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greenorangevioletgrass · 1 year ago

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tuesday in the park (a.d.)

pairing: divorced!art x reader

synopsis: your alone time at the park takes an interesting turn when a little girl breaks the quiet, but maybe... her dad is a good company.

warnings: language, smoking, mention of divorce, lily is an adorable lil oblivious cupid, sooo much tension tho, maybe smut in future parts? idk

notes: i am back and pathetic bitch boy art has officially given me a brainrot. this is also very self-indulgent and heavily based on my irl experience (except the fact that it's art, sadly) soooo... enjoy!

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City parks are fucking depressing. Especially the industrial type that’s square, and covered in concrete and has, like, four trees. They’re all well-manicured and hung with string lights, but there’s still barely enough greens to call it a park. And to add insult to injury, a Tiffany’s installation art currently sits at the head of the park—a giant diamond ring in a lush velvet box the size of a Range Rover. It’s gaudy as shit, and the massive Aston Martin billboard overhead is an assault to the eyes. You honestly have no idea why you’re sitting here.

Oh, right. It’s like 2PM on a Tuesday afternoon in some downtown office area, so there’s nobody else there. You can just sit and smoke and watch the water spout from the ground in pretty patterns. The steady rhythm of the fountain jets quiets the chaos in your mind.

Inhale. Exhale. As the fountain hisses and ceases, hisses and ceases…

And then suddenly… another pattern.

A pitter-patter. Like little footsteps. Quick moving, and then it stops. Right to your left.

You turn your head and see a little girl sitting right next to you. Her white sneakers look so small next to yours. She pushes a lock of dark ringlets off of her face as she watches the floor fountain in quiet curiosity and awe.

It takes you a moment to realize you still had a cigarette in your hand. You quickly stub it out as far from her as you can. “Uh… hello.” You frown at your own words, but how the fuck do you talk to kids in this situation?!

But the kid looks up and smiles at you politely. “Hello.” she nods and then returns her gaze to the water bursting in canon.

You’re even more confused. She doesn’t even seem deterred by sitting next to a stranger—willingly, at that. “Well, are you… are you alone?”

“No. With my dad,” she answers, light as a feather.

“Oh, good. Good.” You sigh in relief and look around for any sign of a parent, adult, anyone looking for a missing child. “Where’s your—”

“Lily! There you are!” A man’s voice cuts through the dull noise of the city. You turn around to see him rushing over to the little girl, grimacing apologetically at you. “Sorry. I’m not a negligent father, I swear. I just… turned around and this little monkey’s run off.”

The little girl—Lily, apparently— giggles as her dad throws her a look, gentle but firm. “You said we could watch the water fountains, Daddy!”

“Yeah, but don’t run off like that…” He rolls his eyes, though you notice his sharp jaw twitching with a hidden smile. And then, leaning into Lily’s ear but still loud enough within your earshot, “And you certainly weren’t supposed to invade this nice lady’s personal space—”

“It’s no trouble. I was just sitting here,” you quickly wave him off.

“Daddy, can I play over there?” Lily points at the streaming water at the center of the park.

The man pulls a face. “I don’t know, Lil—”

“Come on, Daddy…”

“No way.”

“Just for five minutes. Please?” She bats her eyelashes, and you can immediately tell it’s her father’s Achilles heel. Because as much as you try to stay out of the conversation, you can hear the audible sigh coming from him, followed by,

“Fine. Five minutes, okay?”

The little girl bolts off to the fountains, tiny hands reaching out to the jet streams, testing out how strong it is. Figuring out the fountain pattern and stepping on each jet right as it shuts off, one foot after the other. It makes you wish it was socially acceptable for adults to do that, too.

“You’re free to sit and watch her from here, if you want.”

He looks at you, like really looks at you for the first time. At your rolled-up button-down, the chain around your neck with a pendant he can’t see under your collar. But mostly at your kind eyes—weathered, witnessed, but somehow not judging.

He pushes his short blond hair out of his face the same way the little girl does, and the similarity almost makes you laugh… if you weren’t so worried about making a fool of yourself in front of this handsome man. “You sure? I… didn’t want to intrude.”

You shake your head softly and scoot over on the steps, allowing him just enough space to sit down.

He notices the stubbed cigarette between your forefinger and middle finger. “You got another one on you?”

It takes you a beat to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh!” You reach for your pack of Camel, and offer it to him, one cigarette stick already pushed out for easier access.

He takes it with a polite smile, but then pauses upon realizing he has no lighter either. “Um, do you mind if I borrow—”

You lean in as he puts it between his lips, one hand cupping the light from the breeze, and his heart stops at how close you are. Close enough to notice the gloss on your lips. Close enough to get a faint whiff of your floral perfume.

(And unbeknownst to him, your heart stutters a little, too, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you fumble lighting your own cigarette.)

“Thanks, um…” he trails off.

You tell him your name, and he repeats it almost thoughtfully. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of your name as it leaves his mouth.

He nods. “I’m Art.”

He does look like it. The navy blue sweater hangs just right on his broad shoulders, understated but high-quality. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing a sleek black Piguet around his wrist. A simplicity to complement his refined features. His bone structure is cut like the gods, but the permanent frown etched between his brows, casting a shadow over his deep-set eyes, tells you that he is facing the troubles of man. And the awkward way he’s holding his cigarette makes him look like a boy. Of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with,

“Nice to meet you, Art.”

He can’t remember the last time somebody said that to him and meant it. And right now, sitting in this concrete park alone, he can see no pretense coming from you. No ass-kissing, no sizing-up, just a genuine kind gesture of a stranger. And it makes him so fucking relieved.

“So what brings you out here?”

“Work, actually. A meeting,” Art replies somewhat vaguely. He’s not really keen on divulging the details of sponsorship and endorsement deals. Not when you don’t seem to know who he is. “Lily saw the park from the window and insisted we check it out when we’re done.”

“Ah, does she normally tag along with you to work meetings?” You ask with a playful glint, although the unspoken question of his whole situation is well heard. “She should. She looks like a great negotiator. Just saying.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she should. My, uh…” Art stops himself before he could say ‘wife’ because Tashi isn’t that anymore. Not his wife because they aren’t married anymore; not his coach either, because he doesn’t play tennis anymore. “Lily’s mom and I take turns every other week.”

And there it is. Your lips pull up into a soft line, not quite a smile but a gesture of understanding. “Must be tough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot of changes. But she’s doing okay, I think…” Art pauses, “I hope.”

You follow his gaze and look at Lily, who must be playing some kind of Indiana Jones fantasy scenario with the water fountains. Not an ounce of care in the world. “She looks like a tough kid.”

“She is.” Art smiles bittersweetly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my sob story. What brings you to this park?”

The air that pulls both of you in releases, and you lean back on your elbows against the concrete. “Oh, I just finished work and I… needed some air.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an interpreter.”

His eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Like the Nicole Kidman movie?”

“Exactly.” You point your half-cigarette at him, and share a tentative smile with him.

“Do you do, like… high-profile, UN-related assassination investigations, too?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not nearly as cool in real life. Most of it’s pretty boring, like contract negotiations and focus group discussions…”

“But the stories you must’ve heard, right? Or do you just… zone out at some point?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you end up shutting off your brain and go on autopilot.”

“But not today?”

You smile ruefully at him, and he knows the answer. You take a thoughtful puff of your cigarette. “It’s… a bit hard when they’re talking about… how they had to jump off of the ship and swim across the channel in the dead of night, because they would rather die in the open water—a couple of them did— than die working in the fishing vessel…”

“Fuck.”

“And I know it’s not really meant for me—they’re talking to my client sitting next to me. But when they look you in the eyes and speak to you…” you trail off, taking a long drag of your cigarette.

Art takes it as a cue for his cigarette, too, although he notices you tapping the ashes off one, two, three times. “Must be tough.”

You roll your eyes playfully at him for quoting your own words back to you. “Ah well, it pays the bills. Besides, I get to clock out at 2PM on a Tuesday and enjoy this…” you inhale through your teeth disdainfully, “beautiful, brutalist… Soviet-core park.”

He laughs, the real kind of laughter that throws his head back, and it warms your heart enough to laugh, too. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“It’s bullshit! And what the fuck is that horrendous giant ring doing here?” The two of you cackle over the installation art across the park. “And that billboard… it’s ridiculous.”

Art’s laughter dies down on his lips as he looks up at the billboard in question. The Aston Martin “Game Changers” campaign from last year. Fuck. Even when he’s completely separated from Tashi, her presence still looms over like a panopticon.

You turn to him with a smile still etched on your face, completely oblivious to the storm in his head. “What?”

But he looks ahead, too caught up in the hurricane to hear you. He just… looks up at the billboard, his face darkens.

Oh.

You feel silly for not putting two and two together—you’ve been staring at the billboard mindlessly for a good fifteen minutes, goddammit— so you tread very carefully. “That, uh… Lily’s mom?”

Art looks down on his lap, as if not daring to look at Tashi’s picture. Or at Lily, or at you. “Yeah.”

There’s no right word for it. There’s no coming back from this, nothing he can say can make this better, and he can’t help but kick himself for fucking up. What he is fucking up, he’s not entirely sure. But he’s not ready to end this conversation with you, not on such a weird note.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like…” because you can’t. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but to have it out there in the open…

“It’s tough,” he nods in confirmation, and you smile feebly at his attempt at a callback to your little inside joke. To the moment where things are fine, all things considered.

If the air ebbed and flowed earlier, it must’ve just… froze now. You don’t even remember the cigarette in your hand until the ash falls onto your hand and you gasp at the sudden heat, putting it out on the ground.

“I’m sorry. I should get out of your hair—”

“Do you wanna get a drink some time?”

The question catches both of you off-guard, eyes blinking at each other in shock. He didn’t think he heard you right, and your mouth seems to work faster than the filter in your brain.

Your face runs hot, and you chuckle sheepishly. “Sorry. You probably don’t wanna hear that—”

“I do.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. Maybe both? Definitely both.

“Oh! Um…”

And right in that moment, Lily comes padding over with squelching steps in her shoes, completely drenched but over the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, that was so much fun! Can we come back here? I see lights on the floor, and I think the fountain lights up at night!”

Art puts out his cigarette under his shoe, chuckling at his daughter, “Baby, you’re soaked! Did you try to take a shower there or something?” immediately wringing water out of her hair.

“I’ll take a real shower when we get home.”

“Well, duh. But I don’t want you to catch a cold… come here.” He crosses his arm to grab the hem of his sweater and tug it over his head to put it on his daughter.

The girl looks thoroughly unamused as the clothing item falls halfway down her calves and the sleeves nearly touch the ground. “Daddy, this is ridiculous.”

You grin, and you can’t help but wonder how much of that sass came from Art. “Looks pretty chic to me.”

He nods at you, glad that you’re backing him up. “Thank you.” He then turns to Lily pointedly.

Lily half-smiles at you. “Thank you,” although she still isn’t quite convinced.

“I’m sorry, we really gotta go. But how do I, um…” he trails off. Gosh, he was hoping to do this out of Lily’s sight. Lily’s sight means Tashi’s sight, and he’s not ready for that talk just yet.

“Take my card.” You whip out a neat stainless steel case, and slides out a white-and-blue business card. Your name is printed in a sleek black font, right above ‘Interpreter’ in a smaller case. Your email and phone number follows.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and he prays to God or whoever is up there that he doesn’t give anything away to you or Lily. Not a quirk, not a peep. Just two strangers connecting by chance.

“Thank you.” He nods evenly as he pockets the card, trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach—he’s always thought he was too old for that by now, but maybe… just maybe… “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.” You squint up at him under the sun, and then smile and wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lily.”

She waves at you as Art sweeps her up into his arms, and you don’t let yourself turn all the way around to watch them leave. Instead, with one final look at Art’s “Game Changers” billboard ad in the distance, you grab your pack of Camel and light another cigarette between your lips.

#art donaldson #divorced!art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #divorced!art x reader #art donaldson fluff #eeeeeeeee im so h-word physically and emotionally for him #ava writes #challengers fic

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 7 days ago

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3: The House - Jack Abbot x reader (Life imitates art Series)

Summary: 5.6k words. Domestic moments & milestones in Jack’s happily ever after ❤️ Life imitates art Series masterlist

The Art: “My House” (1938) is an oil painting by Johanna W. Hailman (1871-1958), an artist from Pittsburgh, PA. The Carnegie Museum of Art houses several of her works. I really enjoyed researching Pittsburgh art and artists for this series. I highly recommend checking out her body of work.

Warnings: 18+ish content. Nothing too explicit, but mdni anyway please :) Age gap,, gen X, millennials, and gen Z are all catching strays. sorry :) colorful language, angst, fluff, everything in between.

a/n: So this might be my favorite thing I’ve ever written. I took my time with her and I maybe waxed poetic at certain points, but I really love this. I listened to “Unknown / Nth” by Hozier while writing this. do with that information what you please. Divider credit!

It isn’t long before you take the liberty of adding some zest to Doctor Abbot’s apartment. It looked like a barren bachelor pad. If it weren’t for the larger than necessary flat screen TV and luxe sofa, you might’ve compared it to a prison cell. It was bare bones, with an exposed ceiling and concrete floors—that was part of the appeal of the “historic” building Jack moved into. "Rustic”, the realtor had called it. Unfinished, Jack corrected in his mind. Nevertheless, Abbot moved in and paid more money than he ought’ve.

You start small. A throw blanket laid across the back of the couch. You claim it was one from your smaller apartment that you just happened to bring along. You don’t admit that you bought the blanket at a recent art market from a local knitting vendor with the specific intention of bringing it into Jack’s space.

Things really snowballed when Jack gave you a key to his apartment. He liked coming home to you and often invited you to sleep at his place when he worked. His apartment was in a safer neighborhood and he felt better knowing you weren’t sleeping alone at your apartment—despite the door chain, two comically large and loud locks, and the doorbell camera he installed for you.

