#tw vehicular manslaughter

[andytheaspec]

To the jackass who almost hit me because he just had to be on the freeway and then waved as if that would erase the fact that if I hadn't looked I'd be dead: This is why a yellow light is not a challenge. It is a warning. It is up to you to heed that warning. Unless you want to be on trial for vehicular manslaughter, I would recommend you heed that warning.

[sukone-tei-official]

Do you want to steal a forklift and commit vehicular homicide together

Sure! Just don't let the cops see me, I already have a huge criminal record

@utatane-piko-official wanna join us?!

(ooc: so Tei has committed vehicular homicide before, R. I. P. Whoever it was)

[selkiewife]

Hi, for the WIP ask game

Things just as bad or worse

Theon and Jon in the Crypts

Pretty please 🥰

Thank you so much @owlsinathens!

tw: Drunk driving, vehicular manslaugher, child death

Things just as bad or worse

This is hilarious that it is the first one I am being asked about and yet it is the hardest to explain maybe? But that is why it is a WIP lol. This idea has definitely grown over the years. It originally began as an RP modern verse on @theon-sea-reek where Theon had killed two children- Jack and Billy Miller while driving drunk. But now... it has morphed into something... weird. Basically now the idea is that Theon is in prison in Modern Times (Still deciding whether I am making it our world or modern Westeros. Probably our world. I am also not sure if I am going to try to make the Miller's boys deaths closer to canon, or if I even can- we'll see.) Theon begins to make up stories in his head in order to detach from the reality of prison- which includes Ramsay in some form- and from his own guilt. These "stories" begin to take shape as the asoiaf canon we know but different versions of it. Things that happen in the modern prison reality begin to affect how the story in his head goes and it switches- sometimes it is book canon, sometimes it is show canon, sometimes it is more fanon. The stories eventually become "just as bad or worse" as the reality he is trying to escape. Theon begins to wonder if these stories are actually happening the more real they become and the more lost in them he becomes. Is he losing his mind? Which version of him is true? Does it matter? I have a LOT to plan and consider with this one but I'm really excited about it.

Theon and Jon in the Crypts

This was originally supposed to be written for Greysnow Week. (Alas!) It is a missing scene fic for Season 8. Jon is in the crypts staring up at Lyanna's statue and having extreme angst over Ned and the reveal of his true parentage. At some point he realizes that he is not alone in the crypts... Theon has also come to visit Robb's statue and they have a discussion together that mirrors their Season 7 discussion but also turns it on its head. A bit of it is below:

His mother is a stone statue and his father is a lie. Jon stands in the Crypts seething in anger. Ungrateful. He knows he is ungrateful to feel this way, when Ned Stark sacrificed his honor to protect him. But all he can think about is the last time they spoke. The last time he saw the man he thought was his father. 

“The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother, I promise,” he had said. Would he have eventually told him? After he had already taken his vows and was safely out of the way? He certainly had no issue with him living out his life in frozen exile. He sent me to the wall without a second thought. 

And what of his true father? What would he have wanted him to become? Would he have loved him? Would he have truly accepted him as a trueborn son, as Sam insisted? Or would he just be another shameful stain on his father’s honor, a lone bastard boy in yet a larger castle?

And then there is the loss… the hollow feeling of losing Ned twice. Loss and love mixed with this new feeling of betrayal. It is too much. And what will Daenerys say? What will his sisters say? He doesn’t need this right now. 

(cue Theon... to be continued lol)

[aspiringbelle]

This is an actual good idea.

A new law in Texas requires convicted drunk drivers to pay child support if they kill a child’s parent or guardian, according to House Bill 393. The law, which went into effect Friday, says those convicted of intoxication manslaughter must pay restitution. The offender will be expected to make those payments until the child is 18 or until the child graduates from high school, “whichever is later,” the legislation says. Intoxication manslaughter is defined by state law as a person operating “a motor vehicle in a public place, operates an aircraft, a watercraft, or an amusement ride, or assembles a mobile amusement ride; and is intoxicated and by reason of that intoxication causes the death of another by accident or mistake.”

Continue Reading.

[deadlock-of-rodion]

hot pink ferrari

[mvshortcut]

[pwecie]

I just had the strangest dream.

Essentially, I was gonna be spending two weeks with my estranged paternal family in a house on top of a hill but the whole house was slanted and there were some people a bit older than me that I didn’t know. The reason I was there was because my grandma wanted to show me and my brother off because we’re basically the last redeeming qualities she has. Anyway, I’m anxious the entire time because this house is too messed up and it’s connected to a historical house that’s even MORE slanted and I just felt bad vibes all around. So I complain to my mom who is somehow also there in some sort of little pocket bedroom room-dimension thing with a bottle of wine and a really low ceiling connected to ANOTHER house that I wasn’t allowed in. So I went to the store to buy a tent and a sleeping bag so I could at least sleep outside on level ground and I don’t remember ANYTHING of the drive but I eventually end up inside of a children’s store that’s very long and narrow for a building and it’s like an early 2000’s/late 90’s off-brand toy store with liminal space vibes and also kids doing schoolwork in the middle of the night. So, general store and daycare? I find my way out because it’s like a maze in that bitch and I get back to my car, it’s raining, and there are these two gangs there somewhere in the row of cars behind me in the parking lot with homemade guns (among other gangs dealing drugs) and it’s clear that a gunfight is about to happen but I gotta get that damn sleeping bag. So I get in my car and back up to go around them but somehow drive through all of them and then I flee the scene and then all the sudden I’m on a rooftop maze where it’s like one infinite randomized rooftop with sections; there was a dystopian rooftop playground there with no safety regulation and then it’s the afternoon and I’m in another town now in the middle of the day on a bike jumping over buildings and then I fall into a really deep pool as a man I don’t know and I’m trying to resurface but I can’t so I’m breathing in my own air bubbles on the way up and I keep looking to see the surface just as far away as it was before, and then before I asphyxiate myself in my dream, I wake up.

[i-am-grell]

After spending countless polls low in votes, we get to be hit by Truck-kun again, fam

Poll But It's *Your Fault* for Making Me Watch a GOOD ANIME

I will be done Beastars well before this time tomorrow because why is it this good?? Anyway, here's the pinned post (linked this time (real)). You choose anime to watch so I don't have to.

As always, propaganda* (*I like to yap on the internets) below the poll. You're allowed to reblog if you also wanna annoy your followers with anime. You don't have to know me, follow me, like me, or like/know/have ever watched any of these shows to vote.

Propaganda:

Zombie Land Saga - I love you, unhinged dub of unhinged anime. And, yes, I did just type everything out and then go back and hold down "A".

Fruits Basket 2019 - Yeah, idk what to put here. It's been in polls before. It'll get finished one day. I know there's a dedicated Furuba community that pops up to vote for it now and then. Godspeed, amigos.

Sailor Moon - We resume post-time reset. This option will count for the second season of Sailor Moon (Sailor Moon R).

Kuroko's Basketball - I know, I know. Bat. Hornet's nest. Reblog this post and yell at me in the tags about it. Anyway, I've only ever seen literally one singular character from this that I know of and it's the green-haired glasses guy who looks like he will become my fave so.

Your Lie in April - I think this is your very first chance where I dare you to hurt me. Hurt me. Make me feel pain. The only things I know about this anime are "violin" and "sadness." I could not tell you a singular plot point so I'm going in very blind. Again, godspeed weebs.

Nichijou - My Ordinary Life - I've seen some gifs and images on the dash but never gave this a watch. It seems beautifully animated and a little absurd in a fun way. Also don't answer the question above, just cast a vote.

[gullemec]

Cross the Line

Golden Cage - Chapter Five

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Truth or Dare, Murder, and Sex. Or, you and Butcher go on a road trip.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ mdni), oral (f receiving), unprotected piv sex, nipple play, dirty talk, creampie, discussions of previous murders, language, unsafe driving, attempted flashing, One Bed Trope™️, reader has poor self esteem and is Going Through It, straight up vehicular manslaughter, brief description of dead bodies

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.7k

A/N: Here she is!! My first ever f/m smut scene! Please be kind. Also a very action-packed chapter. Please read the tags before diving in because there's a LOT happening here.

Monday morning rolls around with an alarming speed, the pace of your days having taken a decided turn toward the speed of light. 

It had nothing to do with your apprehension around being with Butcher again, you were sure. 

Certain. 

The plan, not unlike the last plan, is supposedly simple. As the CytoGenix van carrying the vials of V2 makes its way upstate, you and Butcher will tail it at a distance, waiting until the time is right to strike and run the van offroad using a spike strip.

You've thought up about two thousand ways this could go wrong. You could probably think of a thousand more, but your brain started to hurt when you tried.

You pull your bag over your shoulder, every step to Butcher’s van downstairs weighed down by a strange mix of adrenaline and dread. He’s waiting for you, leaned against the driver’s side door with his usual cocky smirk, dark aviators shielding his expression.

“Look alive, sunshine,” he says as you climb in. “Big day ahead.”

You settle into the passenger seat, forcing yourself to play it cool. The hum of the engine fills the silence as you pull away, but within moments, the tension in the van feels as suffocating as the thick summer air.

The first two hours crawl by. Small talk feels like dragging a boulder uphill, each attempt to bridge the gap between you met with curt, monosyllabic responses. Weather. Traffic. A half-hearted quip about a roadside diner that doesn’t even earn a smirk from Butcher.

It’s maddening. Days ago, this man had kissed you like the world was ending. Now, he's talking about the possibility of impending rain. You feel insane.

