was cracked and broken, like old pottery smashed by a careless hand. the sky sagged low and heavy, a dirty grey that hadn’t shown real sunlight in years. everything was dead — the grass, the trees, the air. even the colors were tired and sick, faded to dull yellows and sick greens.

you pulled your coat tighter around you, but it didn’t help. the cold wasn’t like winter. it was emptier than that. it crept into your bones and made your teeth ache like something rotting inside you.

you kept walking.

left foot. right foot. one more step.

the stories you had heard were thin and broken, like the people who told them. a camp. fires still burning. people still breathing. it sounded like a lie. but you had nothing else.

so you came.

you almost missed it.

hidden under the ruins of an old highway, behind piles of twisted metal and burnt-out cars, the camp was little more than a shadow. no signs. no warnings. just a thin line of smoke against the dead sky.

you stopped at the edge, feeling the chill in the air and the weight of silence.

nothing moved around you.

but as you moved closer, you heard distant giggles of children, voices of people. happiness. you felt a surge of hope in your heart.

with a shaky breath, you took one step forward.

instantly, the camp woke up. shadows danced, and bits of metal glinted in the faint light. the air became thick and sharp. your heart pounded in your ears, but you raised your hands, empty and open, ready to show you meant no harm.

then someone appeared.

"get on your knees."

he moved with a calm confidence, as if he didn’t care who saw him. he wore dark clothes, and his black, messy hair fell over a face that seemed too serious, as if it had forgotten how to smile. he wasn’t big, but he didn’t have to be—he looked sharp, like a blade ready for anything. lean muscles mouldedd wtih milky skin as he stopped a few feet away from you, a look almost akin to disgust on his face.

his eyes? they were colder than anything you had ever seen, deep ocean blue swirling with flecks of green. they were narrow and sharp and horribly beautiful. he stopped a few steps away, arms loose but ready to fight if you made a wrong move.

he didn't say a word.

instead, he just stared, clenching his sharp jaw.

you swallowed hard, your throat dry as the grainy saliva scratched your parched throat.

“i’m not looking for charity,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

he didn’t blink.

“good,” he replied flatly. “we don’t have any.”

your hands began to shake.

“i can work,” you said quickly. “fight. salvage. p.. please, i-”

he stepped closer, and the ground crunched under his boots.

“everyone says that,” he replied, his voice low and tired. then he pointed to the knife on your belt.

“take it out,” he ordered.

you hesitated, fear washing over you. he brushed his fingers over a weapon slung across his back—a long staff with a sharp blade, and it was a warning. with trembling hands, you pulled out your knife and held it out to him, the handle first.

he didn’t take it.

“stab yourself,” he said, eyes locked on you.

your body froze in shock. you stared at him, searching for some kindness, but he offered none. he didn’t flinch or explain.

"sir, i- please-"

"stab your fucking hand, or ill stab you in the throat." he spits the words out, as if you disgusteed him. by a glance to his face, it was clear he did.

your heart raced like it might burst.

your hand shook as you turned the knife toward yourself.

the cold tip touched your skin.

then you pushed.

the blade slid into your palm with a sickening squelch.

there was burning explosion beneath your skin. there’s a sharp, immediate shock, almost like your nerves are screaming before your brain can catch up. the pain is dense and electric, radiating out in pulses from the wound. even after the blade is out, a deep, throbbing ache lingers, every heartbeat sending a reminder through your hand and up your arm. there’s a sick, nauseating pull where the injury lives, and a strange, heavy weakness that makes your whole hand feel foreign and broken.

pain shot up your arm like fire. you screamed—a loud, broken sound that felt like it had come from someone else. god, it hurt. it was penetrating through your palm. and the sight was sickening. it was pain like any other before. tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t pull away.

mama, save me.

blood dripped down your wrist, warm and slick, ribbons or blood sliding down onto the floor. nearby chinderen who you heard playing beofre had stopped to watch you, looking at the man with something almost akin to - respect, yet shock.

you raised your injured hand, showing him the wound.

he didn’t react.

he stepped closer, grabbed the knife from you, and tossed it at your feet.

“pick it up,” he commanded.

your hand trembled as you bent down, your blood smearing across the handle.

behind him, two more people appeared—a boy with messy pink hair and a girl spinning a hammer in one hand.