A singular knitted throw blanket turned into multiple decorative pillows on his couch and king bed. One morning he came home to see a coffee and tea bar cart had been assembled in his kitchen, complete with more ornate mugs than either of you needed.

During a night shift, he got a text from you that made him pause.

23:14 How emotionally attached are you to the sanctity of your bare walls?

Oscillating bubbles danced at the bottom of his phone screen as you typed out another text.

23:15 Follow up question: If I were to have hypothetically nailed multiple holes in some hypothetical drywall and studs to hang some art on a hypothetical whim, would you be opposed? Should I patch it up with some plaster and paint and we can pretend we never had this conversation? Hypothetically?

Jack chuckled and received a not-so-subtle stare from the charge nurse. Since when is Doctor Abbot the type to look smitten at his phone so late on a weeknight?

The one thing you don’t touch in your decorating crusade is Jack’s medical journals. The organization system—or perhaps lack thereof—is beyond you. It makes no sense, and you’re honestly not sure if there is any rhyme or reason to it. You don’t want to add anymore chaos to Abbot’s life, even in the minute form of shuffled journals. Instead, you wordlessly placed thrifted book ends and trinkets on his book shelf, thinking he might take it upon himself to migrate the medical journals to the shelf himself.

He does, after you’ve gone to bed. There is an order to it, a method to the madness that is the array of journals, however not even Doctor King is likely to decipher it.

Jack eventually slipped under the covers next to you and pulled you close to his chest. He kissed your forehead and muttered a soft “thank you.” You don’t hear him in your deep slumber, but you did nuzzle closer to his warm body. Even in sleep, you gravitate toward his safe and steady figure.

One night, Robby came over to Abbot’s apartment for a post-shift beer when Pittsburgh’s winter made it too cold to sit outside in the park.

Robby eyed his surroundings. You’d clearly been here, blessing the walls with your touch as you went.

There’s a framed photo of Abbot and Robby displayed on the couch’s end table. Based on the frame’s ornate details, Michael seriously doubts that Jack had anything to do with it. Abbot has a good sense of humor, but he’s often otherwise cool and clinical. His style is… utilitarian. It was only recently that Robby noticed something other than a spare set of scrubs and some Advil in the night shift attending’s locker. A single 4x6 photo of Abbot and his girlfriend, taped to the inside of the cold metal door alongside a polaroid picture of you painting.

Robby smiles warmly at the framed photo in Abbot’s living room. You weren’t decorating to transform Jack’s apartment into your place, but rather, you hoped to make it a place that felt like home for him, complete with pictures of his closest friend.

It was a good look, both on the apartment and Doctor Abbot. The night shift attending was the happiest Robby had seen him in a long time.

You arrive at Jack’s apartment following an after hours private tour at the museum. It’s a few minutes past 8 when you show up. Jack and Robby are resting their weary bones in the couch’s plush cushions watching the puck drop of a Penguin’s hockey game when you waltz through the door. A few tiny snowflakes linger on your parka, the rest have since melted in your hair. Despite the below freezing temperature outside, you refuse to abandon your dresses, so you compromise with thermal flannel leggings underneath to preserve your warmth (at Jack’s gentle behest). Your boots aren’t nearly as functional as they are fashionable, but they get the job done until you strain to remove them at the door. Jack is just about to get up and help you before you resolutely tug the last one off, settling to your feet a few inches shorter than you were with the boots on.

“Hi Robby!” you greet as you round the back of the sofa, wordlessly pressing a soft kiss to Jack’s curls. You continue through the apartment toward the kitchen, mindlessly lighting a candle as you go.

“Tea, anyone?” you ask, pouring water into the kettle. You’re considerate not to distract from the game, even though you know Jack would’ve turned the TV off completely at the drop of a hat to give you his undivided attention.

“No, thank you,” Robby responds, your name warm and kind on his lips. “What a nice host.” His voice is soft, the compliment about you directed to Abbot. “Unlike someone…” he jokes, dodging a piece of popcorn Jack aimed at his head. There were many years Michael was left to fend for himself whenever he visited Jack’s apartment.

“You have two legs, you can walk to the damn fridge and get your own beer,” Abbot says pointedly, his eyes not leaving the flat screen TV.

“Touché,” Robby ceeds.

Jack left your apartment with no time to spare before his night shift. What was supposed to be a nap in your bed quickly evolved into something much more stimulating. He did eventually get some shut-eye with your naked form pulled against his after he took care of your worn-out body in the shower. Abbot supported your weight on his sturdy form when your legs were too shaky under the hot stream of water.

He was pleasantly aroused from his sleep when your featherlight touch morphed into your legs straddling his hips, challenging the “old man” to round 2. Unfortunately, quickies with Jack were never really quick. Hence, why he was tying the drawstrings of his pants as he jogged into the Pitt at 18:59.

You laid in bed, satiated after the evening’s activities. Just like you had left your mark on Jack’s apartment, evidence of him lingered in every room of yours. A quarter of the closet had been cleared out to make room for his stuff, though he insisted he really didn’t need that much space. Two drawers in your bedroom dresser served as the permanent residence of his essentials. Scrubs, socks, underwear, and his watch.

His watch.

Abbot never worked a shift and seldom left home without it. The tactical watch was set to 24-hour time and was outfitted with a 3-axis compass, LED flashlight, precise GPS coordination, and biometric tracking. It was a little over the top, in your opinion. There were very few situations you could fathom him needing a compass in the ED, as if he couldn’t navigate the halls blindfolded.

Jack didn’t really need the watch to get through this one shift. There’s large digital clocks in each trauma bay, and the nurses and residents around him are bound to have watches of their own. The med students would jump at the opportunity to tell him the time if needed.

Abbot doesn’t need much to survive. As long as he had a few MREs and his police scanner, he was set. His watch, though, was far up on the list of essentials.

You don’t think twice before getting out of bed and throwing on some clothes and fixing your hair; you want to at least look semi-presentable when you show up at the Pitt—not like you’d been freshly fucked within an inch of your life.

Jack didn’t have time to eat or pack food when he stumbled out of your apartment with his pants barely pulled up to his hips. You’re not sure what he calls the meal he scarfs down at 3 a.m., but the cafeteria certainly isn’t serving it at that hour. The food you whip up for him is a simple, quick dish. The sooner you and his watch get to him, the better. The food gets packed into pink tupperware and you slip a handwritten note alongside it in his lunch box. His watch is carefully tucked into your tote bag for safe keeping before you set off.

19:47 I’m on my way to the ER

In retrospect, you could have worded that text much better. Especially since your phone died right after you sent it to Jack.

Abbot doesn’t see the message until ten minutes after you sent it. He would’ve seen it sooner if the notification came through on his watch, he gripes internally. His blood runs cold when he squints enough to decipher the small text on his phone’s screen. Jack immediately calls you, but it goes straight to voicemail. Shit.

He’s instantly on edge, to the point where he brushes past an otherwise innocent med student who begins to ask him a question before they clam up at his shift in demeanor. Abbot’s head starts spinning as his mind goes to worst case scenarios. He’s an attending trauma physician, for Christ’s sake, but a seven word text has him ready to spin out.

Jack’s tunnel vision shifts to the Pitt’s internal lobby doors, where the triage RN calls his name as she leads someone toward him. He’s breathing heavily and he’s not masking his panic nearly as well as he hoped when you emerge from behind the nurse. The smile on your face quickly drops and turns to concern. Jack looks… unwell, for lack of a better term.

“Hey, honey,” you tread lightly. Abbot’s shoulders rise and fall unsteadily as his eyes rapidly dart over your unharmed body. The doctor grips your hand and drags you to a private area in the ED where he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. You squeak in surprise but ease into his hold nonetheless.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he mumbles into your hair, showing no signs of letting go soon.

“I- what?” you’re confused, eyebrows scrunched together as you lean back to assess him. Jack begrudgingly allows some distance, but his hands never leave your hips.

“I’m on my way to the ER?” He parrots back at you.

Oh. You wince. Poor choice of words is an understatement. You frown apologetically, before shifting your weight to your tip-toes, pressing a lingering kiss to his firm-lined lips and assuring him you’re okay. Jack sighs heavily and pulls you back into him, resting his chin atop your head. His breathing evens, syncing with yours, and you both relish in the quiet, though neither of you dares to utter the Q word out loud.

When Jack is back to his baseline—when he’s okay because he knows you’re okay—you clear your throat and poke at his taught obliques to get his attention.

“Before you get whisked away to a trauma, I brought you something.” You hold up the black lunchbox into his view and dig the watch out of your tote bag.

Jack smiles despite his settling anxiety.

To be loved is to be known.

He accepts both gratefully, securing the watch around his wrist in a few swift moments. He’s still not ready to let go of you, though he knows the tide of the Pitt will drag him back any minute now.

“You know, I much prefer it when you come here, not in a gurney,” Jack half-teases. You scoff.

“Funny you should say that, because I also like not experiencing a medical malfunction,” you poke back.

Two residents come running around the corner, searching for Doctor Abbot. He hesitates with you still loosely tucked into his side, but you gently push him toward the action with the promise that you’ll put his lunchbox in the employee lounge and you’ll see him at home.

A few weeks later, it’s Jack’s unscheduled turn to visit you at work. You meant to lend your copy of The French Revolution as Blasphemy to a coworker, Beth, in the thick of their masters program. Frustrated rifling through your tote bag proved that you had left the book at home. You begin to apologize to the woman, offering to bring it to her after work tonight, when Jack appears in your periphery. He smiles that boyish grin as he walks towards you. His limp is infinitesimal, barely noticeable to anyone but you. Hypocritically, you wonder when the last time he took a break from his prosthetic was.

Jack comes to a stop beside you with a paper bag of aromatic Union takeout in one hand and the exact art history book you left at home in the other. The doctor offers your coworker a polite smile and nod before his attention is back on you like a gravitational pull.

You’ve told him a few times that he has a staring problem.

“I saw it on the entryway table and I knew you meant to bring it in today,” Jack explains, raising the book in his hand as if it’s featherlight. “Besides, I was in the neighborhood,” he finishes with a kiss to your forehead and you lean into him instinctively. Your eyes flutter shut briefly before his words register and you pin him with a disbelieving look.

“No, you weren’t,” you call him on his bluff immediately. You know him, and you know that he should be sleeping right now after working a night shift.

“No, I wasn’t,” Jack admits quietly, a soft smile gracing his leathered, weathered face. “But I missed you, so who am I to pass up an opportunity,” (read: excuse) “to visit my beautiful girlfriend.” He seals the statement with another kiss to the crown of your head.

Beth looks on in awe. She doesn’t mean to intrude on a private moment, but she’s dumbfounded at the stunning specimen before her. You’ve mentioned your boyfriend, multiple times in fact, but she’d never actually seen him in the flesh, despite his frequent visits to the museum. Beth thinks that you also never mentioned that he’s a devilishly handsome silver fox that could make any woman with a competency kink weak in the knees.

A quiet cough from Beth pulls you back to your senses and manners. You introduce the two.

“Beth, this is Jack, my boyfriend. Jack, this is Beth, future museum director and my lovely coworker,” you smile kindly at the younger woman.

Beth sputters something that sounds like nice to meet you with a blush. You get it, you were her once too. Jack pretends not to notice her bashfulness and instead reaches out his hand to shake. He doesn’t comment on how clammy her palm is.

You can’t remember the last time you slept alone when Jack wasn’t working. The one year dating anniversary flew by and you looked forward to all the years with Jack to come. During one of your visits to the Pitt, a new nurse called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t correct her. It felt right.

Not too long after your anniversary, Jake mentioned going to some open houses.

“Like… real estate open houses? Like residential homes?” You laid the book you’d been immersed in for hours down on your lap, memorizing the page number and turning your full attention to your boyfriend.

Jack stood at the kitchen counter fidgeting with a mug of hot black coffee.

“Mmmhmm,” he confirmed around a sip. He’s trying to act casual, but you can sense the underlying hint of unease in his body language. He might be the doctor, but you had an unparalleled skill for assessing him. Abbot’s shoulders are tight, like he’s preparing for a rejection. As if his taut muscles will soften the blow. Your face softens and you patiently wait for him to continue.

“You and me. Looking at houses. To live in. Together.” He’s walking toward you now and he never breaks eye contact. That damn staring problem again. Jack has his plain coffee in one hand and a glass of your fancy iced latte in the other. He’s no barista, but he’s pretty damn close to perfecting your favorite home coffee recipe. You smiled wide at Jack. He thinks your cheeks might crack if they stay in that position much longer. Thankfully, you narrowly avoid it when you gently grip the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss. Balancing two cups of coffee with his eyes closed as he leans into your sweet lips is a bit harrowing, but this isn’t his first rodeo, and he’s certain it won’t be the last.

“I’d love to,” you say it against his lips like a promise. When he reluctantly pulls away, he passes the iced latte to you and you take a sip, appraising his work. It’s perfect.

Two months later, you and Jack move into a two bed, two and a half bath home equidistant from the hospital and art museum. It’s a quaint brick home built in the 1960s; modernized enough for comfortable living with the home’s original character still preserved. Abbot doesn’t bat an eye when the real estate agent shares the list price. Meanwhile, you nearly sprayed a mouthful of water everywhere. The only place you’d personally seen a dollar amount so large was on your cancer treatment bills. It’s a significant change from Jack’s apartment’s open concept floor plan and vaulted ceilings, but as long as he got to share a bed with you, surrounded by nearly a dozen decorative pillows that you handpicked, he would be happy. It would feel like home.

When you first toured the home, it was more square feet than you knew what to do with—three times the footprint of your current “shoebox” apartment, as Jack called it. You quickly warm up to the layout when you note the abundant wall space, perfect for displaying art work.