Eventually, you can’t take it anymore.

“Truth or dare,” you say, throwing it out like a grenade

Butcher glances at you, his brow furrowing beneath his sunglasses. “The fuck did you just say?”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath about it being a child's game. “And how exactly do you suppose we play truth or dare in a moving vehicle, hm?” He asks. 

“I don't know, but what I do know is that we have a four and a half hour drive ahead of us and if this awkward silence is going to continue, I'm going to jump out of the window right now.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “What are you, twelve? What’s next, a round of bloody ‘I Spy’?” He shoots you a look of bemusement before returning to the road, ignoring your request. 

He's not getting away that easy. 

“Look, it's either truth or dare, or we talk about the k—”

“Jesus Christ, alright I'll play your fucking game,” he relents. 

Success. 

You nod toward him expectedly. 

“What?” He asks 

“Truth or dare? You have to pick, it's kind of how the game is played.”

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “Fine. Truth.”

You pause to think for a second, racking your brain for a good question. You could, of course, go straight for the jugular, asking him why he pulled away from the kiss, why he didn't push you down on the couch and take everything you were willing to give him right then and there. But you think that might be a little intense for a first question, so you settle on something easier. 

“How many people have you killed?”

His reaction is instant, an incredulous laugh that’s more bark than humor. “Straight for the jugular, eh? You don’t muck about.”

“I’m curious,” you say, holding his gaze. “Isn’t that the whole point of the game?

“Sweetheart, if knowing how many people I've kidnapped is a second date question, this has gotta be a fifth date question.”

“Okay,” you say thoughtfully. “Well, if you count all the late night stake outs, and if you count our first date, the one where you kidnapped, me as three dates, which I do, I think we're well past the fifth date by now.” You raise your eyebrows at him, laughing.  

“Alright, alright,” he huffs. The smirk on his face betrays the fact that he kind of wants to play, but his tough facade necessitates that he put up a valiant fight about it first. 

But once your laughing subsides, his grin falls, and you realize that this was perhaps not the best question to ask. His eyes are fixed on the road when he answers you. 

He exhales sharply, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “I lost count. Got to twenty-five, maybe thirty, last time I bothered to keep track.” His voice is calm, almost too calm, but there’s no pride in it. “You happy now?”

His admission is like a shock to your system. You knew that he'd killed before, having tossed the idea around in your mind, considering the things you knew about the man you were unquestionably attracted to. He has killed, yes, but he has also lost. He has lost everything, and he has helped, and he has been kind, too. And yet, hearing the words from his mouth, putting a number, if only estimated, on the amount of times a life has been lost at the same hands that were wrapped tenderly around your body only days ago, sends a painful jolt to your heart. 

“I know what you might think,” he starts, his voice faltering. “You think I'm cold and evil, or whatever.” His fingers readjust around the steering wheel, an anxious tic you're picking up on. “But I had to do it. I believed it was for some… greater purpose, I guess. I believe that, but maybe because I have to.”

You're speechless. You weren't expecting this sudden moment of vulnerability in Butcher, this emotional nakedness. If you're honest, it scares you, because it causes the sand beneath the already unsteady foundation of your relationship with him to shake. You have to say something, anything. 

“How do you feel about potentially killing two more people today? Does it make you nervous?” You ask. You're vaguely aware of the van driving ahead of you, a pinprick dot of white on the endlessly winding highway. 

He sighs, then smirks, looking entirely too pleased in comparison to his somber expression only moments ago. “Uh–uh, your turn now.”

He's got you there. 

“Truth,” you say, and it's only fair that he throws you a hardball too. But he doesn't. 

“What’s your favorite memory with your mum?”

The question throws you for a moment, its tenderness blindsiding you. You have so many, you could almost argue that this isn't an easy question at all. All the same, your mind wanders to the same memory that always pops up when you ask yourself this question. 

“My seventh birthday,” you begin, your voice tinged with nostalgia. “Dad was off in the Bahamas for some meeting, and I didn’t have any friends because we’d just moved. So it was just me and her. She took me to Coney Island, and we spent the whole day there. Rides, games, cotton candy. It was the best.” A tear twinkles in your eye, but you wipe it away before it comes to fruition. 

He looks like he's about to say something, maybe offer some comfort or ask a follow up, but you're too quick for him. 

“Now you, truth or dare?”

He picks dare, following your lead and ignoring what you shared about your mom. You appreciate his ability to pick up on your nonverbal cues. 

You resist the urge to reach across the console and brush your fingers through his wild, wind-tousled hair. You let yourself imagine for a moment a scenario in which the two of you are out for a drive on a beautiful day for pleasure rather than business, where you might entwine your fingers with his on the center console. But these thoughts are dangerous, and you need a distraction. 

“Drive in the oncoming lane for ten seconds.”

“Are you bloody mental?” he snaps, glaring at you. “We’re trying to keep a low profile, and you want me to pull a stunt like that?”

You shrug, and you relish in the utter frustration that Butcher exudes, the way his accent comes out in full-force when he's this worked up. 

“You said dare,” you counter, your tone teasing. “A dare’s a dare.”

He groans, muttering a string of expletives as he slows the van. “You’re a bloody pain in my arse, you know that?”

“Slow down a bit, so they won't see us,” you suggest, your voice low to control the giggles that threaten to peek out. “Come on, Butcher.”

He hesitates. It's a sick kind of satisfaction knowing that, if it was anyone but you, Butcher would have probably just let you jump out the window at this point. 

“One, twooo… Threeeee…” You exaggerate your words, giving him every opportunity to acquiesce to your demands. 

Finally, you feel the van slow and dip to the left as Butcher careens into the oncoming lane. 

This is getting too easy. 

You count out the next ten seconds slowly, agonizingly. 

Ten. 

Nine

Eight. He shifts his eyes between you and the road, imploring you to call off the dare. Absolutely not. 

Seven. 

Six. 

Five. A speck materializes on the horizon. An oncoming car. 

Four.  The speck transforms into a white sedan. 

Three. “I'm switching lanes,” he yells. “Three more seconds!” You argue back. 

Two. You can tell now that there are two passengers in the sedan. “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!”

One. The driver of the sedan lays on the horn, the loud bleat sending shockwaves through your system. 

Butcher swerves back into the right lane, a chorus of curses spilling out, the sedan’s honking fading out behind you. Your laughter spills out, obnoxious and loud and absolutely drowning out Butcher’s string of profanities. Shortly after he course-corrects, the white van falls back into your line of sight. 

No harm, no foul. 

Butcher’s breathing evens. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“And yet, here you are,” you retort, still grinning.

“You better pick dare this turn. I didn't realize we weren't playin' fair,” he smirks, and you're knocked back again. It's criminal how this man speaks, so deep and yet so melodic, his accent and charm breaking down whatever defenses you still had standing. 

“Do your worst,” you dare, and he smiles widely. For a moment, you feel a real flare of heat in your chest. You don't want to think about what you'd realistically do for this man right now, but the thought crosses your mind, sending a pang to your core. 

“Flash the next car that drives past us.”

Now it's your turn to blanch at the request, your face scrunching up in response. 

“You can't be serious,” you say. 

He simply nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead in feigned concentration. 

Well, the best way out is always through. 

You pull your seatbelt off, balancing on your seat and the console as you pull yourself through the van’s open sunroof. You pretend not to notice Butcher's right arm snaking protectively around your left leg. 

You watch as a dark green truck materializes before you, a lone cowboy hat wearing man inside. You pinch your fingers around the edge of your shirt. The truck speeds by as you begin to lift it up. Suddenly, the arm wrapped around your leg pulls down, forcing you back into the van. 

“Hey! What was that for?!” You exclaim, annoyed at the unwelcome intrusion. 

“You weren't seriously going to flash that truck, were you?” He asks. 

You nod. “I mean, yeah? You dared me to do it. A dare’s a dare.”

He huffs and puffs, shaking his head intermittently. He's frustrated with you, and it's pissing you off. 

Time to turn the tables. 

“Okay, well it’s your turn now I guess. Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” he says smugly, and you laugh, because you know what you say next is going to shake him. 

You take a second to stare at him, an unabashed good look at him. The way the breeze tousles his dark hair, the angle of his jaw catching the golden hour light. The warmth in the glow softens him somehow, makes him seem almost human, almost kind. You can't deny that you want him, and you can’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wants you too.

"Did you like it?" you ask abruptly, your voice low but clear.

Butcher furrows his brow, clearly puzzled. "Like what?"

"When you kissed me," you clarify, your heart pounding in your chest. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

The silence that follows is deafening. You hear him inhale sharply, see the slight hitch in his posture as the words settle between you. His face shifts, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it came. He stares straight ahead, jaw tightening, fingers curling around the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

Your pulse quickens. Oh, God. Why did I say that? The weight of your own recklessness presses down on you. Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity as he struggles with something unspoken, his lips parting as if to say something—

Your heart stops.

—and then, with a sharp gasp, his hand slams the horn and his foot hits the brake.

"Oi! Cunts!" he shouts, jerking the van to a sudden halt. Both of you lurch forward, your seatbelt biting into your shoulder.

Your head snaps toward the road just in time to see the CytoGenix van swerving off into the parking lot of a run-down motel.

The spell is broken. The tension you’d built up between you vanishes, replaced by adrenaline and a sinking sense of inevitability.

At least he'd stopped you before you'd shown your tits to some unsuspecting cowboy. 