“itadori. kugisaki. strip check,” he said to them.

the girl sighs, the first form of genuine emotion you have seen in months. "what the hell, fushiguro? not again."

the pink haired boy elbows nobara, his lips twitching with a surpressed grin. "kugisaki, don't make him angry."

the boy - fushiguro - hisses something under his breath and points at you, gesturing itadori and kugisaki to strip check you. the girl presses a, surprisingly gentle, hand to your thigh as the boy looks at you as a silent apology swims in his honey eyes.

“clean,” yuji said with a shrug.

the leader didn’t react—all he did was turn away.

“follow,” he said.

you stumbled after him, your heart racing and your hand dripping blood as you moved.

the camp felt more like a graveyard than a home.

small fires flickered dimly, casting shadows as people sat close together, weapons always nearby. they didn’t look at you, didn’t trust you.

grins faded when you were seen..

laughs died away.

fushiguro—that was his name—led you to a broken piece of concrete. he dropped a torn blanket onto the rough ground.

“don’t die before morning,” he said without glancing back.

then he slipped into the shadows, disappearing as if he belonged there.

you stood alone, clutching the blanket, feeling its weight against you.

no roof.

no tent.

just dirt and silence.

slowly, you sank down, wrapping the blanket around yourself. your bleeding hand ached with every heartbeat. the ground was cold, hard under your body. the night felt heavy, suffocating.

you didn’t mean to fall asleep.

you just couldn’t stay awake any longer.

you didn’t hear him return.

megumi stood over you, watching silently.

he looked down at the mess you were—a bleeding, half-frozen figure lying in the dirt.

for what seemed like forever, he didn’t move.

then he dropped another blanket next to you. this one was thicker, a little less torn.

not an act of kindness.

just a part of survival.

he didn’t say anything.

he didn’t even sigh.

he just vanished into the dark again, leaving you alone with the flickering fire and the stars hidden behind a broken sky.

an : yeah this is absolute ass guys IM SORYRFERJD i swear itll get better pls dont leave me

@ evergumi.

[lscpu]

I wish I didn’t read that bc now I really, really need to see or read a fic like that.

Ok but John doted on Sam to the point that he didn’t want to involve him into the hunt or scare him to death by revealing that the nightmares are actually real. End result is Dean was not only parentified, but alsoseparated from Sammy by the knowledge of the hunt.

Sam got to watch his father and older brother disappear for days on end, Dean dropping out of school, turning to alcohol as a coping mechanism for something while the chasm between Sam and John&Dean grew due to the Secret.

Sam is done watching this secrecy. He’s always been a smart kid, so he knew all those excuses he was given are bs, but as he grows and gets more life experience he enters the denial stage.

The obvious answer is on the nose, but it’s so horrible he doesn’t dare acknowledge it.

He fights with Dad and starts fighting with Dean and he kinda loves him but also can’t help being afraid of them both, especially once he inevitably catches a glimpse of the arsenal that Dean LEAVES WITH IN HIS BAG in the middle of a night.

What other explanation could there be? They never actually hurt Sam but what will they do when they know he knows?

Sam ends up saying fuck it, can’t possibly live like this, and leaves even earlier than in canon — as soon as he’s 18. He finishes high school on his lonesome and goes to Stanford on a full ride still, but doesn’t tell Dad and Dean about it. (Might or might not realize he’s being stalked.)

Doesn’t tell Jess shit as long as he can help it. Maybe lets it slip out when he’s in a doomed-drunk state at some party.

When Dean shows up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, eyes glinting, borderline manic, way too excited, Sam puts himself between him and Jess, guards her even as he explains that this thief-in-the-night is his brother.

(Meanwhile Dean just looks like that because he’s worried about Dad and happy he managed to track his baby brother whom he hadn’t seen or heard from for 4 years. Eyes glinting not bc he’s crying no who’s crying you’re crying, Dean’s just G L A D to see his baby, okay? And also Giddy because he gets to actually tell Sammy what’s going on. MEND THEIR RELATIONSHIP by finally letting Sammy in on the big secret.)

Dean says Dad’s gone ‘hunting’ and ‘hasn’t been home in a few days’, and to Sammy, with all the little clues he has, this is straight up Dean admitting that he snapped and took their Dad out and is using the disappearance as a way to connect with Sam. For the past 4 years Sam’s been reading on true crime & serial killers as a hobby, because of course his family isn’t like that (still denial), and this is when the knowledge of an old classic trope ‘chick got groomed by her scandalously older boyfriend into helping him hunt and kill other girls’ kicks in and makes the dots connect.