The first order of business upon moving in—besides christening every surface—is building a new bookshelf to accommodate all the medical journals and art publications you could ever dream of owning. You and Jack were neck and neck tying for who had the most items of your respective academic interests claiming residence on the stained wooden shelves. The new ornate bookshelf proudly erected in the living room dwarfs the original one in your old apartment. It comfortably houses all of the reading material with room to grow.

Aside from your contributions to Jack’s previously bare bones bachelor pad, he doesn’t have much to contribute to the home’s interior. Before you, he didn’t spend much time there anyway; it was just a place to crash and bide time in between the borderline unhealthy amount of overtime shifts he picked up to keep himself busy. Abbot’s therapist informed him that simply not sleeping to avoid night terrors was not a healthy adaptive coping strategy.

The spare room of the new home is turned into your art studio. Robby and Abbot are careful to not disturb your supplies when they install a Murphy bed along the wall for when Michael inevitably stays over.

“Gone are the days when I can just cuddle up with you in bed after too many beers, brother,” Robby jokes as he passes a power drill to Abbot. Jack doesn’t find it funny nor does he laugh, but the deadpan look on his face makes you snicker as you walk past the room.

Real Housewives plays at a low volume on the TV opposite the foot of the master bedroom’s king bed at the end of the night. The his and hers closet doors had been removed from their hinges. A stained glass-inspired upcycle door project came to you in a fever dream, or maybe a targeted ad on pinterest. The two were one in the same, lately. Inside the closets your prosthetic leg stands side by side with Jack’s. The appendage with floral designs and pastel details contrasts Jack’s monotone prosthetic.

Abbot felt out of place in the big brand jewelry store. Most of the men in the store wore gaudy Rolex watches and flashy cufflinks, a far cry from his laidback style for a day date with you. This store is the first stop of however many it takes to find your engagement ring.

Apparently, there were taboos about a woman being directly involved in shopping for her own engagement ring. Reddit and Facebook users had a lot to say about the dos and don’ts of proposals, rings, and every other topic under the sun. None of the noise mattered to Jack though. Ultimately, he knew you would marry him regardless of what ring he proposed with, but he wanted it to be perfect. You deserve nothing less.

A sleazy salesman with greased back hair and a superiority complex approached the couple with a wolfish grin. As you spoke about ring styles you were interested in looking at, the man’s eyes never met yours. Instead, his gaze burned on your body, staring at places only Jack could touch.

You had to repeat yourself twice now to the salesman. Words were going in one dense ear, bouncing around his empty skull, and straight out the other. Abbot’s breaking point was when you leaned over the glass display case to look at a ring and the salesman used it as an opportunity to view your cleavage, complete with a pervy lip bite. Jack’s balled up fists remained steady by his side

The sharp click of Abbot’s tongue from the roof of his mouth got the salesman’s attention. The satisfied smirk on his face dropped at the deadly cold glare he received from Abbot. The two of you don’t stay in that store much longer.

“It’s a shame they didn’t have that many marquise cuts,” you said passively while looking up directions for the next jewelry store, not that Jack even needed them.

“Yeah. Shame.” Abbot’s jaw is clenched, but you know he’s not frustrated with you. You pressed a series of short and sweet kisses along his jawline, your fingers’ grip on his chin gentle but firm. You felt the tension leave his body in waves as you continued your ministrations. Your soft eyes meet his hard ones and he melts toward you in the middle. Jack understands all your unspoken words.

The next store offers better luck with the staff, but they don’t quite have what you’re looking for. Jack thinks he knows what you want. He’s seen your pinterest boards; he notices styles you eye curiously and others that you disregard. He knows you.

The third place is a bit of a hole in the wall. The antique store wasn’t on Jack’s mental itinerary of Pittsburgh’s jewelry store offerings, but your gasp at the eye-catching OPEN sign had Jack pulling a u-turn and parking the truck before you could even ask to stop.

“Maggie’s” is a local mom-and-pop vintage shop, owned by a husband and wife nearing retirement. You float through the aisles with Jack on your tail. The treasure trove of homewares and art long forgotten made you forget why you walked into the store in the first place until you came upon a glass jewelry case. In the very center sat an elegant ring—a sturdy but simple gold band supporting a two carat marquise diamond surrounded by smaller colorful stones—perfectly illuminated by the store’s sparse soft yellow lighting. It looks like a spotlight and feels like a sign.

Jack feels you squeeze his palm and he knows this is your ring before his eyes even meet the kind, tender gaze you share with him.

Doctor Abbot takes some uncharacteristic PTO and whisks you away to Nowhere, Pennsylvania for New Year’s weekend. The quiet rural cabin is far from fireworks that might trigger Abbot. It’s a picturesque place where the two of you can just be. The stars have never looked brighter.

There’s no cell service or GPS way out yonder. Halfway into the drive, when four bars of cell service dwindle to one, Jack pulls an atlas and a handful of folded paper maps from the truck’s glove box in front of you. His eyes flicker between the two lane road traveled only by the two of you and the stack of maps until he finds the one he needs.

CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA. One of the map’s edges has curled into itself. Symmetrical scored indents from the map’s folded position expand across the surface. The ink isn’t as vivid as when it was first printed, faded by time and use, but it still gets the job done.

“Honey… what’s this?” You ask, eyeing the materials splayed on your lap.

“A map.” Jack states it matter of factly, offering no further explanation before returning his calloused palm to your inner thigh.

“What, like from the 1900s?” Your side-eye becomes a full body rotation to stare at Jack across the truck’s bench seat. He pinches the skin of your thigh and you yelp, not expecting the harmless sting.

“Don’t act like your birth year doesn’t also start with ‘19’,” Abbot pokes, placing emphasis on the number. At this point in your relationship, he’s long gotten over any insecurity about the age gap, but that didn’t mean you weren’t still going to have fun calling him archaic.

“Barely,” you mutter with your face scrunched. Caught in between millennials and gen z, you’re equally intrigued and disturbed by whatever the fuck is wrong with both generations.

The winter weather is forgiving enough to allow you to enjoy fireside s’mores under the stars as the clock winds closer to midnight.

Your head rests on Jack’s lap beside the campfire he built by hand. Your mind drifts to visions of him that afternoon prepping. You offered to help him carry the firewood, but Abbot scoffed at the insinuation, as if he was offended you suggested lifting a finger. You can give it as good as you can take it, so he compromises by allowing you to carry the box of matches. In retrospect, it’s a good thing you weren’t holding 20 pounds of firewood anyway, because you can’t tear your eyes away from how Jack’s arms flex as he carries the load from the cabin’s shed to the stone firepit. Watching Jack build the fire was hot, even with the windchill. Your man was good with his hands—something you were well aware of, but it didn’t hurt to see it in action. Abbot positioned the firewood to a tipi position over kindling interwoven between the larger blocks before gratefully accepting a few matches from you. Jack was an eagle scout before he entered the military, but both ensured his fires were flawless. You’re certain you’ll smell the smoke in your hair tomorrow morning, but it will have been well worth it.

At 23:57, Jack’s thigh twitches and shifts underneath you. You hum softly, eyes still trained on the sky with Jack’s warm hand still encapsulating your smaller, colder fingers. Out here, there’s no light pollution—just you and Jack, endless trees, the aromatic expertly-built fire, and stars. So many stars. You see constellations that otherwise could’ve been disregarded as fictional if you’d never seen them like this.

Abbot clears his throat and says your name. Not honey, or love, or sweetheart, or baby. The depth of love in Jack’s eyes, his tender stare and gentle hold of your bundled body let you know that this is it.

You knew the proposal was coming, obviously. You picked the ring out yourself.

As the holiday season winded to a close, you never pushed Jack or asked him when he’d finally pop the question. Abbot would ask when the time was right. You trusted him implicitly, and this was no exception.

Once, he came home to you watching a Hallmark movie, half-asleep with an empty mug of peppermint hot chocolate balanced on your abdomen. The first of many throw blankets you introduced to his home was draped over you, pulled down just far enough to offer a view of your festive sweater. Doctor Abbot’s night shift nurses kindly gifted you a custom pullover for the Pitt’s ugly holiday sweater party. The deep navy blue sweatshirt was covered in multicolor snowflakes with cut-outs of Abbot’s face sprinkled across the fabric. Jack isn’t even sure where they got the picture from, but it quickly became your favorite piece in your ever-expanding wardrobe.

The film played on a low volume as the predictable corny ending scene wrapped up. The ridiculously attractive lumberjack proposed to the business woman who swore she’d never leave the city, in front of a Christmas tree farm with a beautiful ring. Not as beautiful as yours, though.

Abbot admired the scene for a minute—the film, you sleeping soundly, and his winter wonderland of a living room—before he carefully scooped you up and carried you to bed where he knew you’d rest much more comfortably.

Soon, he promised with a kiss to your temple.

Jack carefully shifts you off his leg, cradling your head with care. He supports you to stand, and you hold his hands while he settles down on one knee. Jack’s eyes are watery before he’s even begun his speech. They match the happy tears on your waterline. Your smile is wobbly, and you’re trying your hardest to be patient. Abbot worked on his speech for a long time; like the ring, it needed to be perfect.

Abbot’s speech is beautiful. For a moment, you forget how cold it is. You can only focus on Jack, handsome as ever, kneeling on one knee, extending the ring you picked out together as the winter’s wind blows embers through the night.

The fire illuminates the marquise stone and the jewelry box’s soft light highlights the smaller complementing stones. On the inside of the gold band, there’s a date engraved on the ring that wasn’t there before at Maggie’s. In small script, the day of your first date is followed by a heart. It looks exactly like Jack’s scrawly handwriting.

When you say yes—because of course you do. Yes a million times over, in every universe and lifetime with Jack—he wastes no time slipping the band on your left ring finger. The fit is perfect, and it clings to your finger like it has always belonged there, like it just found its home.

It’s midnight now. A new year, a new ring, embraced with a kiss.

Abbot would be more than happy to find Nowhere, Pennsylvania’s nearest courthouse on New Year’s day and get married right then and there, but he knows you dream of something different.

A late Spring wedding with a small ceremony at the botanical gardens. The Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens wedding venues are booked out over a year in advance, but you know a guy who does event planning for the Carnegie Museum of Art and Phipps.

In May, you walk down the aisle in an elegant white gown that drapes just shy of kissing the nearby florals. Detached ornate tulle sleeves match your veil; the veil’s dainty beaded edges complement the dress’s embroidered bust and train.

Jack has never been happier, he thinks as a tear streams down his cheek before you’ve even met him at the altar. On his wedding day, he traded his black scrubs for a light navy blue three-piece suit. Doctor Jack Abbot is your something blue.

For the wedding reception, you host close family and friends in the house’s backyard.

Abbot was on a first name basis with many local hardware and home improvement store employees after his numerous trips in early Spring to revive the yard from Pittsburgh’s winter. Thriving raised garden beds lined the back perimeter of the yard, serving as a picturesque backdrop for the stone fire pit Jack built. You helped by ogling him as he worked from the porch with a glass of lemonade in hand.

The stringed lights above the garden illuminate your loved ones, along with the blazing fire, built with ashes from New Year’s eve. The first dance flows into several songs played by a string quartet (your biggest splurge for the wedding). Jack holds you in his arms like you’re the center of his universe while you sway together as husband and wife.

The next day, you and Jack are on a flight to Europe for a three week honeymoon. Jack handed a gate agent boarding passes with your new last name on it and you couldn’t help but smile.

Abbot looks pretty damn good on your passport.

a/n 2: Growing up, my Girl Scout troop had this campfire tradition; We saved ashes from each campfire and would dump them into the next one, so each fire burned with ashes of all the ones that came before it. I like to think that Jack and his wife have that tradition with the ashes from their New Year’s Eve fire.

Comments, asks, reblogs, feedback, etc. mean the world to me!! Please share your thoughts & feelings mwah ❤️

Life imitates art Series master list | Main master list

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#The Pitt #Jack Abbot x Reader #dr. abbot x reader #Jack Abbot #Dr. Abbot

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themology · 20 days ago

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harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”

masterlist

introduction — something real

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Not really.

You had been invited, yes—but not by name, not through clout, not through any recognition of your own work apparently. It had been passed along through a colleague you barely even talk to, a senior curator with too many busy events and not enough evenings to spare, who’d sighed and muttered, “Go in my place if you want. It’s just another collectors’ circle jerk.”

And she said it like she wasn’t handing you a rare key to the highest gates of New York’s elite art underworld.

It was an invitation by mere convenience, not design. But still—an invitation.

You told yourself it didn’t matter how you got in, only that you were there. Because this was your year. You could feel it clawing toward you from the dark. You were done being the assistant. The temp. The second voice in the panel, the fourth name in the press release.

You were curating your first major exhibition in the spring—“Myths of the Body”, a sharp, interdisciplinary show on femininity, intimacy, and resistance in contemporary art. It was small, yes, and it didn’t have institutional backing, but at least it was yours. And you needed funders. Partners. Names to put on the poster.

Names that sat in rooms like this one.

So, ultimately, you went. Nervous but polished.

In your sleekest black wool coat, your grandmother’s gold earrings, a minimalist wine red dress that hugged your form without apologizing for it.

Your hair was still damp from the rain when you stepped into the building, you forgot to bring a damn umbrella, too optimistic that the weather may be on your side, obviously it wasn’t; your heels took you in front of the building—a narrow, windowless space in Tribeca, hidden behind an industrial facade like a secret someone rich wanted to keep.

No signage.

No red carpet.

Just a clean black door and a buzzer you had to press like a gamble.

Inside, it was warm and dim, the kind of curated hush that comes not from silence, but from money. From restraint. From discipline. From the knowledge that no one here needed to prove anything.

You stepped into the space like it might bite you.