Butcher’s face hardens, his attention fully back on the road as he mutters a string of curses under his breath. He keeps driving for another mile, the air in the van heavy and stifling. It’s as though the cracks you’d glimpsed in his armor have sealed up entirely, leaving only the impenetrable man you met at the start.

Finally, he pulls off just past a mile marker, the van grinding to a halt on the side of the road. He throws it in park and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

"Out," he orders, his voice clipped.

You blink at him. "What?"

"Get out of the van," he repeats, this time more firmly.

Despite every instinct screaming at you not to trust him, you obey. He follows you out, slamming the door behind him, and gestures toward the dense line of trees. "Start walking. Don’t stop ‘til you’re deep enough in that you can’t see the road anymore."

“Now wait a goddamn minute,” you fight, “I want to be a part of this. You're not exiling me to the woods while you do the dirty work. I’m coming with you.”

“You’re not,” he snaps, his tone cold and final. “You don’t want this blood on your hands, love. Trust me.”

Your temper flares. "You’re such an asshole, you know that?" you spit, heat rushing to your face.

You're all bite, all fight, until you see the look on his face. The harsh lines of his face are softened, his eyes weighed down with something heavier than anger. Guilt? Regret? He doesn’t want to do this, you realize. He thinks he’s protecting you.

And maybe you just don't have much of a fight left in you anymore.

You swallow hard, clenching your fists. "Fine," you say through gritted teeth. "But don’t think for a second I’m letting this go."

Without waiting for a response, you storm off into the forest, branches snapping underfoot as you push past ferns and brush.

You find a mossy rock and sink down beside it, hugging your knees to your chest. The familiar ache of being abandoned washes over you, pulling you back into yourself. You wrap your arms tightly around your body, closing your eyes and imagining the comforting embrace of your mother. The memories come easily, like they always do. Her laugh, her warmth, the way her hand always found yours when you were scared.

You lose track of time sitting there, flipping through those memories like pages in a well-worn book. Hours could have passed, or maybe it’s only minutes. You don’t know, and for a while, you don’t care.

It’s the crunch of heavy footfalls that pulls you back to the present. You blink up to see Butcher looming over you, his expression grim and drawn.

"If a van crashes in the forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it even make a noise?" you quip, smirking despite yourself.

He scowls. "What the fuck are you on about now?"

"Either that was the quietest car crash in history, or you lost them," you say, crossing your arms.

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "They never came through. They’re holed up at the motel for the night. We’ll head back, stake it out, and wait for them to move on." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the road.

He extends a hand to help you up, but you ignore it, pushing yourself off the ground and brushing dirt from your clothes. Without a word, you start walking ahead of him, back toward the van.

"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath, falling in step behind you. 

The short drive back to the motel is silent, the energy between the two of you having soured considerably. You stare out the window, arms crossed, seething. You're pissed and you want him to know it, to feel it. The mission feels like a joke, like you’re a joke. No matter what you do, you’ll always be the inept kid getting in the way.

The Piney Point Motel comes into view just as the sun dips behind the pines, the sky streaked in pinks and oranges. You spot the CytoGenix van immediately, parked conspicuously by the entrance of the motel. As far as you can tell, it's empty. 

“Did they really just… leave it there?” You ask, incredulous. 

Butcher chuckles. “Your old man really should stop cuttin’ corners on security.”

A flurry of hope stirs in your chest. “So we could just break into the van and steal the vials, right? And then no one would have to get hurt?”

He gives you a look, one that’s half pity, half impatience, before gesturing to the motel’s facade. Security cameras dot the walls, floodlights primed for motion. “Sorry, sweetheart. Looks like your dad could learn a thing or two from Piney Point.”

And just like that, the spark fizzles. 

Butcher pulls the van into a shadowed corner of the lot and kills the engine. He leans back in his seat, arms crossed.

You stare at him. “Well, are we going in?”

“Nah. You can crawl in the back if you wanna sleep. I'll take first watch.”

He can't be serious. 

“You want me to sleep back there?!”

He shrugs. “Or up here, but I don’t reckon it’s any comfier.”

You shoot him an incredulous look. “Or—and hear me out—we could sleep in the motel right in front of us?”

“And risk losin’ ‘em? Yeah, no thanks.”

You argue back and forth but the man is an infuriating, unflinching wall of stubbornness. Eventually, you give up, arms crossed as you glare at the moonlit motel. You consider going and getting a room just for yourself, but you reason that Butcher won't hesitate when he sees the men leave and you'll be left behind. Sleep tugs at you, but you refuse to crawl into the cramped backseat. Not after this.

The moon begins its arc across the starlit sky. Stars scatter above you, brighter and clearer than anything you’ve seen in years. You step out of the van, stretching stiff legs, the cool night air brushing against your skin. For a moment, you forget your frustration, gazing up at the wide, sparkling sky. It reminds you of Muskoka, your last vacation with both parents—before the office bedroom became your dad’s permanent home.

The ache of the memory lingers as you climb back into the van, only to find Butcher slumped in the driver’s seat, snoring. His chin tucked into his chest, a low rumble filling the space. You burst into laughter before you can stop yourself.

Butcher jerks awake, eyes darting wildly until they land on you. His expression shifts to a mix of annoyance and embarrassment.

“Alright, laugh it up,” he grumbles, voice gravelly from sleep. “Your turn to keep watch. Good luck stayin’ awake.”

You plant your hands on your hips, glaring at him. “I’m dead tired, and so are you. We need actual sleep, Butch. I’ll pay for the rooms. Final offer.”

He pretends to consider your offer like the thought of a bed, even a springy motel bed, doesn't sound downright heavenly right now. After a moment of feigned thoughtfulness, he pulls himself from the driver's seat and stalks toward the motel. 

“Don't look so pleased,” he mutters as he stalks past you. “We’re up at 4:30, no later. Understand?”

You trail behind him, hiding your grin. Right now, you’d agree to anything.

~~~

The reception area of the Piney Point Motel looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1970s. The wood-paneled walls are warped in places, lined with crooked shelves cluttered with knick-knacks, miniature ceramic animals, a faded “World’s Best Grandma” mug, and a jar of mints that looks more like a trap than an offering.

Behind the counter sits a bespectacled woman in her sixties, a paperback romance novel in one hand and a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside her. The air smells like pine-scented cleaner and stale smoke. She looks up as you and Butcher enter, giving you both a thorough once-over.

“Hourly or overnight?” she asks flatly, like she’s heard every excuse in the book.

The question hits you like a slap. Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Butcher doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ll take two rooms for the night,” he says, ignoring your mortification.

The receptionist shakes her head with a lazy shrug. “Only got one room left. One bed. Last two-bed went to a couple of truckers about an hour ago. It’s that time of year.”

You and Butcher exchange a look, sharp and synchronized.

“No,” you and Butcher say in unison, your sharp tone and immediate refusal surprising the older woman. 

But your mind wanders back to the van, it's aging leather upholstery and stiff cushions and lingering coffee smell. The weight of your eyelids expands tenfold at the thought. No way in hell are you going to be prepared for what tomorrow brings if you have to sleep in there. 

“Fine,” you sigh, taking the key from the receptionist’s outstretched hand, replacing it with a stack of bills.

“What d’you mean, fine?” Butcher asks, trailing after you as you head to the room. His boots echo dully on the cracked linoleum floor. “We’re better off in the van. Safer, too.”

You ignore him, jamming the key into the lock and twisting hard. The door creaks open to reveal a shoebox-sized room with peeling wallpaper, a squeaky ceiling fan, and a bed that looks like it’s seen more fights than rest.

Still, it’s a bed.

Without a word, Butcher follows you inside, closing the door behind him. For a man so determined to sleep in the van, he seems strangely reluctant to leave now. You glance at him, confused but unwilling to ask.

“You’re not staying, are you?” you finally say, half-turning to face him.

“’Course I’m stayin’,” he replies, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Not leavin’ you alone in some dodgy motel where the closest weapon’s probably that broken lamp in the corner.”

You blink at him, torn between irritation and a flicker of gratitude. Before you can respond, he smirks and brushes past you toward the bed.

“Dibs,” he declares, flopping onto the mattress with all the grace of a drunk elephant. The springs groan in protest, but he doesn’t care.

“No, no! Absolutely not!” You shout, but he's already stretched his arms behind his head, feet crossed. “You're not taking the bed, you didn't even want this room!”

“And yet, here I am,” he replies, tucking his hands behind his head. The smugness radiating off him is enough to set your teeth on edge.

“You're an asshole, you know that right?”

“Yeah, you keep remindin’ me,” he says with a grin. “Now are you gonna stand there gawkin’ all night, or are you gonna make yourself comfortable?”

You grab the pillow out from behind his head and secure it alongside yours down the middle of the bed, creating a makeshift wall between your bodies. 

“What’s this, then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“The Great Wall of Don’t-Touch-Me,” you deadpan, climbing onto your side of the bed and glaring at him over the makeshift divider.

He chuckles, low and amused. “You think I’m gonna bite?”

“More likely that I’d be the one biting you,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

The second the words leave your mouth, your cheeks flush hot. You busy yourself adjusting your pillow, pretending you don’t see the way his grin widens.

“Noted,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make you shiver.

You roll over, facing the wall. The bed creaks as Butcher shifts, and you’re hyper-aware of his presence. His scent, the warmth radiating off him, the way the air seems heavier when he’s near.

Neither of you bother crawling under the covers, facing away from each other to make it extra-clear that this is a no-nonsense, all-business sleepover. 

“Goodnight, asshole,” you mutter, hoping the bite in your tone masks the thrum of nerves in your chest.

“’Night, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice softer than you expect.

You want to savour this moment, but you're out in seconds. 