Sam thinks, oh shit, my brother got groomed by Dad to be bait and his serial killer partner, a twisted modern take on Bonnie and Clyde, and now he broke free… only to what? Drag Sammy into it?

So yeah I just think that’s neat. Dean ends up manhandling Sam into the car, ignoring Jess calling 911, and driving off with him to follow Dad’s steps only to run into that ghost from the Pilot episode. They fight it, Dean explains that ‘yep, that’s what Dad and I have been up to all these years, monsters are real and we hunt them. Sorry kiddo, tried to give you a real childhood (ruffles Sam’s hair) but clearly Dad and I messed up. ‘

Bonus points Jess reported this, all of Sammy’s college friends are worried SICK about him, what do you fuckin MEAN his brother broke into your place in the middle of the night and kidnapped Sam, what kind of cult shit is that? Where’d they grow up? No legit is it a cult thing? Makes sense Sam never mentioned family! He probably ran away but now they found him!

Meanwhile Dean just drives Sammy back home once the job is done, like he insisted he would do when he ‘kidnapped’ him, fully aware that Sam’s a smart kiddo who wants to learn everything about everything and now that he knows what the fuck was happening with his family and that Dad’s gone, he’d wanna come with Dean to help search for him.

But Jess reported this, right. So Dean gets arrested the moment he parks by her and Sam’s place (while being extremely smug about it, freaking Sam’s friend out even more), and Sam just tells the cops his brother didn’t kidnap him, Sam went with him willingly, his girlfriend just misinterpreted the situation.

Cops do the whole ‘victim of abuse’ routine. Did your brother threaten you? Is he threatening you right now? Is there any reason you’d lie to protect him? But since Sam is insistent nothing’s happening, they have no reason to take Dean into custody and have to let him go on the spot.

Cue all Sam’s friend thinking this is some Stockholm Syndrome shit. Jess is upset & afraid, friends are wondering if they should stage an intervention, and Dean just up and leaves, still suspiciously smug about the whole interaction, not in the least freaked out by the cops (very much unlike ANY normal person).

Jess texts their friend group she’s legit concerned about Sam’s brother and can’t even go to sleep since he knows where they live and has already broken in once, and that cops won’t even do anything because Sam refused to report it. From what little she knows and got out of Sam throughout the years, it’s not as much abuse as the weirdness — and Jess suddenly remembers the ‘murder kit’ Sam accidentally mentioned Dean having in a bag with him (while they were both drunk. Obviously. So she dismissed it till now).

That same night Sam&Jess’s place goes up in flames. A bunch of eye witnesses confirm the weirdo brother’s car was in the vicinity. Sam talks to the firefighters, the police, makes a statement on the spot — and up and leaves with his brother without even talking to his friends.

(Dean told him this is exactly what happened to Sam’s mom — it was no ordinary fire — and Sam did have visions of Jess like this, too.)

(Sam can’t shake the suspicion that Dean could be involved, despite everything he learned about the ghosts and the demons.) There is still the air of broken trust between them.

Sam can’t help the fear that his brother really is a serial killer. (For a moment there, everything started making sense, Sam was able to admit that’s what he feared Dad and Dean were. Unfortunately, he put a name to it, ‘I thought my Dad and brother were serial killers’ — but the fear didn’t fully go away, because it took time and a lot of processing to actually accept that the paranormal is so common that hunters are constantly working to fight it.)

Anyway, remember that scene in Bugs where Sam says ‘no no [we aren’t serial killers]’ and Dean gets all sappy n grinning like ‘could be fun tho :)’? Yeah, Sam would pause and think, what if they are, though. What if DEAN is.

MORE BONUS POINTS/au to an au: during his years in stanford sam actually sat down to anonymously write his experience of growing up with a father&son serial killer duo, and his and jess’s friends find this blog/site/forum/journal/whatever and put two and two together. Dean ends up on an FBI MOST WANTED list so damn fast. Turns the TV on one day to see his face plastered on the news and Sammy’s face there with him on suspicion of kidnapping his baby brother, straight-A 4.0 GPA student, full ride scholarship at Stanford, and torching brother’s place and killing his girlfriend as some elaborate revenge/psychological warfare scheme. Sam’s friends give these short teary-eyed snotty interviews and one of them mentions ‘and then we found Sam’s BLOG…’ and Dean just turns to Sam, frozen in the other bed, deer in the headlights face, and goes: ‘what blog are they talking about, sammy.’