The gallery was breathtaking in its simplicity—concrete floors that had been polished until they glowed, massive floating canvases, large-scale kinetic sculptures suspended mid-air as if the very laws of gravity were negotiable.

Everything smelled of soft wood, citrus perfume, and candle wax. The crowd was older, dressed in neutrals and subtle silk.

Minimalist jewelry.

Intentional eye contact.

The elite.

You were the youngest person in the room by at least what… decade?

You lingered near a brass tray of drinks, accepted a glass of something expensive and white, and reminded yourself: You belong here. Even if your heart felt like it was trying to crawl out of your chest. Even if the hem of your coat was still damp from the damned rain.

You weren’t famous, yet. You didn’t have patrons. But you were hungry for more. And maybe that counted for something.

You moved slowly, letting your gaze travel from piece to piece, noting curatorial choices, labeling fonts, lighting angles.

You weren’t networking yet—you were strategizing. Watching. Picking out who looked like money, who looked like taste, and who looked like both.

You had just stepped toward a large abstract installation—glass and steel layered like vertebrae—when your attention snagged on someone standing alone, you barely even looked, but the presence felt so heavy you scratched the itch to look.

He didn’t look at you.

Not at first.

He was standing with his back to you, hands behind him, spine straight but relaxed. He was older.

Not old, but seasoned, his presence rooted and gravitational, like someone who knew how to bend a room around himself without saying a single word. He wore a dark coat over a navy turtleneck, tailored charcoal trousers, and heavy black shoes.

Understated, expensive, unbothered.

You didn’t recognize him.

You studied the line of his profile. The almost delicious salt at his temples. The rough edges of stubble and mustache softening a very handsome face.

He tilted his head slightly at the sculpture in front of him, as if he were listening to it speak.

“You don’t like it,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

He turned.

It was the kind of turn that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something. And when his eyes found yours, you forgot your name for a second.

His gaze was dark, amused. Sharp. He looked at you the way some men looked at paintings they couldn’t quite understand—but desperately wanted to.

“I never said that,” he replied.

His voice was deep. Smooth. A little raspy, but warm—like fire catching slow in the distance.

“You didn’t have to.” You lifted your glass toward the piece. “Its as if your entire body was disappointed.”

That made him laugh—low, rich, unforced. It settled in your stomach, hot and unwelcome, and just— fuck…

“You’re an artist?”

“No,” you said. “A… curator.”

He looked you over, not in a way that made you feel small, but in a way that made you feel seen. As if he were picking apart layers—ambition, edge, nervousness beneath the eyeliner.

“Curating where?”

“The Carnegie Project.” You tried to keep your voice even. “I’m guest-curating a spring show.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “The idealists.”

Your mouth tilted. “And you’re not one?”

“Perhaps something else entirely.”

You didn’t know what that meant. But you were intrigued, in spite of yourself.

He stepped closer, just enough to disrupt the safe little bubble you’d created. Close enough for you to catch his scent—smoke, something leathery and green.

Deliberate.

Expensive.

He looked down at your glass. “Nervous?”

You blinked. “Why would I be?”

He smiled. It was lazy. Knowing. “Because you’re new here. You’re watching everyone else watch you. And you haven’t decided whether you’re supposed to shrink yourself or expand.”

You looked away, the truth of it searing.

“You’re observant.”

“I’m invested,” he said simply.

“In what?”

“In art,” he said. “And people who are trying to make something of it.”

You glanced back up. “And you? What do you make?”

“Trouble,” he said with a glint in his eye. Then: “And opportunity.”

He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a black business card—no phone number, no email. Just a name embossed in gold:

Harry Castillo

Castillo Atelier

The moment you read the name, your brain clicked.

Oh.

You didn’t show it. Not yet. But heat began to rise in your chest.

You’d heard of him. Of course. You’d even studied some of his more controversial acquisitions, he was a collector, a curator, a CEO of something fluid and powerful and very well-funded. A man who could make or unmake reputations in the industry with a single acquisition.

People hated him for it. Others adored him. He had the kind of presence you’d think would merely be a myth.

And he’d just handed you his card.

“If you’re ever curious,” he said softly, voice like a velvet drawl. “Or if you get tired of theory and want to play with something real.”

Then—just like that—he turned and walked away.

No goodbye.

No follow-up.

Just vanished, like a man who never questioned whether he’d be remembered.

Of course he will be.

You looked down at the card in your hand.

Your glass was trembling slightly.

next chapter

notes…

and there’s that for the introduction of a million dollar man, i’m genuinely being serious when i say the last time i wrote a fanfic was back in 2022-2023ish so my writing mighhttttt be rusty, consistent chapters will be released soon, promise!

please comment down if you wished to be tagged and notified on future chapters <3

themology, 2025.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #zaddy pedro #pedro x reader #pedroispunk #harry castillo materialists #harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x female reader #materialists #i love pedro pascal #by themology #themology writes

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bellyyearner · 10 months ago

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Office life at 550+ lbs

Word count: 1061

Extreme obesity, mobility issues, work environment, feedee perspective

No gender mentioned POV

Being a working feedee is hard sometimes, especially when your gain slows down to a snails pace despite how much you've been eating. In the last 3 years you've only put on another 40lbs, but you have an easy job that pays the bills and allows you to live comfortably so you can't complain too much. The only part of this job you hate though, is the journey inside.

As you exit your car you can already feel the sweat forming between your rolls, it's been taking a few tries lately to stand up after swinging your hefty left leg out onto the concrete. You've even questioned if you should bring your car to the shop to check the suspension just in case your fat ass crashing back down onto the driver seat a half dozen times a day might be causing issues. At the very least you were thankful for your personal parking spot only being about 250ft from the elevator up to the office floor. Only 100ft from the buildings entrance and the cold AC running throughout the building.

And so you begin your slow pendulous waddle, thighs scraping against each other with every step, causing so much friction your jeans always have a distinct wear pattern only a couple weeks after buying them. One foot infront the other you waddle, repeating the laboured motion as your breath grows heavy and your belly slaps against the tops of your thighs. Halfway to the door now you hear the clicking of heels against the concrete, 2 interns whizzing by you without a word. You can't even imagine moving as fast as they do, or why they'd even want to move that fast in the first place. Your sense of urgency left you a couple hundred pounds ago.

Another 20 heavy steps later you reach the door, a mailman on the other side who was about to leave opens it for you, clearly staring at your mammoth size and brow covered in sweat. You make it inside and can barely catch your breath to say thank you before he's gone. The AC graces your hot sweaty skin and you feel relief, you spot your double wide chair HR had fought to get installed for you last year, and plop down on it with a huff. All there's left to do is catch your breath for a couple minutes, walk 60 steps through the lobby, turn right, walk 10 steps to the elevator, a minute of standing, and another 30 steps to your cubicle. Where you will then chow down on a couple snacks you brought and rehydrate before looking at spreadsheets and grazing on more food for 8 hours. A routine you had grown so accustomed to that it became second nature.

You look at the handle bar bolted into the wall and remember when you found it insulting, but now it was a necessity. Gripping the bar you start to stand hoping a second try isn't needed because of how many people were in the lobby. You can feel your heart quake and your knees whine but thankfully you hauled your lard laden ass off the seat in one attempt.

The second journey begins and the heavy waddle ensues, gut bouncing, thighs scraping, mouth open and breathing loudly enough that you're attracting attention. You try to ignore their stares but it's only fueling your appetite, already making a mental list of what you're going to grab from the vending machine once you get off the elevator. A few minutes later you round the corner and take the final few steps only to notice a sign on the elevator. You can't read it yet but you can feel your heart sinking already. It can't be right? They would've told you. They would've sent an email or a text. "Out of order".

Panic sets in, you can't climb 4 flights of stairs, you bought a one story house for good reason, you haven't had to climb more than a curb in years at this point. Your mind is growing frantic as you feel the burden your legs are under grow stronger, anticipating if you're really gonna be expected to climb the stairs.

Your phone buzzes, a text from Susy in HR

"Hey! I'm so sorry 'your name', this just happened like an hour ago and I totally forgot to tell you. The elevator is having some major issues and we don't know when it'll be fixed. I dug up that old paper work you filed 6 months ago about work from home and I'm gonna push it through asap! I've sent Lucy downstairs with a work laptop for you to bring home, just take a couple days off while we get all the paperwork in order."

Relief washes over you as you hear the distinct clicking of heels coming down the stairs. You steady your breath and try to seem unfazed, almost certain you look ridiculous.

Lucy: "Hey 'your name', here's your laptop and a cherry cola, figured you would need it before heading back to your car ;). You know I'm gonna miss seeing you around here, less stuff to talk about and no one to gawk at. You have my number so just let me know if you need me to come over to help you adjust"

A quick farewell and her heels were clicking back up the stairs, but all you could think about was how you're never gonna see the inside of that office again. With no where to go and no decency to be upheld there was no reason you wouldn't finally break 600lbs. You chug the Cola, wanting to make one final show for the coworkers and acquaintances you've made over the years, and start the final journey, one to immobility.

With a gassy belly swaying from side to side, your humongous thighs atop fattened lard laden calves carry you through the lobby one last time. Not even trying to hide your burps and groans you walk out of the building, skipping the chair by the door you once saw as a refuge. Thoughts of what takeout you're gonna get delivered and a quickly growing Walmart order forming in your mind as you slowly waddle through the parking lot one last time. All fueled by the dream of being an immobile work from home piggy

Part 2

#violet stories #feedee encouragement #feedism writing #feeding kink #fat belly #feedee story

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kirlicues · 3 months ago

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Minimus Modernist | Sims 2 Tiny House Download

Here is a very tiny 2-story modern home, built on a 1x1 lot. It features a variety of textures and colors, comes lightly furnished, and is perfect for your single sim guys. It will set your sim back §28,116.

The original 1x1 template was created by MaryLou at MTS.

Let's take a little tour of the outside first. Modern homes tend to have lots of fun angles and this tiny house is no exception.

There's a patio in the back, and that's where your trash can is. You can move it back up to the front of the lot with the "moveobjects on" cheat if you don't want it here.

And another view of the front so you can appreciate all those angles and time spent going, "how can I make these boxes more interesting?". 🤣

What do you think? Are miniature modern homes going to be something you place more of in your neighborhood? 🤭

Let's take a look at the floor plans and then maybe it will be easier to make that decision.

1st Floor: Down here is the living room, bathroom, and kitchen/dining space.

Those stained concrete floors remind me of the base game before any EP's or SP's came out. 🥰

2nd Floor: Up here is the bedroom. There's also spots to play chess, and to paint pictures.

The dresser and those loft windows are Maxis "Lost & Found" Items that you'll have to grab separately but I'll include links at the bottom of the post.

And, it is possible to put a double bed up here, should your sim guy happen to find Mrs. Right, but it will require shuffling a couple of things around.

Minimus Modernist: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run it through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home has 2 pieces of CC which are Maxis "Lost & Found", or pre-order bonus items that you may already have in your game. These can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want them though.

CC List (Not Included): -MANDAL dresser from the Ikea Stuff Pre-order Bonus -Maxis “Lost & Found” CAS Loft Window at Mod the Sims

Default Replacements Shown: -White Wall Top Texture Replacement by Maranatah at Mod the Sims -Holy Smoke stairs clear glass (as opposed to blue) by @tvickiesims

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some “Lost & Found” Maxis objects? Check out this post.

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ilium-ilia · 4 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Six: no good deed ever goes unpunished

tw: violence, non-con

Small chunks of salt stick to the tips of Simon’s fingers, dusting them like fresh snow. You were right—a simple order of chips really isn’t enough to keep him going throughout the night.

If anything, the saltiness makes him hungrier. It pummels his stomach until it’s grumbling at an annoying frequency, and it doesn’t do much to help the dryness in his mouth either. He would have tried to order something if it wasn’t damn near impossible to get anyone to deliver to the club, and god forbid John Price actually install a proper kitchen. But there would be no use for any sort of kitchen in a place like that, as it’s not good food that makes people swarm to Terminus like brainwashed zombies. It’s the booze. The music. A quickie in the stall.

Shady activities in an alleyway.

Simon huffs as he tosses the empty chip container in the small bin that sits in the corner of the surveillance room. Monitors upon monitors line the wall on the far side of the room, illuminating the concrete floor with a grey glow as faint music pulses through the air. He hates this room. Small, stuffy, and overheating with the computers and servers; he’d rather be out in the bitter November winter right about now. He’s out of luck tonight, because after nearly two weeks, Johnny’s research has finally bore fruit.

About time, too. All Simon has been able to think about for the last few days has been you. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he can still see the outline of your body. It’s ingrained in his mind. He still sees your limp, exhausted form as you rested in the conversation pit—too overwhelmed to keep conscious. It follows him like a bad dream. He doesn’t know why you haunt him so terribly. Perhaps he has Aelin to blame; she knows how he never likes leaving a job half done.

Or maybe it’s because you’re so… peculiar. For a woman he can only describe as being a skittish cat, you’ve suddenly melted into some other version of yourself. Your dislike of his proximity to you is obvious. Short words, gauche exchanges; yet you have this impulsive need to constantly get even with him, like you’re trying to sweep up the breadcrumbs that lead to your door lest he get hungry and follow you home.

However, when he visited you a few days ago to check on your hands—as promised—you seemed to be a whole new person. Well, not entirely. If you were the world’s most skittish cat before, you have now become the feral stray that would maybe eat out of the palm of his hand if he doesn’t look at you while you do it. He asked you questions and you responded with something more than simple words or an uneasy, anxiety induced joke.

I’m… glad that you’re not doing this just for me.

He still wonders what you meant by that.

“Hey, you paying attention?” Johnny whines.

Simon blinks the glaze out of his eyes—one which carries a now greenish-yellow hue around his cheekbone—and pushes the thought of you out of his mind as his attention fully settles on the monitors in front of him. A chair squeaks as Johnny settles back against the worn, faux leather. He’s already got everything loaded up for whatever presentation he’s about to give.