~~~

Suspended in a haze of warm sunlight, the cool edge of unreality covers you like a blanket of fresh snow. Strong arms wrap securely around your waist, across your chest, their weight pressing into you like a protective cocoon. The scratch of a beard grazes your neck, and the faint warmth of breath tickles your skin. Gentle snores vibrate against your back, a low, steady rhythm that lulls you further into the dreamlike state. You fight to stay there, curling deeper into the embrace, savoring the rare, fleeting serenity.

But serenity never lasts. A creeping discomfort nags at the edges of your mind, like an itch you can’t quite reach. The illusion splinters. The sunlight grows sharper, the weight around you heavier, the awkward press of something hard on your ass undeniable.

Your eyes snap open, reality crashing in. It’s blindingly bright, far too bright for what should be the early, predawn hours. Panic spikes through your system as you take in the scene, your body reacting before your brain catches up. You thrash instinctively, and Butcher’s grip loosens just in time for him to tumble unceremoniously off the bed.

“Bloody hell!” Butcher groans from the floor, rubbing the back of his head.

Your voice comes out in a frantic rasp. “Butcher, wake up! We slept in!”

The words are like a starter pistol. He’s up and moving in an instant, yanking on his boots while simultaneously reaching for the door.

“Shit! Goddamn it, move! Move!” he barks, his voice sharp and commanding.

The two of you are a blur of motion, grabbing, stumbling, swearing. Your bodies move on autopilot, faster than your sleep-addled minds can process. In seconds, you’re in the van, Butcher slamming the door shut and peeling out of the motel parking lot with reckless urgency.

Anxiety builds in your chest, each erratic swerve of the van feeding the dread coiling tighter inside you. As you glance back at the motel, the sight of an empty parking spot—a lone Mustang where the CytoGenix van had been—confirms your worst fears. They’re gone.

Butcher’s jaw tightens as he accelerates onto the highway, weaving through lanes with a focus that’s almost terrifying. The towering pines blur into streaks of green on either side of you as the van hurtles forward. You scan the horizon frantically, desperate for a glimpse of white metal that refuses to appear.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours before Butcher finally slows the van, pulling into a deserted roadside gas station. It’s eerily quiet, the pumps sitting idle, the building dark and lifeless.

“This is the last stop for miles,” Butcher says, his voice low and grim. “That's the last stop they would've made before going to the lab.”

The weight of his words slams into you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your heart races, panic tightening its grip. This was it, the window of opportunity to intercept them had closed. It was all your fault. You’d fought tooth and nail for the motel room last night, insisting you both needed the rest, convincing yourself it was a small indulgence that wouldn’t jeopardize the mission.

You were wrong.

Maybe he was right, maybe your father was right, maybe they're all right, everyone who's ever doubted you. It's cruel, the way that the frayed threads of meaning in your life seem to continually fall from your grasp. 

Shame and guilt crash over you in waves, heat rising in your face as your chest constricts painfully. You blink back tears, but they gather stubbornly at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Butcher, I’m so sorry,” you stammer, your voice trembling. “I—I screwed up. This is all my fault.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable as he stares out the windshield. The silence stretches, unbearable. Fear claws at you, the thought of him cutting you loose from the Boys—or worse, giving up on the mission entirely—hitting like a punch to the gut.

“Please,” you continue, desperation creeping into your tone. “I know I fucked up, but don’t… don’t give up on this. Don’t give up on me.”

Butcher’s head swivels toward you, his eyes softer than you expect. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle, almost unrecognizably so.

“Hey,” he says, holding up a hand. “Breathe. It’s okay. Hold your apologies, yeah? We’re not done yet. I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve.”

You blink at him, stunned into silence. This wasn’t the reaction you were expecting, not the anger, the harsh words, the fury you thought you deserved. Instead, his calm confidence throws you off balance, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“Butcher…” you whisper, your voice catching in your throat.

“Just wait,” he says, lips quirking into a faint, reassuring smirk. “Keep it together. We’ve still got work to do.”

With that, his foot presses down on the gas pedal, the van lurching forward and pinning you back against the seat.

You're certain you've never driven this fast before, not even during those rare joyrides with your father in his Bugatti. The van rockets forward, moving like a bullet out of a gun, the world outside warping into a blur of trees and sky as the tires scream against the asphalt. Your grip on the door handle tightens with every jolt, the tension in the cabin as visceral as the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Despite the chaos of the day, the abrupt wake-up, the panic, and Butcher’s uncharacteristic gentleness, the unbridled anxiety screaming inside you speaks only of the lives of the two men in the CytoGenix van, unknowingly hurtling toward their end. Anxiety claws at your chest, raw and unrelenting. You shut your eyes and try to focus on breathing, but it’s no use.

“Oi, cunts!” Butcher’s voice explodes, and your eyes snap open.

Thirty feet ahead, the CytoGenix van comes into view, its white exterior glaring against the green blur of forest on either side. To your right, the trees abruptly fall away, leaving nothing but a battered guardrail and a steep ravine beyond.

“Hold on tight,” Butcher orders, his tone calm but edged with a manic sort of energy.

Before you can question him, he floors the gas pedal. The van lurches forward, barreling into the oncoming lane to overtake the other vehicle. Butcher twists the wheel expertly, positioning your van just ahead of the CytoGenix one. Then, in one brutal motion, he jerks back and rams into the side of it.

The impact is bone-rattling. Your body slams against the seatbelt, the van shuddering violently as both vehicles swerve erratically. For a moment, you lock eyes with the other driver, his face contorted in a mix of rage and confusion. But Butcher’s already at it again, pulling back just enough to ram the CytoGenix van a second time.

This hit sends the other van wobbling wildly, the driver fighting to regain control. Your ears ring, blood rushing so loudly that you’re not sure if the scream you hear is yours or simply imagined. And then, with a final, sickening crunch, the CytoGenix van plows through the guardrail and plunges down the ravine.

Butcher swerves hard, narrowly avoiding the gaping hole in the guardrail. The side of your van scrapes against what remains, metal shrieking as sparks fly. He brings the van to an abrupt stop on the shoulder a hundred yards ahead, slamming the gearshift into park. The engine dies, leaving only the sound of your ragged breathing in the cabin.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Holy shit,” Butcher echoes, his grin wide and reckless.

You both sit there for a moment, staring straight ahead, before the tension breaks. Anxious laughter bubbles out of you, and to your surprise, Butcher joins in. The two of you volley expletives back and forth between bursts of laughter, the absurdity of the situation sinking in.

When the laughter subsides, Butcher reaches for the door handle. “Stay put,” he says firmly. “You’re not gonna want to see this.”

That sends your adrenaline spiking all over again. You throw your door open and stomp after him, slamming it behind you. “No. You’re not doing this. Not again.”

He turns to face you, brows furrowed. You jab a finger into his chest. “I’m capable of this, Butcher. And if I’m going to be part of the Boys, I need to prove it. No more babying me.”

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his hazel eyes searching yours. The tension between you is almost unbearable as you silently plead with him to understand. To let you have this. To understand just how important this is, how this transcends the circumstances you currently find yourselves in. Finally, his shoulders sag slightly, and he gives a curt nod. “Fine. But don’t make me regret it.”

Together, you make your way down the ravine, the incline steep and unforgiving. Butcher offers his arm to steady you when you stumble, and you grudgingly accept. At the bottom, the wreckage comes into view. The CytoGenix van lies on its side in a shallow creek bed, its back doors hanging open.

You rush to the driver’s side, heart hammering in your chest as you peer inside. For the past week, nightmares have plagued you—visions of Adam and Emily lying lifeless in the wreckage. But when you see the two men slumped in their seats, necks twisted at unnatural angles, neither is familiar. Relief washes over you, mingling uneasily with guilt.

“They’re nobodies,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Butcher. “Collateral damage.”

His hand falls heavy on your shoulder. “The hard part’s over,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It gets easier from here.”

You desperately want to believe him. 

You both turn your attention to the back of the van. Butcher grips one of the broken doors and yanks it free with a grunt. Inside, a sleek black lockbox gleams ominously. Without hesitation, Butcher brings his boot down on it, cracking it open.

Inside are rows upon rows of vials, their green liquid glowing faintly in the fading light. You pick one up, holding it between your fingers and marveling at its beauty. The liquid seems alive, swirling and shimmering with an otherworldly energy.

And then, without thinking, you hurl the vial at a nearby tree. You watch in awe as the glass shatters, the glowing substance splattering across the bark and dripping onto the forest floor.

“Shit—I don’t know what came over me—” you start, but Butcher is already laughing, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

“Fuckin’ diabolical,” he says, grabbing a vial and smashing it under his boot. You both gape at the way it explodes under his foot, staining his boot like a glow stick, before you burst into shared laughter. 

You both fall into a wild, unhinged rhythm, smashing vial after vial. The forest around you glows eerily, the remnants of V2 painting the trees and ground in streaks of neon green. Laughter bubbles out of you, uncontrollable and cathartic, as the absurdity of your destruction takes hold.

When only one vial remains, Butcher reaches for it, but you stop him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. We should keep one. For testing. Just in case.”

He looks at you, then smirks. “Knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You keep me around for more than that.”