‘Uh, so, I thought you and Dad, uh, that you were… serial killers?’

‘…’

‘And so I kinda… was on this forum, ANONYMOUSLY…’

‘…’

(Meekly) ‘To process that.’

Dean would roll his eyes up in his skull so hard they’d actually hurt.

“In one of the many versions of the pilot script, Sam suspects Dean of not only being a serial killer but also murdering their father”

[callme-holly]

Hi!! I love your fics sm and was wondering if you could do a Dallas x reader where they get into a big argument or something else angst but then a happy ending? Thank you in advance 💕

𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 - 𝐃.𝐖 headcanons + imagine

a/n: im loving all this angst atm. tysm for the request!!

Dallas has an incredibly bad temper, and while he cares about you more than he cares about other people, it doesn’t mean you don’t get under his skin, and it certainly doesn’t mean you’re exempt from his anger. 

When you zwei do argue, it's loud and quick and sometimes can get a little rough. He won’t ever lay a hand on you, but the words exchanged are heated and cut deeper than any blade ever could.

He won’t back down until you do and likes to have the upper hand. He won’t ever admit, he’s wrong, no matter the argument.

Your fights are usually over stupid, little things that really don’t matter in the big picture. At some point, you probably both forget whatever it is you were fighting about and just find random things to dig at instead. 

He always storms out afterwards, often leaving for hours at a time before dragging himself back. He doesn’t apologise—not with words—but you can tell he regrets it from the way he actually comes home to you. 

When you forgive him, he’ll try and act like it never happened, brushing it under the rug and carrying on with life like usual.

The door slammed so hard that the whole house seemed to rattle, the windows shaking in their frames, everything shuddering like a kitten in the snow. The sound reverberated off the walls, and you turned to glare at Dallas; another reason for you to yell.

“Do you have to do that?” You snapped, stepping towards him, and he scoffed, towering over you.

“Do what, doll?” His tone was condescending, a cutting remark that wasn’t meant to sweeten you up.

“Slam things! Act rough all the time!” Your voice was just as harsh as his own, matching it in volume, the bite behind your words dangerous. “I’m sick of it, Dal!”

Dallas shook his head in response, brushing past you, shoulder bumping yours as he passed. The action was careless, done in a way that was meant to be infuriating. “You signed up for this! If you’re that sick of it, fucking leave!” 

“Maybe I will!”

Your words hung in the air like a death sentence; they brought a sense of dread over Dallas, a feeling that was unfamiliar and sickening. Dread pooled in his stomach, twisting and churning, but he refused to show it. 

Instead, he remained deathly silent, back turned to you, not giving you the satisfaction of the hit. “Fine.” He snapped. “Go. See if I give a damn, man.” 

The finality in his words hit you like a freight train, unrelenting and holding no remorse. You were left staring at his back, waiting helplessly for him to turn and look at you, to apologise… But you knew he wouldn’t. 

He never did. 

So instead, you shuffled to sit down on the edge of the bed, bringing your knees to your chest, ignoring the burn in your throat. Your gaze never left him; he paced, cursed, and hit the wall with a force that made you flinch.

And then… he sat down on the floor beside you, leaning ever so slightly into your legs. 

It wasn’t a sorry, at least not a verbal one, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. It was the best you were going to get of him showing the rawer side of him, the “apologetic” side. 

Your fingers threaded into his blonde strands, nails scratching along his scalp, revelling in the way he relaxed under your touch. 

And when he pulled away just enough to kiss you, it was rough, filled with a thousand things neither of you needed to voice to understand. It was like an unspoken promise; he wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were you.

At least not yet. 

[incorrect-maraudersaandco-quotes]

Marlene: Bird watching is so perverted. You blow a little noisemaker that shouts “Wanna fuck?! Wanna fuck?!” And then when a bird shows up wanting to fuck you are like “Aha, I see you through my binoculars!” Sick behavior. Twisted behavior.