“Waitin’ on you, Johnny,” he playfully retorts.

“Right,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “So, I’ve been trying to do some research on your dance partner here, and he’s a slippery fucker. Whoever he is, he’s good at covering his tracks up. At least through the methods I use to find people. Nothing on the media or anything like that. Might as well not exist at all in the tech world.”

A hum rumbles in Simon’s throat as he crosses his arms. “You drag me in here just to tell me you found nothing?”

Johnny’s neck cranes to the side where he then looks up at him with a wide smirk. “Come on, Riley. When have I ever wasted your time?”

Both men turn their attention back to the monitor as Johnny begins to rewind through the footage from a few days ago—the day Simon found you in the alley. Everything happens fast as he speeds through the film. Bodies dart across view like ants, and there’s a comedic speed up cars driving along the road as they slice across the monitor like knives. Static streaks across the screen as the footage warps before it suddenly pauses again.��

“Since I wasn’t able to find anything on this guy, I decided to sleuth through the footage again, and I found something a little odd about this bloke here,” Johnny explains as he points to a male figure. Whoever it is, they’re faced away from the camera with their hands shoved deep into their pockets to stave off the cold. “He enters the alley before your pal does…”

The video plays at normal speed, and the faceless man vanishes behind the brick corner of the building a few meters down, just as Johnny described. He fast forwards, and everything plays at triple speed. Simon’s seen it all before. The man who accosted you enters the alleyway, and then you unfortunately come across him a bit later, but then something happens that he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to before.

The man Johnny pointed out leaves the alley, this time facing the camera. He’s fiddling with something in his hands, and upon closer inspection, Simon’s able to tell it’s a small wad of cash. It’s quickly stowed away in his pocket, and that’s where Johnny pauses the video.

“He leaves as soon as Chip arrives, shoving a couple quid into his pocket like he struck a deal,” Johnny concludes.

Tense fingers grip the back of the office chair as Simon leans over Johnny’s shoulder, squinting at the face on the screen. He scrutinizes every detail possible through the fuzzy footage, and his jaw flexes as he huffs.

Square jaw, visible stubble, and eyes just as shifty as his character.

“He looks familiar,” Simon mutters.

“He oughta. Fucker works here.”

A rancid taste floods the back of Simon’s throat at that revelation, and his fingers tense so greatly that the imitation leather of the chair threatens to crack beneath his grip. Fury rises in the dark irises of his eyes as he leans back and grumbles. It seems like such a simple detail to miss. Something that he should have caught the other night, even in his sleep deprived state. If he had, he would have been several leaps closer to the real issue ages ago.

“Who is he?” Simon demands.

“Marcel Wylder,” Johnny answers as he twists in his chair to face him. “Works part time as one of the bartenders in the VIP lounge. Only really works on the weekends, and according to the floor manager, he’s a good kid. Twenty three years old. Always shows up on time, things of that sort.”

“Good kids don’t meddle with men who like to scare women in alleyways,” Simon retorts.

Johnny shrugs. “Guess we all have our dark sides… some are darker than others.”

It takes a few more moments for Simon to finally get himself to look away from the screen, and his eyes land on Johnny with a malice not meant for him. He’s not quite sure why this revelation angers him so. The sting of failure pricks at his skin too violently for him to ignore it.

“He here tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah, he’s working on the second floor right now. Or, at least that’s where he was last, according to the cameras,” Johnny answers. He pauses to lick his lips and tilt his head. “You’re brewing something in that head of yours. I can tell. None of it looks too cheerful.”

Swarthy eyes glare back at the monitor as Simon commits this new face and name to memory. Marcel Wylder. Twenty three. Square jaw. Stubble. Thin eyes.

“Thanks for the intel, Johnny,” is all Simon says as he turns on his heels and walks towards the exit.

A high pitched squeak echoes off the dull white walls of the room as Johnny excitedly watches him leave. All he can make out are a straight set of shoulders, clenched fists, and an aura that demands blood.

“Go easy on the kid!” Johnny calls after him—his voice is too saccharine to truly mean it.

There are very rarely any times when Simon Riley feels like a savior, but he can’t deny the fact that he feels like Moses when he’s walking through Terminus. Eyes snap to him, wary of the large brute attempting to slice through the club like a dull axe. All it takes is a single glance or a firm hand on someone’s shoulder and the mass of pulsing bodies splits open for him like the Red Sea.

This trend continues as he jogs up the wrought iron spiral staircase that leads up to the second floor, and his path to Marcel is highlighted by the mob of patrons crowding the bar. He looks nicer tonight than he did the previous night, and his square jaw almost appears defined now that he’s shaved that fuzz off of his face. Pristine dress clothes mark him as a perfect employee as he quickly fills orders and stuffs tips in his pocket all with a thankful smile. Doesn’t look like he’s doing half bad for himself, considering there’s a near topless woman serving booze next to him.

“Marcel!”

Simon’s voice booms louder than the bass of the music and is so sharp all other sounds nearly seem to cease for a moment. That pathetic sod glances up from his work like a schoolboy being scolded, and his face grows pallid. All it takes is a simple gesture of his fore and middle fingers to get the man to slip from behind the bar and join him in the crowd.

He leads Marcel out behind the building like a lamb to slaughter. Just like a good offering, he’s quiet. Hardly asks anything besides is everything alright? to which Simon doesn’t respond. Biting wind attempts to tear through the formidable fabric of Simon’s clothes, but it seems to really do a number on the kid. Hardly even ten seconds out the door and the poor boy is wrapping his arms around himself and trying hard not to shiver, lest he look pathetic in front of the head of security.

A flickering halogen light is the only source of illumination in the shady alley, and even in the bleakness of winter the garbage spoils and festers with a stomach-churning odor. Marcel stands cornered with his back to the wall, and he watches with trepidation as Simon’s hand dives into his pocket. Relief doesn’t fill his face until his eyes catch sight of a pack of cigarettes.

The cancer-stick sits at home between Simon’s lips as he lights it and puffs out a steady stream of smoke until it’s well lit. A gentle breeze whisks it away into the air where it quickly dissipates among the smog smothered stars. Once he’s satisfied, he holds the pack out toward Marcel.

“You smoke?” he asks.

“Yes sir,” Marcel answers.

Simon shakes the pack, prompting him to take one, and a smile pulls at the boy’s lips. “Cheers.”

As Marcel’s trembling hands work on igniting the lighter, Simon takes a better look at him. There’s hardly a single scar on him, and his hands are much too soft to truly be a part of any violent syndicate. Still, anyone can be a mole, even if they’re a smooth faced kid.

“What do you do outside of work?” Simon asks. It’s kind enough. Simple, polite conversation—but there’s nothing civil about the look in his eyes as he chews on the filter of his cigarette.

“School, mostly,” Marcel replies.

Simon hums. “Uni?”

“Greenwich.”

“Smart.”

Another exhale of smoke dances between Simon’s lips as he huffs, dark eyes still trained on Marcel. He’s damn near shivering out of his skin as the black fabric of his uniform is designed to whisk away sweat and keep you cool in warm, humid temperatures. No matter; the boy can warm up soon enough. Simon intends for this interaction to be quick.

“Since you’re a smart kid, you’ll do well to be truthful with me then, yeah?” Simon prompts as he flicks a bit of ash onto the ground. “That bloke you met up with the other night? Who is he?”

Trembling muscles suddenly freeze, and the cigarette seems stuck against Marcel's lips. There’s no exhale of smoke. The embers don’t brighten at the tip to show he’s inhaling. There’s nothing.

“Bloke?” he repeats.

“The fucker you met up with in the alley a week or two ago,” Simon snaps, already impatient.

Marcel jumps and the cigarette falls free from between his lips and fingers. It sputters and whines on the ground, where the boy quickly puts it out of its misery by stomping on the embers until they’re no longer glowing.

“Right, erm, Andrei I think it was.”

“Andrei who?”

“I dunno. I just know him as Andrei. Honest,” Marcel insists.

“What did he want?” Simon presses.

“Well, he had this picture of someone. Some bitch he didn’t want hanging around here I suppose. Was asking me questions about her and stuff,” Marcel replies earnestly.

A bright pink dusts the tips of Simon’s ears. The muscles in his jaw begin to flex. “What did she look like?”

“She was dressed mostly in black, kind of similar to our serving uniforms. It looked like it was taken through the window of some restaurant. I don’t know which one it was. I swear!”

Sapori.

Teeth nearly cut through the filter of his cigarette as Simon’s jaw clenches. He rips the thing out of his mouth and tosses it on the ground, not even bothering to stomp it out. This man—this Andrei—is getting too close to you for comfort. He thinks back to the way you reacted in the alley; how petrified you were. A terrible thought plagues his mind as he wonders what has been done to you to get you to fear someone so terribly.

Simon doesn’t like where his mind is wandering.

“What questions did he ask about her?” Simon continues.

“Dunno, just regular stuff? I suppose? He asked when she was here and who she was with. Things like that,” Marcel replies.

Simon raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I told him the truth. About how she was here on Halloween. I mean, I didn’t see much of her so there wasn’t a lot I could tell him. Honest. I think he was mostly looking for confirmation that she was here at all. He didn’t ask for anything else after that, and he sent me on my way.”

Acid eats away at Simon’s stomach. The chips he devoured before this seem to have a hard time settling with the heavy ire disrupting his mood. Dense feet scrape against the ground as he takes a few steps closer to Marcel, who puts his hands up in defense as if that’s going to do anything against the rating storm barreling straight for him.

“That’s it, that’s everything, honest! I swear!” he pleads.

“I know. I believe you,” Simon says through gritted teeth.

Worn knuckles crash into the tense flesh just underneath Marcel’s sternum, stealing the very breath from his lungs. He sputters miserably as his back crashes against the brick wall behind him, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t breathe. A deep purple hue stains his face as his body begins to jolt and spasm uncontrollably. It’s impossible to keep himself upright with the wind knocked out of him—diaphragm screaming in protest—he slowly slides onto the ground with his hands over his stomach like he’s trying to stop blood flowing through a wound.

“You’re a smart boy, so listen close,” Simon says as he crouches to Marcel’s new height. He rubs at his sore fist, but his eyes don’t stray even an inch from his target. “Be careful who you call a bitch ‘round here, because if I ever hear you refer to a woman like that again, I’ll knock your goddamn teeth out like the sorry sod you are, ya hear?”

Still sputtering and heaving, Marcel nods.

“Good. Now, that woman Andrei showed you? Forget her. She doesn’t exist to you. If he comes ‘round here askin’ about her, you tell him you haven’t seen her, because you won’t. You’ve got nothin’ for him, yeah? Nod.” Simon’s tone is too severe to deny—Marcel complies easily. “If anyone ever starts askin’ about any of our patrons or workers, you bring that shit right to me. Don’t you ever go ‘round behind my fuckin’ back again. You think there’s anything that happens here that I don’t know about? Huh?”

After an eternity of struggle, Marcel is finally able to get a good gasp in, and a few subsequent breaths after that. That bright purple begins to fade from the paleness of his face, and he quivers and shakes his head.

“N-No sir,” he stutters. “Sor-ry…”

“Good. Don’t you ever fuckin’ forget that.”

Simon pushes himself up to his feet and looks down at Marcel as he writhes and chokes on his achy diaphragm. He haphazardly digs around his pocket for his pack of smokes before he retrieves a single cigarette and tosses it toward the pathetic lump of a man at his feet. It bounces on the slimy ground before rolling to a stop with specks of dirt sticking to the filter—Simon’s half-hearted attempt at an apology.

“Take a breather. Have yourself another smoke, then get back to work,” he orders. He turns to leave, but only gets a few steps away before he pauses. A stiff finger points at Marcel. “Keep in mind, that's not even half of what I’ve got, yeah?”

Marcel’s pathetic response is drowned out by the uproar of music that fills Simon’s ears as he returns back inside of the club. A thick wall of heat melts the frost off of his skin as his brooding figure cuts through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. His blood continues to boil with clenched fists and heavy breaths. It’s all consuming. Swallowing him whole. Simon doesn’t like being angry. He feels too much like his father, and sometimes he fears that he looks like him, too.

Violent, angry, sinister—his intimidating build and threatening demeanor have always been something he’s tried to rage against. A stereotype he’s been attempting to break. Yet now that he’s gotten one step closer to uncovering the monsters hiding in your shadows, he’s grateful for it. For once, it’s a tool he can use to his advantage. Something he can use to help you.

Except, while Simon is busy taking baby steps through this web of lies, you’re already in the maw of the beast.

Frayed string tangles around your fingers as trembling hands attempt to keep themselves busy with a solo game of cat’s cradle. It’s already the 25th again, and just like every other month, you’re in perfect position. Sitting properly on a bench with a wad of cash tucked neatly into the envelope that sits inconspicuously on your lap. This is a dance you know well. A dance you don’t think you’ll ever be free from.

Washers and dryers hum around you and clash terribly with the ringing of your ears and the violent pounding of your heart. Trepidation plagues you worse than it usually does on your due date. Every other month is predictable. Something you have memorised. But this month? You don’t know how Marco is going to react about what Simon did to Andrei.

You keep going through possibilities in your mind. Things you need to say to keep him off of Simon’s trail. Ways to apologize to keep him from getting upset. You’ve gone through every option your mind can come up with, yet it doesn’t feel like enough. There’s something you’re still missing.

But you’ve run out of time.

Frosty air slices through the warmth of the laundromat and you try your best not to shiver. Not that it does you any good—you’re already shaking. Marco’s cologne drifts along the air, mixing in dissonance with the fragrance of soap and fabric softener. Green eyes scan the small room as he takes note of the single mom folding clothes in the back of the building as her young son watches videos on her phone. It should be comforting to know that you’re not alone—but you’ve learned that you’re never safe. Horror does not wait for eyes to turn away before sinking teeth into flesh.