His smirk fades, replaced by something darker, more intense.  The air shifts between you, the laughter forgotten as your proximity feels suddenly charged. Whatever force is behind the constant push and pull of your attraction to Butcher is now pushing in full force, the glowing green crime scene around you fading into nothing. It's just you and him and the screaming urge inside of you to untether. 

Butcher advances toward you, pulling your face into his hands, crashing his mouth into yours. This time you get the chance to react, the opportunity to reciprocate. And you do, wholeheartedly. You pull at the lapels of his jacket, fingers fumbling for purchase in his wild hair. His hands move over your body, down your back and across your ass, squeezing you closer to him.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are wild. “Someone’s gonna notice the skid marks and the guardrail. We’re gonna have company soon if we don’t move.”

“Back to the motel?” you ask, bold and breathless.

His answer is immediate. “Yeah.”

Without another word, he grabs your hand, practically pulling you back up the ravine toward the van.

You had a taste of Butcher's penchant for speeding earlier, but something about the way he races down the road back to the motel now has butterflies erupting in your stomach. His right hand is placed firmly on your left thigh, your own hand keeping his there. You're ashamed to admit that his touch alone is driving you crazy. 

Thank god you never had time to return the key this morning, because you both race back to the room, his mouth in your ear, arms encircling your waist as you fumble to unlock the door. The second the door closes behind you, he has you pushed up against the door, his tongue parting your lips and hands digging into your waist. You wrap your arms around his neck as he lets a hand fall to your ass, squeezing tightly. He lifts you up, wrapping both of your legs around his middle. You moan at the way his hands explore you, the closeness of your bodies. 

“Do that again,” he instructs. 

“Make me,” you dare. 

He throws you down on the bed, both of you using the opportunity to work your shirts off. He spends an unabashed moment staring directly at your tits, chest heaving. Like you're a work of art he can't wait to defile. You unbutton your pants before Butcher pulls them off of you, leaving you bare before him, save for your underwear. He crawls up onto the bed, knees nudging your legs open, his imposing frame towering over you. 

“You have no idea how goddamn much I've thought about this,” he admits. Your eyes search his face, hands combing through his hair. He kisses you deeply, tongue exploring your mouth, before moving down to place licks along your collarbone. He moves down to your nipples, your stomach, stopping at the waistband of your underwear. He looks up in silent request. 

“Please,” you beg. “Don't stop.”

And, with your permission, he practically rips the soft cotton as he pulls them down, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders. You share a glance, both with bated breath, before he finally puts his mouth on you, eating you like a man starved. 

Your head tilts back involuntarily as he licks at you, alternating between languid, savoring strokes, his wide tongue exploring deep inside of you, and quick, tight little circles over your clit. You've never been the kind of woman to be particularly loud or vocal in bed, a complaint you'd heard from lovers in the past. But now the moans fall freely as you fall apart on Butcher's tongue. Your sounds only serve to egg him on, his fingers digging deeply into your plush inner thighs, his growls reverberating through your pussy, matching your low moans. You barrel embarrassingly quickly toward the edge. 

“‘m so close,” you whimper. 

He doesn't stop, every determined movement a silent encouragement for you to chase your high. 

Your hands reach down, tangling in his messy hair. He responds, deepening the push of his mouth against your core, rhythmically drawing his fingers back and forth against your inner thighs. Your fingers clench around the tendrils of his hair, pulling so hard you know it must hurt him. He doesn't seem to notice, his rhythm never stalling. Then, starbursts exploding behind your eyelids as you fall over the edge, legs clamping involuntarily around his head. 

Dizzying, pure, unadulterated bliss.

Head falling back against the pillow, you're sure you've never come this hard before. Your limbs are absolutely weightless, cheeks flushed. A euphoric smile on your lips stretches so wide you're certain you look deranged. 

But not to Butcher. 

“You're so bloody beautiful,” he says from between your legs, and you can do nothing but laugh deliriously in response. 

He gazes up at you, working his way back up between kisses to your stomach and swirling his tongue over your pert nipples. You grasp a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him up to kiss him on the mouth, your other hand reaching down to encircle his hard length. 

You're pleasantly surprised at how much of him there is, pumping his thick length several times before you position him at your entrance. 

You feel his body jolt involuntarily as his cock makes contact with the wetness he just created.

“You sure?” he asks, and you nod, words refusing to form on your lips. 

He shifts his hips forward and you gasp sharply as he breaches you. You reach your other hand down to caress his ass cheek, pulling him in deeper, desperate for more.

“Fuck yes,” you moan. “Yes, Billy, just like that.”

That's all he needs before he's driving himself deep, stopping only when he's fully seated inside of you. You gasp as he stretches you out, like he's splitting you right down the middle. He pulls your knee up, hooking it over his shoulder, allowing him to go deeper. You whine at the fullness, earning a growl from him. 

“You like this, baby?” he asks as he pulls back, looking down to where your bodies connect before plunging himself back into you. “Fuck, because I really like this.”

“R‒really like this,” you manage to sputter out. “P‒please, please, fuck me Billy.”

“I got you, love,” his voice is raw. He sets a punishing pace, his cock filling you over and over and over again, pushing you toward the brink of something you've never experienced before. 

Your hands wander over him, tracing every scar, fumbling through his hair, squeezing his ass as you pull him in even deeper. You want to memorize everything about this, the sweet aroma of his sweat, the weight of him atop you, the stream of consciousness filth that flows from his lips as he falls more and more pussy drunk. 

He reaches down, thumb on your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. His mouth explores your chest, dividing his attention between your nipples and sensitive, open neck. You bound toward your release, fingers scraping down his broad back. 

“Fuck, fuck, Billy, I'm gonna come,” you moan between huffs. He continues, pace unrelenting. 

Then, stars. 

Expanding blooms of light, full-body eruption. Sweet release, a dynamite stick in your core, exploding out your mouth in a silent scream. You heave around him, bucking your hips, impaling yourself deeper on his cock. He fucks you through it, half words falling from his lips into your mouth. 

Tha's right. 

Mm, baby. 

You go’ it. 

It's all too much, the soft moans escaping your mouth, the image of you in ecstasy before him, falling apart on his cock. He's too close behind you to stop now. 

“Fuck, you're gonna make me come. Where d’you want it?” he asks frantically. 

You can't help yourself. “Inside,” you beg. 

He really doesn't try to make it a habit of denying you, and he certainly won't start now. He groans, spilling himself inside of you. You moan at the heat that grows between your legs. 

He collapses atop you, the weight of him pushing you I to the cheap, springy mattress. You feel the wetness spill out onto the bed beneath you. 

“Holy shit,” you manage to get out between gasps for air. 

“Holy fuckin’ shit is right,” he agrees. 

Over the next eight or so hours, you and Butcher acquaint yourselves with each other, very, very, closely. On the bed, on the floor, against the dresser, in the shower, on the bed, again. You speak only a few times in rushed half sentences, too preoccupied with finding out just how many orgasms you can achieve in one go to think about much else. All of the tension that has stewed since the day Butcher first laid eyes on your dazed face has been unleashed in Room 206 at the Piney Point Motel. You stop only long enough for Butcher to drive twenty minutes down the highway to retrieve a bag of greasy fast food, hastily devoured fuel to allow you both to continue at least a few more times. 

By the time you both succumb to your utter exhaustion, you're sweat-sticky and bone-tired, with a soreness between your legs you know is going to have you walking funny tomorrow. You don't notice it though, because Butcher has you pulled in his arms, lips on your ear, your heart firmly in the palm of his hand. 

@bluemerakis @mystic-writings @imherefordeanandbones

[belles--rose]

tw: vehicular manslaughter i cant fucking believe this santa literally ran over my grandma

[purgatory-is-life]

Mechtober prompt 29/day 29-crossover

this one is going to turn into a longfic at some point as well, bc I just think its silly and i love doing crossovers they drive me insane

@mechtober-2024

Mechanical Bats - Reality666Rift999 - The Mechanisms (Band) [Archive of Our Own]

tw; cursing, mentioned murder, mentioned vehicular manslaughter, mentioned physical assault, mentioned crimes, probably more, let me know what I should add!

---

“Cass!” Steph called, causing the black-haired woman to turn towards her. “Where are you going? Tim was gonna drag us all to that show thing?”

“Oh,” Cassandra hummed. “That was tonight?’

“Yep!” Stephanie replied, popping the ‘p’.

Cassandra nodded, taking a moment to think. “I will be there, I’m meeting someone. A friend. I will– hm… They will be there, too.”

“Ah, okay, okay. Be safe? And punch ‘em in the gut if they do anything!”

“They will not. …Would probably enjoy it, too… Hm.” Cass waved, and turned, leaving Stephanie confused in the manor’s foyer as Cass left Wayne Manor.

Stephanie sighed, shaking her head, before turning and heading back further into the manor.

—--

“Good morning my dearest Gunpowder!” Marius grinned as he sat down in his plush seat. This asylum really knew how to treat their doctors!

Tim, on the other hand, looked about ready to blow the place up–which, to be fair, was their normal. They sighed dramatically, sitting upside down on the plastic chair.

“Oh, Marius. I’ve smuggled in only about fifteen pounds of plastic explosives, I’ve found answers to all that Nygma guys’ riddles and he’s run out of things to ask, how do you think? I’m bored! There aren’t even any octokittens around to keep me entertained! This place is so boring!”

“You’ve been here for a week, Gunpowder…”

“And I’m bored! Which crime even was it that got me sent here? There’s at least a dozen to pick from!”

“Uh…” Marius looked through the folder he’d been given. “Aggravated assault and first degree vehicular manslaughter! Damn, they didn’t even pick any of the good ones.”