Your attention stays firmly on your hands as Marco waltzes up and makes himself at home next to you on the bench. The scent of him scorches your nose as his arm wraps around your shoulders. You try not to jump as he involuntarily pulls you closer to him, and you find your fingers clamping down hard on the string in your hands.

“Long time, no see,” he greets.

He’s more cordial than he usually is, and that terrifies you. His thumb rubs at your arm through the fabric of your jumper and you feel your heart leap into your throat. He knows. He knows, and you’re about to pay for it.

“Did you hear about our good friend, Andrei? Got scuffed up pretty bad the other week,” Marco prompts.

You swallow your heart down your throat and back into your chest. “Is he alright?”

“Define alright,” he hums. Long legs spread apart and bump into your thigh, crowding you further like he’s trying to lock you in a cage of your own flesh. “Busted lip, broken nose. His face is so goddamn swollen he sounds like he’s got a cold.”

Images of Andrei’s wounded face sear your mind. Bright red blood trickling down his lips, an appalled expression on his face as if he had never met anyone capable of putting him in his place before. You should have known then that you wouldn’t walk away unscathed from something like that. Simon’s protection can only reach so far.

“What were you even doing there, anyway? At Terminus?” Marco then asks.

“I was delivering food,” you answer truthfully.

“Oh, you’re a delivery driver now? I thought you were a waitress,” he digs.

“Hostess…” you correct.

“Who were you delivering to?”

“My friend… her husband owns the club and she was hungry… so… I, well…” you stumble over your lie.

Firm fingers dig into your arm as Marco pulls you closer. You try to keep your bottom lip from trembling. “Ah, right. John fucking Price.”

Shocked, you finally bring yourself to look at him. There’s faint amusement on his face as he stares at the washers in front of him. A mixture of soapy water and colorful clothes dance around in the machine as it gently spins and agitates the fabric.

“You know him?” you venture to ask.

A smirk pulls on his lips as he turns his attention to you, and your blood screams at how close his face is to yours. “Don’t worry about that, babe.”

His eyes capture yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away—like you’re an unfortunate deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car. He wanders down. Down, down, down until he catches sight of the unmarked envelope on your thighs. He grabs it and isn’t at all courteous about where his fingers brush in the process.

“How did that guy even know you were in that alley? That prick who fought with Andrei?” Marco ponders.

As he waits for your response, he hits the envelope against the top of your thighs as if he’s bored. Tap, tap, tap. Each time it touches you, you feel your stomach twist.

“I, uhm, asked the same thing. Said he heard us like… talking and… he thought I needed help. Guess he was the bouncer outside of the VIP entrance. M-My friend said he’s the head of security,” you reply, weaving truth and lies seamlessly together.

“Yeah, I know who the bastard is,” Marco mutters in reply.

Something lugubrious tingles up your spine as you have the slight urge to press him for an explanation. You bite that urge away as he folds up the envelope and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, not even bothering to count the cash. Your gaze finally breaks away from him as you glance back down at your hands. They’re almost fully healed—nothng but faint scars and scabs now. You untangle the string from your fingers as you begin to wind it up, hopeful that he’ll leave soon after this interrogation.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure it was all one big misunderstanding. No use in getting worked up over it, babe,” he sighs. A pause follows his words, one that’s interrupted by the quiet giggling of the child still playing on his mother’s phone as she folds clothes somewhere to your right. “Still, some damage was done. Andrei’s been an annoying fuck ever since the altercation. As much as I would love to let you get off easy, it doesn’t really look too good if I’m letting some sweet, pretty thing walk all over me, now does it?”

Your eyes flutter shut as he speaks, and you attempt to mentally prepare yourself for whatever blow he’s about to deal. Of course it was naive to think you’d get out of this easily. Really, you were prepared to be hurt in some type of way from the moment you stepped foot in the laundromat. All you wanted to do was throw Marco off of Simon’s trail—to not drag someone innocent into this mess—and though it feels like you’ve succeeded for now, you’re not quite sure you even accomplished that much.

“It doesn’t,” you pitifully agree.

Marco smirks. “Because of that, your monthly payments will be increased by five hundred starting next month. That ought to be enough.”

The very blood coursing through your veins turns to ice, and tears blur your vision as you try to make sense of his words. Five hundred. A brutal panic wreaks havoc in your chest. You want to sob, and scream, and thrash with frustration but his hand is still on your arm, keeping you chained to him. Gluttonous fingers stain your skin and his leg is still pressed against yours, and you can feel the disgusting warmth of his body and you can’t—you can’t. You want to rage, but you’re cornered and trapped, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“B-But that’s… that’s fifteen hundred a month, I… I’ve hardly- I can’t make that.”

You’re crying now, and you hate it. You hate how weak and pathetic you are. You hate how you have no other choice but to be this way—malluable like molten metal and just as brittle. White hot tears cook your cheeks as they travel down your face, and you’re trying your best not to hiccup. Suddenly, you’re a kid all over again. Fawning, trying not to flinch as his hand reaches for your jaw to turn your face to him. His breath smells minty as it fans across the wet streaks on your face—he’s so close you can almost taste the menthol. There’s a small frown on his lips, something that almost looks sincere.

Almost. His eyes are too hungry for it to be real.

“Look at you,” he shushes. One hand moves up to cup your cheek while the other stays steady and firm around your shoulders. His thumb caresses your face, catching the briny tears and pushing them to the side. “Getting all upset over this? If it means that much to you, we can always negotiate lower, babe.”

It takes an eternity for his lips to meet yours, and once they do, everything freezes. The only thing you can comprehend is the ringing in your ears and the warm shame on your skin. It’s degrading. Humiliating. A terrible reminder that you’ve never really belonged to yourself—that you’ve never belonged to anyone or anything but him.

Things get worse when his tongue pushes past your lips. Everything becomes overwhelming—the washers and dryers, the video on that damn phone, Marco’s slight moan against your skin. You make a pitiful attempt to fight back by pressing your hands on his chest, but you’re met with harsh resistance and rigid muscle. He pulls you closer, holding you tight like a coiling snake.

Something in you demands blood. You feel obligated to bite down, to sink your teeth into his tongue until the mint in your mouth is replaced with iron and copper. When you were a kid, your dad had taught you how to throw a punch. You wonder what he would think if he saw you like this. Sniveling and too afraid to fight back.

Once he’s had his fill of your fear, Marco pulls away, but you still can’t breathe. He continues to wipe more tears from your face as if he can’t comprehend why they’re flowing in the first place.

“For that, we’ll drop it down to only two fifty,” he whispers. He places another kiss against your lips—something chaste and quick. “Unless… you wanna take me up on that deal?”

“N-No,” you stutter, then sniff. “I’ll get you the money.”

Humming, Marco finally releases you as he stands to his feet. He looks down at you with a self-satisfied smirk as he gently kicks the side of your foot. “See you next month, babe.”

Marco leaves just how he arrived—with a gust of bitter, algid wind. He’s taken something from you that you won’t get back, and it’s left you feeling empty on that bench. So void, so barren of anything that you can’t even bring yourself to move. All you can do is sit there and curse yourself for being just as worthless now as you were the day when you first got yourself stuck in this mess.

Shuffling sounds on your right, and you nearly jump out of your skin as you look up at the source. It’s that lady and her son. You’d nearly forgotten about them. A small basket of neatly folded clothes sits on her hip as she holds the boy’s hand to lead him out of the laundromat. Her face twists with disgust, like she can smell every single sin that’s ever been forced upon you. As if you are at fault for the grotesque display of affection you were made to endure.

As if the gaping hole in your chest is your fault.

As she exits, you try not to think about why she didn’t help you. If anything, you’re grateful for it. No more favors. No random acts of kindness. It never turns out well. No good deed ever goes unpunished.

Instead, you rise to your feet a few minutes later once you’re able to stitch yourself back together. Wiping your face clean, you brave the cold streets of London as you take the transit back home. You swear to yourself that the moment you step foot in your apartment, you’ll rinse your mouth clean until even the thought of Marco is gone. Then, you’ll call Sapori to see if you can pick up an extra shift.

This is how your life was always going to go—you’ve known this whole time. Pathetically slow, time wasted away at work trying to scrounge up enough cash to keep yourself alive. To pay for the right to continue to draw breath. You think of Marco’s scheming words—his terrible offer that he keeps attempting to shove down your throat—and you try not to squirm in your seat on the bus.

Maybe one day you won’t have any choice but to endure his whims, but for now you’re content on working until your hands bleed.

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mehiwilldoitlater · 3 months ago

Text

(requested by @silenthopper)

The first time he saw you, Bulkhead never planned to get so wrapped up in you. Damn, he didn't even plan to walk in the park that night, but Sari insisted since there were some cool activities in Central Park. Of course she never mentioned something like a ballet representation and didn't even plan on seeing it.

The first thing that caught Bulkhead's attention was the structure, an open-air theater installed just at the side of the artificial lake, and, of course, the music. Bless his heart, he wasn't so invested in knowing every detail of earth, but he had enough to recognize something beautiful when he heard it. When he finally got his attention towards that structure, he saw a young man, armed with a crossbow, running in a forest made of fake trees, meeting another, dressing something that reminded him of those black birds that he saw sometimes here and there. Prowl had called them crow? He didn't know, but that man had a strange, ominous look. They moved strangely, but it wasn't a strange bad; they moved pretty! Like seeing some birds moving here and there on the concrete, it wasn't made up; it had a purpose.

Then the lights went off, and the forest scenery changed; now the bright and full moon reflected its entirety on a lake made of fabric and glitters. The ruins of an old structure were covered in fake vines and wildflowers. Then, something white appeared, something soft, light, and swift.

Your white tutu stood out on the dark scenography; the small crown on your head shone like a star in the cold space, alongside the diamonds on your gown and your small slipper.

His jaw dropped open, amazed by the scene.

He decided to stay and observe, near enough to see and hear the music but not too close to bother anyone; he just sat there, observing. Bee and Sari, of course, couldn't understand what was so interesting about some people in costumes that like to dance, but there was something captivating for Bulkhead, and that something was you.

Were you real? You seemed pretty real, but you look so…non-human. Up on those two small feet, your graceful movements on the wooden floor, your expression too was completely different. He couldn't describe it, but the only thing that he was able to come up with was beautiful; everything about you was beautiful.

"What is it?" he asked, concentrated but curious.

"Ah, the opera house does these shows every summer. It's ballet…"

"Ah…and…what are they doing?"

"Dancing, of course. It's a kind of dance; I would never do that, but some people like it."

"She seems scared of that man, the one with the black feathers…!

"Uuuuh… It's the Swan Lake, I guess. A girl is turned into a swan by a bad wizard, and a prince tries to save her."

He wasn't sure that he had understood the thing; what he knew was that the curious man with the black feathers was bad because you, the princess, who has the crown and it seems logical, were scared of him, while the other male was protecting you from him… So in the end, Sari's story seemed true!

He had stayed there, curious and fascinated by this curious activity that humans seemed to have created on their own. He wondered if Prowl was able to move like that; he was the most agile of the team after all, and so he stayed there, now curious to know how the story ended, while his group decided to head up to some more interesting activities.

At some point the story had come to an end; the music roared stronger than all the night, all the dancers on the stage, the bad man, the prince, and the princess. Previously, something bad had happened because the prince danced with another one in a black dress, and you seemed like you were crying. He tried to understand the integrity of everything until…. YOU JUMPED? He stood up, panicking, starting to run to where he thought you must have landed! BEHIND THE STAGE!

Poor Bulkhead, he hadn't thought that this was all part of the show like he had missed the finale! He was so genuinely concerned about your well-being that he completely forgot that everything was just fake!

Behind the theater, while the orchestra started to play again after the roar of the applause, you and your companion were slowly getting down from the mechanic scaffold after the last scene; Odette and Siegfried unite in eternity by love in death. You both were completely breathless, just like everyone around. The cheers covered the laugh and the screams from the dancers, everyone so helplessly enthusiastic for the good result of tonight's show.

"Everyone! Everyone!" The maestro tried to hide his happiness too, but he was clearly over the moon: "All of you have been GREAT! But the show is not over! We must end the"

"MOVE MOVE MOVE!"

Suddenly the sound of metal steps startled you all, and the presence of one of those Autobots suddenly changed the atmosphere of the crew.

"Where's she?! Is she okay?!" He started to look around, everywhere! The maestro tried to stop the frantic searching of the bot.

"W-wha-whaT-STOP! Hey hey hey QUIT THIS!" he finally intervened, holding a ballerina all dressed in white, but putting her down gently noticing that she didn't had a crown on her head.

"CUT IT OUT! You can't stay here, out from the backstage!"

"She jumped! How can you not be panicking?! SHE JUST JUMP!"

"WHO JUMPED?!"

"The princess! THE PRINCESS HAS FALLEN! Is she hurt?!"

Everyone needed to make two plus two to realize what he intended and about who, the maestro had enough time to make the orchestra take some more time, excusing himself for some troubles.

"First, no one here is hurt. Secondly, of course she's fine! It's just a spectacle! Look!"

The maestro showed you and the other male looking confused at Bulkhead. Ah…it was true…you were fine! Thanks, Primus! He sighed in relief.

"Oh… Oh, I thought… Primus, I thought something bad had just happened!"

"Oh…" you finally took some courage to speak. "It's…fine. I mean, you must have been influenced by the story and—"

"Yes, yes, yes, everything here is amazing! NOW MOVE AWAY! Hero or not, you're stopping us! EVERYBODY BACK ON STAGE!"

He muffled an apology while everyone moved between his legs trying to get on stage on time, trying to look like it was just a small delay. That wasn't even backstage, he thought; it was the park ground… That grumpy man had no right to tell him to not stay there… Nah, those were some silly excuses; he was just too embarrassed to admit that he had looked like a fool.