Tim groaned loudly. “This is stupid! This place is boring! And clearly they don’t give a shit, they hired you of all people!”

“I am perfectly qualified, thank you very much! They do seem to be quite severely understaffed for the amount of criminals here, though.”

“Exactly! We should just break out of here, use those fifteen pounds of explosives and ditch this place to get back to having some fun.”

“Oh!” Marius clapped his hands. “Funny enough, that reminds me! We’re doing a show tonight at Calypso’s, you want to come? If I help you, you won’t even need to worry about using up your explosives just yet, I’ll smuggle some guns in later! The security is tight but, well, has that ever stopped us?”

“Yeah, well, you can just summon things from fuckin’ nowhere, so I think you’re an outlier.”

“Well it’s not like I can do that on purpose, that just kind of happens! A surprise, really, that they haven’t thrown me in here with the others because of my violin thing, actually.”

“My guess? They can’t because you don’t have a known criminal record.”

“So far! The game is young, we got here what, a month ago? Much to do! Many crimes to commit! And there’s superheroes, that’s gonna be fun to fuck around with. I think Jonny’s planning to start a war already!”

“Of course he is! It’s Jonny, mate doesn’t know how to do jack shit that doesn’t involve violence and bloodshed.”

“Well… yeah, it is Jonny. He’s violent and chaotic and that’s how we like him!”

“Hm. Usually. Anyway, concert tonight?”

“Right! It’s at about, uh… What kind of clock do they use around here again?”

“Twenty-four hours, generally.”

“Right! So then the concert’s at about 19:30 tonight, so I’ll come break you out around 17:45?”

“Amazing!” Gunpowder clapped excitedly. “Finally some kind of fun!”

“Of course! Now,” Marius grinned, “on to the therapy session!”

Gunpowder stared at Marius, mechanical eyes whirring as they zoomed in and out. “Don’t do this to me, Mari. Please.”

“Well it’s what I was hired to do~” Marius’s grin widened. “So, where were we last session?”

“Ugh…”

—--

Calypso’s was a new bar and grill that seemed to spring up from nowhere, swiftly gaining popularity for its declaration of being a ‘Neutral Zone’, good drinks, and live music. Particularly, the live music.

The music was always performed by an indie band that similarly appeared out of nowhere. With their surprise arrival on the scene, they quickly gained popularity alongside the bar. Their songs were violent and cruel, speaking of endless death and destruction and war as if they were the greatest thrills one could seek. The bassist owned and ran the bar, and the band performed at other small, local bars and venues whenever Calypso’s itself was closed. Overall, besides the violence and bloodshed in their songs, they were largely unassuming.

Except for the fact that the guitarist was arrested and sentenced to five years in Arkham for driving into and killing a pedestrian before beating someone half to death with an unlit scented candle, the bassist was clearly making some kind of name for themself in the criminal underground based on the hushed whispers heard around the city, and Tim was utterly transfixed by them.

Bruce Wayne did not like them, their music was loud, bloody, and confusing and they were almost definitely all criminals. But, Tim liked them, and was dragging everyone to Calypso’s to see the band perform, and Bruce wanted more than anything to support his kids. And that’s how he found himself being dragged to Calypso’s at six in the evening, Tim talking excitedly to Steph while Jason and Dick argued about something. Probably a book, Bruce had stopped paying attention to them a while ago.

Barbara would’ve come, but she didn’t want to and had elected to have a quiet night in the Clock Tower, watching over Gotham in case of an emergency.

Either way, Bruce was using this as a perfect time to properly investigate the band running the bar. Going as Batman would only raise suspicions of the bar owners, show that he was on to whatever it was they were doing under the table; it was risky, and gathering intel would be harder to do if he had to fight off whatever security force worked for the bar.

But when Tim had invited the whole family out to see the band, well. That made things significantly easier.

Entering the bar, the first thing Bruce noticed was the smell. There was, naturally, the thick stench of alcohol wafting through the air, the thick scent of cigarette smoke, but it smelt… A lot more clean. Of all the bars he’d been to, as Batman or as Bruce Wayne, it was probably the one that smelt the nicest and the cleanest.

He wasn’t sure if that was weird or not, but he still noted it.

They weren’t very far into the building when Cassandra walked up to them, waving with a small smile. Stephanie grinned excitedly. “So, where’s your friend?” was the first thing Steph asked. Bruce sighed. Cass didn’t seem phased, though, and simply offered a small smile.

“They will be here,” she said, nodding. “C’mon, I’ve got us a table.”

Tim fell into step with Cass quickly, the two leading the way through the bar while the rest of them followed.

“This is going to be so cool,” Tim said, grinning and snapping his fingers. Cass nodded, that small smile still on her lips.

“It’s going to be very fun.”

“I wonder what they’re going to play? I’ve got a few ideas…” Tim continued to ramble, Cass nodding along while leading them to the booth she’d picked out. Bruce bit his tongue, and let them talk about the band in peace. (Tim rarely smiled so brightly anymore, still a bit upset about Damian’s arrival– he deserved a few things to smile about.)

Bruce surveyed the other patrons, keeping an eye out for anyone familiar or any of his typical rogues. Bruce didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary, and sat down. The booth had a nearly perfect view of the stage, which seemed to be in the process of being set up. There was a booth ahead of them that was closer, but no one was sitting in it yet. There were several menus placed around the table, and Bruce decided to survey it. There were a lot of strange items, ones that he wouldn’t have expected to see at a dingy, brand new bar-and-grill that just popped up. Alongside the standard items– cheeseburgers, nachos, fried pickles, and beer– there were things like steak, old, well-aged wine, and baked alaskas. It was… odd.

“So…” Dick said, tapping his fingers along the table, “you’ve talked a bit about this band, but what exactly are we signing up for?”

Tim just grinned. “Oh you’ll see.”

Dick just rolled his eyes. Bruce glanced around at the other patrons again, and at the stage. A few people had gathered on it. They appeared to be talking about something. One of the people on the stage was tall, wearing a long, pinstriped trench coat, while one of the others was fidgeting with one of the microphone wires in a brown leather vest, and a white shirt, and the other was very stiff and wooden in their movements, wearing a uniform that Bruce assumed was some kind of military uniform that he just wasn’t familiar with. Other than their outfits, nothing stuck out about them as odd, and so Bruce turned away.

Jason was demanding something from Tim, probably more of an explanation, while Steph stared intensely at the menu as if she wasn’t going to order the nachos, like she always did when at a new place that served them. Dick was also observing the menu with intensity, while Cass watched the stage with interest.

“You can’t just bring us here with no explanations and expect us to sit idly by!” Jason proclaimed.

“I can, and I did,” Tim replied. “Besides, out of everyone, I think you’ll like their songs the most. Maybe they’ll appeal to Dick’s inner theatre kid–”

“Hey!”

“–but I think they’ll appeal to you a lot. There’s a lot of bloodshed!”

“I don’t only like violence,” Jason wrinkled his nose. “I don’t even necessarily like violence. It’s just that it’s useful sometimes.”

“Well, there’s a lot of classic literature drawn from, in their songs, too. There.”

Jason looked like he wanted to hop across the table and strangle Tim, but he refrained, which Bruce was thankful for. A waiter stopped by, and asked if they were ready to order something.

Everyone simply got water or sweet tea to drink, and Steph ordered the extra-spicy nachos, Dick got a double-patty cheeseburger, and Cass got mac-and-cheese. The waiter took their orders with a sure nod, and disappeared off somewhere else. Everything was going smoothly, so far. It was calm, and there wasn’t anything odd going on around them. It put Bruce on edge– when everything was too calm, too nice. Something had to go wrong, soon.

Bruce glanced at the stage, and saw several more people having gathered, tuning instruments and getting set up for the show. As he looked over the stage, one of the people up there–the bassist, he assumed from the instrument across their shoulders–glanced at him, directly in his eyes, and grinned. It was only for a moment, but it sent chills down Bruce’s spine, and Bruce tore his eyes away.

Cass turned back to the others, and announced, “The show’s starting soon.”

Tim jumped and turned towards the stage, grinning excitedly.

As everyone’s attention drifted towards the stage, the person in the brown leather vest grabbed a microphone, saying into it, “Test, test. Our audio working alright?” The sound echoed throughout the bar, but it didn’t break or crack in any way. Bruce followed the person’s eyes towards a booth towards the center of the room, where someone was seemingly working their audio. They gave a thumbs up, and the one in the vest turned to the one in the probably-a-military-uniform. “Toy Soldier, test that mic for us.”

“Will do, Old Chap!” The stiff one saluted, and leaned into the microphone to sing a couple of scales.

The band continued doing a few tests, until they were satisfied that everything was working and sounded alright. With those out of the way, the one at the microphone in the center-front stage, nodded and started talking again.

“Right, well, I must say– welcome one and all! Returning patrons and new faces alike! I’m sure you know the drill by now!” They gestured to one of the string players, who started playing a vibrant and energetic tune that was quickly joined in on by the rest of the band.

And with that, they started singing.

“Like whiskey laced with gasoline, We’re deadly when we’re drunk

So shut your face and settle down, You sneering little punk!

‘Cause space is vast, You are small, It’s black and bitter cold

The book is lying open,

There are tales to be told!”

The seemingly lead-singer was grinning wildly, as he sang.

“The fire is burning lower and the Stars are shining bright

We’ve stories grim as pistol lead to tell to you tonight!