You, on the other hand, have found this event quite cute.

The next day he came back; he found out that this kind of event was supposed to stay for a few more days, and he decided to take this opportunity to properly apologize to you and, of course, to the rest of the crew.

"Bring some flowers! And launched them!" said Bee, laughing. "On TV, they do this every time!"

And of course, that day, just a few hours away from the starting of the spectacle, everybody in that half-made backstage found himself under a curious rain of flowers.

"Look!"

"What's happening?"

"Some prank?"

By looking around, you spotted the figure of the same giant of the previous day, occupied by throwing flowers… A lot of flowers—the cargo of a small truck was full of them!

When you approached him, he was still focused on that, not acknowledging your presence from the other side of the small fence that delineated the area.

"Hi!" He jumped, throwing on himself a bunch of those flowers, surprised by your sudden appearance.

"Oh, um… Hi!" He scoffed away a few flowers. "Haven't seen you there… You're very good at sneaky!"

"First time someone said that to me." You chuckled a little, noticing then his nervousness. "But I'll take that as a compliment! So… Are you still checking if I'm hurt?"

"No, no, no! I…wanted to apologize about yesterday; I didn't mean to ruin…whatever thing that was; I was just so so worried!"

"It's alright! Even heroes can make mistakes, right? ...so…" You moved away a few petals from your shoulder. "About the flowers…"

"Oh yes! My friend Bumblebee told me to throw them!"

"…AH! Oh my!" You started to laugh; Bulkhead still looked confused. "At the end of the show, not during the rehearsal!"

"Oh…,he scratched his head. "I had mistaken…again…"

You took one of the flowers, one of the few blue ones that stand alongside those sugary pink that prevail on the multitude, and put it on your ear.

"No, it's just the cutest thing that could have happened to us… So… Bulkhead, right? Can I presume that you enjoyed the show?"

"Oh! Enjoyed?!" His face converted into a giant grin, especially knowing that you knew his name. "I loved it! You were amazing back there! I don't need to breathe, but WOW, you were breathtaking! You were like…flying on that thing; you were…you are…um…"

He felt the weight of his words, feeling a rush of awkwardness on him, realizing that he let his mouth move faster than his thought.

"…I think you were so pretty…"

Your mesmerizing look was on him, and…you started to laugh again, mostly for the nervousness and the cuteness that this big robot had brought you. You were used to compliments, critiques, or children that think of you as some kind of fairy, but receiving a big amount of them from a big robot that saves the day as an occupation? That was…new! For a moment, he thought that you may have found him ridiculous, but then you offered him your hands for a handshake.

"Thank you, Bulkhead… I'm Y/N, by the way!"

From that day on, the biggest of the Autobots became the biggest of you fans, too.

You couldn't resist, but besides the fact that he was able to destroy everything thanks to his herculean strength, he was surprisingly adorable for his way of acting around you. When facing an enemy, he was unstoppable, courageous, and prone to the attack more than the thinking. But around you, he was completely different!

He was shy, unsure about how to say things and how to express them. He was clumsy, things that you had found almost cute, but he had tried several times to be careful about things that he knew people cared about.

You had tried to invite him to some of your shows, but he had to decline many of those invitations, with a heavy heart too. The theater was too small for him!

Well, he didn't know that the first ballerina of the opera house had a few friends here and there! And how could they deny the desire of one of Detroit's protectors to enjoy one of their spectacles?! When he found out that they did recreate a nice place just for him, he couldn't hold his joy!

You even found time to spend with him on some dates, as you love to say, just to tease him a little, a thing that made him look even more cute than ever!

But mostly, he loved when he could find some time to see you practice. He loved how concentrated you were when you needed to practice one of your performances; he loved the passion that you emitted from your eyes! You were a contrast, delicate and strong, gentle but powerful, elegant and passionate. He couldn't not stare at you, admiring your tiny foot supporting your entire body without a trace of fatigue.

He could have never even dreamed of doing something like that.

He had found himself, in his alone time, painting things that reminded him of you, like flowers, river streams, or those animals that gave the name of the first spectacles that he had seen you in. And yet, he never found the courage to give you one of those, too embarrassed that you could find them silly or stupid…damn, you would have found him stupid.

"You know, Bulkhead," you spoke on one of those many walks in the park near him, "I was wondering, would you save me from a deception if it was the case?"

"Uh? Why do you say such a thing? …ARE THEY TARGETING YOU?! ARE THEY NEAR?!"

You calmed him down, caressing his giant servos.

"No, no, Bulky, no! No one is targeting me! It's just a guess! It's just that you remind me of a knight… so strong, so brave… It just makes my heart bump a little!"

You made his spark completely go shut down… He scratched his head again, coughing a little.

"I'm…not sure if I'm a knight, but...I'm pretty sure if one of those boozos tries to hurt you, they'll face me first!"

He truly was your knight!

#transformers #transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers x y/n #transformers x oc #transformers animated #tfa bulkhead #bulkhead #bulkhead x reader #ballerina!reader #maccadam #reader #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #female reader

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thebeast-dennis-etcetera · 9 months ago

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A Visit

Note: A short one but filled with all the right amount of tension. (:

Your face scrunched up in determination as you pulled yourself up one more time, the burn in your arms mentally pushing you further. Just one more is what you kept telling yourself. You were 5 pull-ups from breaking your record and you’d be damned if the exhaustion kept you from achieving it. Soft rock music played in the background as you could feel the sweat beading down your back and forehead, the small basement windows didn’t do much to cool you down during your workout. Jethro had installed the pull up bars for you, saying something about load bearing beams and it was safer to install them down in the basement. He just forgot to tell you how hot it got down there.

You lifted yourself up one last time before dropping to the floor with a guttural cry of accomplishment. The cold polished concrete floor felt nice against your overheated skin. You took a minute to catch your breath before going over to turn the music up a little louder and begin some simple stretches.

Starting in the butterfly position on your yoga mat, you leaned all the way forward, your forehead almost touching your toes and counted to 10. You moved onto some hamstring stretches and then some hip crossovers when you spotted Jethro at the top of the stairs.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked from the floor with a smile.

"Not long enough," was his cheeky reply as he descended the stairs and stood over you. He was dressed in his work attire, making you wonder if he was just here for a visit or if he had yet to change into his casual clothes.

You sat up on your hands and crossed your legs in a sitting position, cocking your head to the side with a smirk.

"Here for work or pleasure?"

He kneeled down in front of you, his large hands resting on your thighs as he leaned in for a kiss.

"Why not both?"

You gave him what he wanted, sitting up so you could properly wrap your arms around his neck, running your fingers through his short hair. Making out with Jethro was definitely one of your favorite past times. He always took his time, each kiss filled with love and his hands never stayed in one place for too long. Like in the moment, his hands moved from your thighs to cradle your face, fingers creeping towards the back of your neck, angling your head up for a deeper kiss, earning a small moan from you as his tongue met yours.

Just as you were about to really get into it, uncrossing your legs and kneeling on your knees so you were both at the same height, he pulled away, peppering kisses down your neck.

"As much as I'd love to continue this, I've got Torres waiting in the car outside for me. I just wanted to stop by and tell you that I might be late for dinner tonight. We're on our way to follow up on a lead."

You groaned at his words and threw him an almost pouty frown.

"You get me all worked up and then just leave me needy. Terrible."

He chuckled and looked down with a smile. "We're in the same boat sweetheart. I come home to find you sweaty and stretching in positions that'd have any man drooling. I can't even stand up right now."

You licked your suddenly dry lips while glancing down at the obvious bulge in his dress pants, before he gave you a warning look.

"I'll make it up to you tonight. I promise."

You rolled your eyes at his insinuation and answered him with a peck on the lips.

"You better."

It only took a few minutes for Jethro to gain control of his body again as you used the time to head upstairs and package some leftover homemade enchiladas for his team, spotting Torres through the window, drumming his fingers on the open car window, clearly becoming impatient.

You met Jethro at the front door, handing him the tupperware of food with a kiss.

"Be safe," you told him, just like every time he left for work.

"I'll try," he teased with a wink, walking out the door. You gave Torres a wave which he reciprocated, eyes lighting up when he saw Jethro headed over to him with food. You were sure the quickest way to his heart was a good home cooked meal.

You waited till they drove off, the car no longer in visibility before shutting and locking the door, headed back down to the basement to finish your workout session.

#gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs #ncis #ncis fanfiction #agent gibbs #mark harmon #ncis request #jethro gibbs x reader #ncis imagine #jethro gibbs fanfiction

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blogport · 11 months ago

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EPOXYSHİNE - DRAGON+ (3)

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brimbrimbrimbrim · 3 months ago

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A Ruined Ratio (Muse/Sculptor!Reader) pt.1

🖤A Ruined Ratio 1/7 🖤

Muse x F!Sculptor!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: Sexual Awakening, Rough Sex, Knifeplay, Cumplay, Sexual Tension, Voyeruism, Bloodplay, Blood & Gore, Dubious Consent, Violence, Choking, Light BDSM, Toxic Relationship, Branding/Marking, Stalking, Multiple Orgasms, Vaginal Fingering, Yonic Symbolism, Liberal use of Artistic Rhetoric. Genre: Dark Romance / Horror / PWP

Part 2

Summary: As a celebrated sculptor spiraling into creative stagnation, you strive to capture some sense of soul after stumbling upon one of Muse's violent, gruesome art installations. Muse thinks you're derivative but not without potential. He just has to strip you down to a blank slate first.

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The studio smells like home, a faint thread of something acrid rising from the heater vents that haven’t been cleaned in months. Your hands tremble as you peel off your coat, nape damp with a rain-sweat sheen you didn’t realize had settled there until the draft caught it.

That fucking gallery show. Too bright. Too many voices.

Your jaw still aches from all the polite smiling. There’s pressure behind your left eye, thudding in time with the headache blooming across your temple. You didn’t eat enough. Didn’t drink enough either… not until the end, when you escaped the critical crowd to suck down a rum and coke near the bar, hidden in a pocket of shadows like a subway rat.

Now, home, away from it all, you step over scattered drop cloths on the concrete floors, unleveled by the building’s age: an old factory floor planned into penthouse-style apartments that never saw completion before the development company went belly up.

You stand at your kitchen counter, overlooking the living room with its rug rolled out into the mouth of the studio space, rubbing your elbows without thinking. The pressure of your arms crossed under your chest, hands rubbing the bony bend of each arm, brings comfort, cleaning away a memory. Sylvan’s hand had lingered too long on that very spot earlier—fingers slick with desperation as he complimented your ‘chaste subject matter’ and how your sculptures ‘speak of a purity that’s tragically absent in most female-centric art.’ As if you're a female artist first and foremost, never just an artist…

You wanted to punch his teeth down his throat… Instead, you gave him a smile that felt like a paper cut, thin and stinging, and moved to the other side of the gallery. He followed anyway. Sylvan never misses an opening and never leaves you alone…

Of course, they all said the same thing with different words, like ‘brevity of womanly empowerment’ and ‘rebellious innocence,’ and they all got different faux smiles in return. You’re playing it safe these days. Conservative, even. Chaste, comes that word again, whispering near your ear, too close, the breath of it tracing your neckline. You barely managed not to tear and yank your nerves from your throat.

Thankfully, you’ve always had this place—this sanctuary where the insulation was stripped to bone and brick, purchased when you were still hungry, still raw from the academy. It was a shell then—beautiful in its emptiness. A void begging to be filled. Now, it’s cluttered with your ambitions. Sculptures half-finished. Some crouch in corners like oppressed animals, others stretch toward the exposed beams overhead, tongues of wire and clay gathering dust. But the majority of them glare at you like virginal effigies that would be happier if you’d just go fuck yourself instead of birthing them into existence.

You hate all of them. And they hate back.

You take a sip of the cherry juice and seltzer you poured when you got home—flat and syrupy now, still a promise of a good night’s rest—and let your eyes drift to the loft windows that take up the entire northeast corner from floor to ceiling. No curtains. Never needed them. No one to look in from the condemned warehouse across your building where the subway beneath makes the bones of it moan every day at noon sharp.

Sirens start up in the distance. It’s routine around this time as well. White noise. They’re like pigeons here—circling, crying, always feeding on something. You used to flinch at them. Used to double-check the locks. Now, you sip your tart drink and think maybe someone should come . Take the sculptures. Smash them. Take you. Soil you. Anything to undo what you’ve done to yourself. Perhaps then, once ruined, your art—your very self—would have some meaning.

The sirens grow louder—urgent now. Your gaze lifts from your drink to the window. The color of the red-blue reflections doesn’t fade; it grows. Ear-splitting sirens merge with the wobble of ambulances. You step to the window, mason jar sweating in your grip. Curiosity piqued.

Outside, the street is bathed in chaos. Flashing lights. Pedestrians being shoved aside by pigs in uniforms, each of them shouting for different reasons. A bright yellow tape ripples in a cop's hand, wrapping around rusted parking meters and tacked to a brick wall.

Gunshots. Not distant. You hear them with the crispness of immediacy, and it startles something awake in your chest. That was close. Your eyes dart to the rooftops blackened under light-polluted skies, and it could be a trick of an over-exhausted mind, but you swear there’s a figure bobbing—running—against that dark backdrop of the city skyline… away from pursuers.

‘Get them out of here!’

Below, cops are pulling a human shape from the scene, assisting paramedics haul it onto a gurney. You look back into the depths of your studio, finding several sheet-covered statues lying in the darkness, more alive now than that body below, similarly covered in alabaster white.

Someone shouts, and your gaze trails back through the window to the scene below. There’s something on the pavement that catches the headlights: red and glossy, half a word. Too greasy to be anything but the material of violence.