So grab yourself a mug of beer, gin or vodka, hold it near

The book is lying open,

There are tales to be told!”

Tim and Cass were clapping along, as was most of the bar.

“Killers, renegades, liars and thieves!” The lead singer called out, “Welcome! For those of you unfamiliar, we are the Mechanisms! The Crew of the Starship Aurora, roaming through the universe in search of adventure, seeking fun, enjoying a good spot of violence here and there, and looking, most of all, for a good story. But also, mostly the violence.” They shrugged and grinned. “Let me introduce to you my Crew! First off, we have Drumbot Brian, our ship’s pilot and–naturally–our drummer!” There was a cheer from the crowd, and the person in a top hat with brass-painted– painted? From where Bruce was sitting, he almost couldn’t tell if Drumbot Brian had face paint on or if he was actually made of brass– smiled and waved, grinning. “There’s Raphaella la Cognizi, our keys player and resident science officer!” The one behind the keyboard jumped slightly, and smiled widely, waving as her mechanical wings fluttered. “And of course, our ship’s quote-un-quote ‘doctor’, Baron Marius von Raum on violin! He’s neither a baron, nor a doctor.” One of the violinists grinned and waved with a black, metal hand, before returning to playing. “My dumbass sister, on viola, Nastya Rasputina!” The woman on the viola flipped the lead singer off, adjusted her glasses, and returned to her playing as well. The crowd still cheered, though. “Our beloved and be-loathed archivist, Ivy Alexandria, on just a truly unfathomable amount of instruments.” The redhead waved, a small smile on their face.

“On harp and lyre, our Navigator Lyfrassir Edda!” The dark skinned person sitting next to a decent sized harp waved as well, their silver hair glowing slightly iridescent under the light, looking at them directly for too long left colorful dark-spots in Bruce’s vision and gave him a headache. And returning from the shortest hiatus ever, our Master-at-Arms and guitarist, Gunpowder Tim makes her daring return!” There was an uproarious cheer throughout the bar, and Gunpowder Tim smiled, giving small bows around the room with a wild grin. Her presence caught Bruce’s eye, as she was the one that was supposed to be in Arkham for manslaughter. He had to make a note to call Gordon, to check on the asylum and make sure no one else had broken out once they were done here… “The Toy Soldier is… here, for some reason, to sing and play the glockenspiel and mandolin. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.” Jonny gestured to the stiff one, who waved excitedly.

“I’m just happy to be involved here!” The Toy Soldier declared.

“Yes, we’re aware. And of course, everyone give a warm, warm welcome, to our host, the owner of this here bar, our dearest quartermaster and bassist, Ashes O’Reilly!” There was another cheer, and the bassist grinned, though they didn’t react much more than that. “And lastly, though never the least, there’s myself! Your humble narrator, Jonny d’Ville, captain of our amazing starship!”

And then, as if it was some kind of cue that Bruce didn’t get, several people in the bar (including Cass and Tim) and on the stage yelled out, “First Mate!”

Jonny d’Ville sighed dramatically, but there was a subtle smirk on his face. “Really, I should expect this by now, no one ever respects my authority.”

“You don’t really have any,” Ashes said, “here in my bar. Technically.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

They let the music play for a moment, before Jonny began singing again.

The show continued on for a while, playing an album that Tim had excitedly called ‘Once Upon a Time (in Space)’, that didn’t last nearly as long as Bruce was expecting. It was a retelling of several classic fairy tales, set in a sci-fi, war-torn world. And while Bruce definitely wouldn’t call it anything he found particularly interesting, the story was good and the atmosphere was strangely warm. (It was a bonus that Cass and Tim were getting so excited and clapping or cheering along to the music, that they enjoyed it so much.) Their food arrived shortly after the first song, ‘Tales to be Told’, according to Cass, and it was surprisingly good. Especially for a new bar run by someone who didn’t seem to exist a few weeks ago. As the concert wore on and ended, there was a loud cheer, and the band started to put things away.

Ashes put their bass away, and Bruce watched as the possibly-metal man approached them. They had a conversation, before Drumbot Brian rolled his eyes and bowed slightly to them (despite being nearly a foot and a half taller than them), before walking away, and then Ashes turned around and locked eyes with Bruce again, grinning.

They walked over, and Cass grinned as they approached. Tim’s eyes widened, when he saw them approaching. Ashes leaned on the pillar that their booth was attached to, grinning a bit at Cassandra.

“Hey, Cassie,” they said, surveying the table, “so this the surprise you mentioned earlier?”

Cass nodded. “Lucky coincidence,” she said. “I forgot they were coming tonight.”

“Ah.” Ashes grinned. Steph swung her head wildly between the two of them, from Ashes to Cass and back to the bassist.

“Cass? Your friend is the fucking owner?!” Steph asked.

Cass grinned and nodded.

“Yep,” Ashes said, grinning and slipping one of their hands into their pockets. “Ashes O’Reilly, owner of Calypso’s, and a friend of Cassie’s. They/them pronouns, preferably. Nice to meet you all.” Ashes offered a hand to everyone, Tim was still shell shocked, but everyone else was mostly able to shake their hand. Ashes offered their hand to Bruce, and he hesitated, before gripping their hand tightly. Their hand was almost uncomfortably warm.

“Bruce Wayne,” Bruce replied, “nice to meet you as well.”

[raphaelderberry]

Thousands of pedestrians die in the U.S alone every year. Lots of people have experienced trauma relating to this.

I will never understand why it isn't more common to trigger tag this topic.

This post is all screenshots. No image ID. I can't even use the filtering feature which would catch text.

[not-so-empty-sekai]

imagine posting fanfiction on your non-fanfiction blog when your main blog is a fanfiction blog

anyway this is uh. vehicular manslaughter because i'm mentally tired. also i wrote this in five minutes with no proofreads

this was inspired by my ethnic studies teacher making everyone roll a dice to determine what type of test they get

tw: vehicular manslaughter. also toxic ichisaki

"Saki~ it's time for your daily spin!"

Saki didn't to get up. In fact, she would be relieved if she could just lay in bed for the rest of her life, never having to move an inch. Every bone in her body was screaming with exhaustion.

"Saki!" Her girlfriend's voice was whiny and complaining, but Saki could detect the underlying venom. "Come on!"

"I'm coming.." she forced out, pushing herself up from the bed. Her face had left an imprint on the pillow, and there was a wet spot where she had accidentally drooled a little. Her twintails were uneven and messy as she made her way over to the soft embrace of her girlfriend.

"Time to spin," Ichika whispered in her ear. "Go on~!"

Saki raised her hand and spun the colorful wheel in front of her, not even bothering to look at the options Ichika and planned for today. She could still feel the after-effects of yesterday, and when she tried to move, a sharp pain stabbed at her knee.

Spin.. spin.. spin...

"Ichi.. can we give it a rest today.." she mumbled.

"Saki, we go through this everytime!" Ichika pouted. "Do this for your girlfriend! You love me, don't you~?"

"..Yeah." Saki tried to force energy into her smile, leaning in closer to Ichika. She could smell the sweetness of the other's breath, tantalizing her nerves.

Spin.. spin.. spin....

Reds and blues and yellows blurred before Saki's eyes until the wheel slowed down, the tab flicking as each slice of color passed. Finally, the wheel stopped, the tab hanging over a triangle of red.

"Ooh!" Ichika said excitedly. "Vehicular manslaughter!"

"..What..?" A hint of alarm wormed its way into Saki's heart. What did that..

"Let's go outside, Saki!" Ichika hauled Saki to her feet and led her out the door. As she was brought outside, Saki glanced back to the wheel one last time, at the horrid thing that had decided her fate for days upon days.

All of the colors said vehicular manslaughter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i'm so tired it's only 9:38 pm and i want to go to sleep like sleeping>>>>. but also sleeping<<<<<

[ao3feed-irondadspiderson]

The Life and Crimes of Dexter McFly

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62315608 by neat_o Tony goes back to his roots when an unresolved weapons deal takes him across the world, but little does he know that Peter's stowed away. OR A cross-continental summer break road trip, complete with nuclear weapons, running from several world governments, Nacho Cheese Bugles, secret handshakes, and vehicular manslaughter. - takes place the summer after Spider-Man: Homecoming, before Peter's junior year of high school. - inspired by the song "The Last of The Famous International Playboys" by Morrissey - this fic is almost completed! all characters and tropes tagged WILL show up in later chapters! - specific tags and TWs can be found before each chapter :) PLAYLIST! YOUTUBE MUSIC: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLzAqtL4uoNmYzYSyuYOSL5aaeqONWPFie&si=ijeZT1GadPDHQlSn SPOTIFY: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/39eRUB8nGSC6PJfFwCWv8Z?si=rN-kFQtpReihtNi3JKLPIA&pi=u-jmQmJgc9Ra2M Words: 3174, Chapters: 1/8, Language: English Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Iron Man (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: Gen, Other Characters: Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Frank Castle, Doctor Doom, Aunt May Parker (Marvel), Happy Hogan, Reed Richards, Nick Fury, Ned Leeds, Peter Quill, Guardians of the Galaxy Team Members (Marvel), Wade Wilson, Logan | Worst Wolverine (Deadpool Movies), Natasha Romanov (Marvel) Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark Additional Tags: Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, On the Run, Running From The Government, Partners in Crime, Hurt/Comfort, Action, Humor, Fluff, Angst, Crack-adjacent, but i take it SOOOO seriously, Tony Stark Has a Heart, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Everyone thinks Peter is Tony's son, (and i mean EVERYONE), Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, pepper potts/tony stark - Freeform, Stargazing, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Commits A Crime, Happy Hogan Drives A Golf Cart, Nacho Cheese Bugles, "Do you think we're friends in every universe?", author has chronic daddy issues read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/62315608

[akilahia]

OC tober day 6 and Goretober!

Oc Past:

This technically the past of Hazuki Adiu, from day 1, in relation to the vehicular manslaughter fun fact.

Childhood:

She had like a pretty normal childhood, except she was often lonely and had some trouble making friends. 

When she was 16 when people at her school started to make fun of her because her parents made adult films, and that was how she found out. This permanently wrecked the relationship with her parents and she had a really hard time even talking to them.

The Incident:

Hazuki got accepted into a college and was admitted. She went to an orientation thing of some kind on July 10th but on the way home it was storming and raining heavily.

The weather was so bad it was causing major mudslides and she could barely see ahead of her. Out of nowhere Yumekio Hiroyuki ran out in front of the car and was struck. Despite Hazuki’s cautious driving when Yumekio was hit she was knocked off the steep road and rolled a long ways down. Hazuki spent two hours trying to look over the side of the steep hill, digging in the mud trying to find the girl. After being gone for hours her parents drove out to find her. Her mother drove her home their car while her father drove home Hazuki’s car. Her parents both assumed that she had hit a deer or some other kind of animal.

Escalation:

Hazuki was so distraught by the incident she would not leave her bed. In July 18th  her parents admitted her to a mental health institution. The conditions of her treatment worsened considerably over time and were extremely unethical. The head doctors treated Hazuki like a pest and more than always invalidated her experiences. 

Hazuki was only able to get out because a new therapist that transferred to the Hospital encouraged Hazuki to report this to her parents. This triggered a massive lawsuit against the hospital from multiple families and former patients. Hazuki and the therapist and many others testified against the head of the institution and the head doctor. They were all fired, they lost their licenses, and many served jail time.

The Next Stage:

Hazuki didn’t stick around long after that, she took all of the belongings that she could and piled them up into her car and drove away. She didn’t have a lot of money but she managed to pull some together while staying in a cheap motel. She also did an online college course while working part time at a Jamba Juice down the block during the day and a Radio Shack at night. She saved a bunch of money on gas from not having to drive to work and she sold a bunch of her possessions until she finally had enough to rent a small house nearby to both of her jobs. She continued to work two jobs until she completed her online college classes and got a bachelor's degree in computer science. It wasn’t long until she received a job for a editorial company where the pay was decent and she had the benefit of being able to work from home. For her it was easy work, not something that she had ever dreamed of doing but she was fine to settle with it.

Addiction(drug and sh tw):

She really only would eat Zucchini and microwaveable meals, occasionally she would cook for herself but only if she felt up to it, she ended up becoming extremely skinny and affected her stamina and exhaustion levels. She wasn’t doing well though, there was an intense trauma still left open from her time in the hospital, she didn’t know what to do, so sometimes she’d drink, and sometimes she’d smoke, then she tried weed, then worse, and worse and worse, and she was hooked. At a point her heart was all she could hear, it was both beating faster than she’d ever felt but also slower than she’d ever heard, but she wasn’t sure which was right. She was very lucky though, someone called the hospital and she survived. If nearly dying didn’t scare her into sobriety then waking up in a hospital did. The Doctors would lean over and ask questions about who she was and the police and insurance. She got scared and left one night without being discharged.

Sobriety:

She returned home and threw out anything harmless that was still in her house. The first sixth months of sobriety were the hardest for her, she was cold and then hot, shivering, and puking but she didn’t give in. She refused to get professional help and struggled through this alone. The symptoms of withdrawal lessened over time, she occasionally would have a beer or smoke a blunt but she never had another drug or took another pill whether it was medicine or not. She rarely went to stores or public spaces anymore, she was burnt out and it was harder for her to recover from it, then it was for her to recover from her Heroin addiction; It wasn’t until her 7th year living alone did she find herself recovering from being burnt out. She started eating proper meals again and went out on walks and drove to places just because. She knew only a part of her was healed though but she would never get back to where she once was.

GORETOBER: Bugs!!!

I did a quick doodle for today!

Yumekio Hiroyuki is a very famous figure/from a famous family within my OC world. So Hazuki would constantly see pictures of the woman she accidentally killed that she now projects the faces seen on the magazines in a state of decay. She wouldn’t be smiling, but that’s all she knows about her accidental victim

[comfy-whumpee]

Jane 4

Whumptober 22 - vehicular manslaughter...kinda. Edit: whoops, it's vehicle accident today!

TW: death, stabbing. BBU.

Jane 1, and 2, and 3, and the interlude.

-

Florence in one hand, knife in the other, Jane was a hunter and she was ready. Maybe the one called Boo, who had been her Mistress’s first hunter, would have been able to end this without violence, but she was not them. They had failed, and if they had failed, it needed a different approach. She was not going to take no for an answer.

Stepping in from the garden had them immediately face to face with Kamala, who appeared with a nervous frown. Kamala, Jane could tell, was a Platonic. She ingratiated herself as best she could, no matter the situation. She had appointed herself the caretaker for Florence because that was what she knew. But she was not prepared for conflict.

“What’s going on?” she asked, eyes moving from Jane’s one hand to the other. Was she afraid of the knife? Did she understand? Or did she still think another pet would be harmless?

Florence spoke before Jane. “Jane is taking me to the front garden to show me weeding. You can stay.”

Their fingers wove between hers, making the handhold more mutual.

Kamala’s frown did not ease. “I’ll come with you, if that’s okay. I’d like to watch out for when Avis and Tenten get back.”

It didn’t matter. The knife would or wouldn’t be used. Jane moved to pull them onwards, but Florence resisted. “Is Roman still in his room?” they asked, probably trying to give Kamala a distraction.

“Yes. But I think he can manage. He is very shy.”

Florence nodded. Not knowing or caring, as long as he was out the way, Jane tugged them on through the hall again, and this time, Florence allowed it. Each step brought them closer.

The hallway was wide, with solid wooden floorboards and aged wallpaper around it. The doors were locked, but Avis didn’t run the kind of shelter where the rescues were locked in. In the light of the window, Jane searched for and found the key. She unlocked the door.

Florence resisted slightly as they stepped outside again. She pulled them hard enough that it didn’t matter. Kamala was still following behind them.

“Um, Jane?” she said. Her next attempt. “I think we should stay inside. It’s possible that someone took Boo, so it might not be safe.”

“The garden is outside,” Florence said. They were trying to keep her out of it. Some sentimental attachment.

“There are fences though,” Kamala replied, her eyes round with worry. “Mrs Kaur is going to be here soon. She might say it’s okay. But for now, let’s be careful.”

“Be quiet, Kamala.” Jane’s voice came out hard and cold, like Mistress Tara. “You go back inside.”

“I’m going to stay with Florence,” Kamala responded. She stared in confusion at Jane. She still didn’t understand. “And I think you should step away from them.”

Jane turned. They were still on the doorstep, and she pulled Florence behind her without letting go. The knife came between them and Kamala. “We are leaving.”

Kamala reached out one trembling hand. “Can we—”

Jane slashed the knife and she pulled back. Then she turned. “I’ll go—”

She let go of Florence to dart forwards, and pushed the knife into her back, her body weight carrying the momentum through until Kamala dropped, dark blood welling around the wound, a cry of fear punctuating the blow. Kamala didn’t make a sound; it was Florence who reacted, pulling at Jane’s hand now, trying to get past her to reach the Domestic.

Jane turned back with the knife still ready, slick with crimson. “Walk,” she hissed at Florence. It was time to get moving. The car was waiting.

“Don’t,” whimpered Kamala from the ground.

Twisted to look behind, Florence planted their feet until the bloody blade shoved against their back. They walked. Slowly, but they walked. “Kamala,” they called, voice sharp with terror. “Kamala!”

Jane dragged them on. Every time Florence faltered, bare feet digging into gravel, she pushed with the knife. Florence’s robe had lines of Kamala’s blood across its silky blue. They were fighting her at every step, but they were fights they would only lose. “You’re going back, Paris,” Jane told them through gritted teeth. She hated hurting people. She hated having to. It was a failure of her other skills. It was messy. It was hard to forget, later, when the task was done.

Florence didn’t seem to care. “Kamala,” they protested again, tearful and fraught. Any other words had left them. “Kamala, Kamala.”

They walked on. Jane trudged with each step, planting herself to leverage Florence’s resistance. She dragged. Their hand was damp and shaking, but some remnant of their training made them grip back twice as tightly. Even though Florence was scared of her, being alone was worse.

The car was just around the corner. It would be over soon. Someone would find Kamala and fix her. Florence would forget about it all in time. Jane would go back to being nameless and nothing, and put all this from her mind. Mistress might even praise her.

The narrow country lanes were empty as they walked down them, her knife still pressed against Florence’s lower back as they moved together. The silver car soon came into view, almost entirely tucked into a passing place.

Florence didn’t fight any harder. “Kamala…” they wailed softly, more panicked than before. Every passing second made them more distressed. They had watched their chaperone and protector fall. They were helpless now, for all their clever insights had got them. Jane had the knife. Jane was the hunter. She brought them up to the car.

The driver inside was slumped forwards over the wheel.

Florence froze, glazed eyes fixed on the figure. Jane changed her grip on the knife so that she could open the door. As soon as she did, the smell reached them.

The driver was dead.