The sight should repulse. Instead, it pulls you closer as though hypnotized. That word chaste rings in your ears again as your eyes widen on the crime scene.

You press your hand to the cold pane, breath fogging the glass. The implication of a dead body—its burning of monotony, its heat—somehow centers you. The horror of it threads down your throat and settles in your lower stomach as a slow, trembling ache.

It’s not innocent . It’s hunger—hungry .

You inhale slowly, unevenly. Down on the street, the sirens begin to fade. The crowd gradually disperses. You watch until the last flashing light turns the corner, the last echo of rubber tires vanishing into the dark. Only then do you turn back to your studio.

You don’t bother changing out of your dress—just tug an oversized hoodie over your head. The hem nearly swallows up the pinstripe skirt—casting an allusion of wearing nothing but the hoodie—but you don’t care. The modest black heels get kicked into a corner as your heart skips. You slide into boots with crusted clay and dried paint on the toes.

Outside, the concrete is slick from oil leaks, damp from the rain that hadn’t had time to dry before nightfall. A smell lingers—something you think you noticed when you arrived home, but can’t be sure—burned rubber, faint metal, something… astringent like a perfumed musk.

The alley below your window is still choked off with yellow tape, but you need to see it up close. Not from behind glass. Inside it. You press your fingers into the pockets of the hoodie, hunching forward as you step beneath the police tape, its edge damp and snagging on your shoulder like a wet ribbon.

The moment you step into the decorated alley, the noise of the city relaxes. No honking. No sirens or screams. Just your own breath, catching when your eyes lock on the dining table.

It’s long—absurdly long for this space, claustrophobic against the alley walls. A sheet of linen clings to its warped length, soaked through in the center where something dead may have been, leaving behind a spattering blush of browns and blacks dried into dark textures like brushstrokes. The bloodstains are still moist in the middle, weighing down the fabric to the wood beneath it. Fingerprints—partial, frantic—dot the end of the tablecloth where someone must have clutched it, making sure it was even on either end.

You take a step further within, feeling much like a vulture picking apart roadkill. Your gaze travels up the table to the chair at the head. It’s been pulled out at an angle, and you wonder if that was intentional or left by a cop with no eye for design. Closer now, you see there’s a smudge of red on the seat cushion. You can almost picture it—the slump of a body, its fluids settling with gravity, leaving behind something like a blotter stamp.

A sound. A clatter above. Ice down your spine, a supine rattle of panic. You whip yourself around to the noise, staring at the steel bones of a fire escape. One of the platforms sways just an inch, just enough to supply the terrible thought that someone is watching… or was, and yet—

Your hands clench in your pockets. You feel everything. Sensory input condensed like a star between your eyes, projecting a funnel of undulating gleam. Exhaustion, just tired—or drugged somehow. But you're not, and you blink and blink until you see it—a $100 bill, folded once, torn at the edge, and stuck to the brick wall. It's soaked through, crinkled from blood, dried into the grout line.

Tacked newspaper clippings are plastered above like graffiti, some curled at the edges, others nailed down by force. Headlines run jagged as torn thoughts:

TAX BILL PASSES — HOMELESS DISPLACED . CORPORATE PROFITS HIT RECORD HIGH . CONTRACTS FUNNELED TO DEFENSE INDUSTRY . ART FUNDING SLASHED FOR THIRD YEAR IN A ROW.

You picture crime scene cleanup crews cataloguing the remaining cash as they did the body parts left behind, snapping pictures of everything, especially the news clippings. But that bill, its unsubtle symbolism, almost more so than the headlines completes it—makes the alleyway feel like a perverted banquet hall fit for an oligarch. This, the critic says, is what artists spend their whole lives searching for: true meaning.

Another groan of steel resounds above, amplified by the narrow space. This time, you hug yourself, fingers worrying your elbow through thick fleece,e and ignore it. You're too dialed in on the art now.

Your stomach turns. Sure. But not from nausea, from something that twists hot and slow under your ribs. Your cheeks burn. You’re sweating under the hoodie. Between your legs, a pinpoint awareness throbs. It's arousal , though your body doesn't remember that feeling, so you call it thrill, excitement, inspiration, and lick your lips twice.

You shift your thighs where they’ve started to stick together beneath the dress. The blood... the violence… the message—the art of it makes you want to—

Your phone buzzes, a dissonant hum in your pocket that breaks the hypnotic hush. You don’t want to look, but the spell is broken and reality demands you look.

Sylvan: I was passing by and saw the lights on in your studio. Late night, huh? Let's have dinner sometime, talk about your next series. I think there’s something special in your future. I want to be part of it. We can go over the numbers then.

You read it once, then again, your thumb hovering over the screen like it might burn you. His words are soaked in the same syrup he dripped all over you at the show— “I believe in your message , I see something rare . We should spend more time together.”

You know exactly what Sylvan wants, what that look in his eyes meant when he praised your restricted philosophy, how his voice got low when he said your work presented “so much beauty unspoilt.”

He doesn’t want your art. He wants your body. He wants to crawl inside you, fuck you, wear you like greasepaint, get off on the idea of sullying you—squirting his name all over you until its his, leaving you nothing but last season's art trend. But what else are any of them meant to think when you've spent years showing them falsehoods groped together with clay?

You shove the phone back into your pocket, ashamed of the reputation you’ve spent over a decade forming. Something odious and dishonest, nothing like…

"Nothing like this…" you whisper.

You step forward, heel dragging over the cracks in the pavement where blood still pools in stiff, black globs. You move slowly, circling the table, breathing in the rot and the faint scent of something aromatic—expensive. Cologne maybe. Maybe whoever did this wore it, or maybe the victim did. Either way, it lingers, delicate and predatory .

You stop beside the head chair.

Your chest is tight. You feel light-headed again, as if overloaded by sensory detail: the smells, the feel of the air in temperature and weight, the edges of everything hyperrealized. Your skin is on fire, but your fingers feel cold. You grip the edge of the table and look down at the blood-stained linen, the trail of red fingerprints, and feel someone watching you partake.

You swallow. There’s a pulse in your ears. Something flickers in your chest.

This… this is art. Not slipped, carved, baked clay. This is flesh and passion. This is something stripped bare to pentirsi layers, offering previously unseen details unappreciated by the uniforms that dismantled it. But you're here now, you see it. .. smudged within the image as a coffee stain in a sketchbook.

You smile as the fire escape sways, metal bones screeching beneath heavy steps. The cold licks your legs beneath the dress, but someone's breath warms your nape, gushing through cotton fleece to bare skin where fine hairs rise above gooseflesh. You’re soaked in something deep as a threadbare exhale titters over your shoulder—too hot to be real.

You’re not alone anymore.

The artist is here, maybe , pressed into your back, fused to your spine, reaching under the hoodie one-handed to hold the flutters to your abdominal wall where they want to dig out and fly away. You cramp, or the hand squeezes and something in you—some endlessly regurgitating thing —finally matches the phantasmal breath heaving down your collar...

“Eyes open, finally... Tragic how long you chose to stay blind.”

Check it on AO3 HERE

#daredevil #muse #muse x reader #fanfic #x reader #smut #dark fic #horror #angst #slowburn #enemies to lovers #toxic romance #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #brims writing #reader insert #writing #muse daredevil

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dickgraysonisnothereforthis · 5 months ago

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Yeah, I’ll Let You Cut Me Open (jason todd x vampire!reader)

Jason’s always twitchy after a fight. Good thing you show up.

Another installment of the jason x vampire!reader series. You know the drill, foul language and suggestive content.

The rest of the series is on my masterlist

Humor, fluff. Ain’t nothing else going on, boys.

No use of y/n

I have no idea how long this is.

—————

Jason sighs, looping the end of the zip tie and tightening it against the unconscious perp’s wrists. Panting heavily, fight barely over, he methodically checks the man for injuries. Other than a few broken teeth courtesy of Jason’s fists, the man seems fine. Almost ildly, Jason brings a finger to his own neck, hunting for his pulse. Way the fuck too fast. Jason’s fingers twitch.

He’s always struggled with the comedown. The raid was a huge success, Red Hood had worked with Nightwing and Red Robin to track down and dismantle one of Bane’s drug warehouses. They’d gotten to the docks at one am and had the last goon out cold by two thirty. It was the kind of fight Jason loved, fast and dirty, with opponents well trained enough to make it interesting, to make him work for it. It wasn’t a good fight unless Jason got knocked around a little, that’s what he always said.

But now the fun’s over. Jason’s blood is still thrumming, heartbeat loud in his ears, and he has to catalogue evidence and search the premises and drag these stupid henchmen into a neat pile for the GCPD. Resigned, he reaches for another lifeless body, hauling him over to the growing lump of men.

“Lift with your legs, Hood,” Dick offers from the ground as he binds hands and ankles. Jason grunts. Man, this sucks. All this damn adrenaline with nowhere to put it. Maybe he should take up meditation to calm down, or some shit.

“Hey, isn’t that your boy-toy?”

“Oh my gosh, it is!”

Or maybe not.

Maybe his adrenaline can stay right where it is, because that’s definitely you, running barefoot across the warehouse in a barely-there minidress, your friend Crystal trailing behind you.

“Well, looky here,” Dick says with a grin. “Your girl’s a-coming.”

“Jason Jason Jason,” you chant happily, “Jason, Jason. I’m so glad you’re here!” You run eagerly into his arms, and Jason catches you, glowing at your affection. He doesn’t think he’ll get used to it.

“Cute,” Tim comments, walking over from where he’d been bagging evidence.

Jason ignores him. “What’re you doin’ wandering round the docks, princess?”

You shrug unsteadily. “Got bored at the club. Was lame. Went for a walk.”

“She drunk?” he asks Crystal.

“Oh, yeah,” she confirms with a smirk, holding up your discarded heels she’s got hooked around her finger.

You wriggle in his grip. “Jason, Jason,” you babble, sliding your hands up his chest to go for his helmet. “Hey, wait, take this off.” He obliges, and you stretch out on your tiptoes, planting your hands on your shoulders and vaulting yourself up to reach his face. His arms come up to support you, and you rub your face against his neck. “Jason,” you whisper conspiratorially. He hears Tim cough, and flushes awkwardly. “Jason.” You kiss a line up his neck. “I’m hungry.”

He drops you immediately. “No.”

“Ahh!” you shriek as you hit the floor. “No?!” You beat your fists against the concrete.

“Hood,” Dick says reproachfully, but Jason waves him off. A little bump on the floor won’t do any damage, and he’s not about to let you sink your teeth in him on a moments’ notice.

Sure enough, you push yourself to your feet, pouting at him. “What the fuck. Jason, give me some.”

“I told you, no. I got beat up on enough already, I don’t need you biting just ‘cause you’re drunk and you want a snack.” All true. Bonus: he doesn’t want Dick and Tim to see you drink from him. That feels private. Especially since he’ll probably pop a boner.

“Oh,” Tim hums thoughtfully. “She wants to have some of your blood.” He thinks for a moment. “You guys do that?”

Crystal saves him from answering. “You good?” she calls to you. “Can I go?”

“Yeah, fine,” you answer over your shoulder. “Whatever. See you later.” Crystal tosses your shoes to the floor and makes her way out of the warehouse.

“Jason.” You put your hands on your hips. “Come on. I’m starving. You can spare a little.”

“No-o,” he enunciates. “Get your damn hospital blood at home.”

“I don’t want to,” you stamp your foot. “It’s too far!”

“That ain’t my problem, sweetheart,” he says, turning around. He’s half expecting it when you run over and launch yourself onto his back, wrapping your arm around his neck in a chokehold. “Please?” you wheedle. He grins, reaching for your arm and using it to chuck you across the room. Tim gasps as you crash into a table, but you’re up in moments, pushing the table out of your way and sprinting back to him. Jason smiles wider. He loves, he loves having a partner to roughhouse with. He dodges you as you lunge clumsily at him, and you hiss in frustration.

“Come on!” you howl.

“Damn,” Dick murmurs as Jason pushes you away again. “They’re really that indestructible?”

Jason nods, opening his mouth to answer, but then you tackle him, wrestling him to the floor.

“Here, wait, just let me—no! Stop!” you cry furiously as Jason fights you from below. “Just—just leave your fucking hand here—” you pin his wrist to the ground, and Jason’s stuck, he can’t win against your strength. Doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Whoa. Strong,” Tim notes.

“Get off,” Jason commands breathlessly, using his hips and legs to try and leverage you off of him.

“No, not until I have a little.” Your knee hits his crotch, and Jason smirks in satisfaction as you spit angrily. “What the fuck? Are you wearing a cup? No fair!”

He uses your confusion to haul you off of him and scramble to his feet. He crouches, waiting for your next attack, but you remain on the floor, picking your face up to glare at him.

“Ja-son! Please please please please—”

He ignores you again, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Hood, your cut,” Tim warns, and Jason presses a hand to his temple, realizing he’d started bleeding again.

Instantly, you’re up on your feet. “You’re bleeding? Oh no…” You sidle towards him carefully, eyes locked on the blood sluggishly dripping from his head. “Jay, that’s terrible.”

“Knock it off, doll.” Jason catches the roll of gauze Dick throws his way. “You’re not gettin’ any.”

“You fucking bastard,” you mutter. “I don’t know why I keep you around at all.” Looking around, your eyes rest on the unconscious men on the ground. “Can I take some from them?” you ask, eyes lighting up.

Dick opens his mouth to protest, but Jason beats him to it. “Nuh-uh.”

“Oh my god,” you seethe. “Fuck you, you never let me do anything!”

“Didn’t realize you were looking after a cat, Jay,” Dick says wryly.

You totally ignore him. “If you won’t give me any, I’ll just go out and kill someone.” Tim gasps, and Dick shifts into a fighting stance. You cross your arms over your chest, as if to say, “so there.”

Jason’s heard this one from you before. “No you won’t.”

You throw up your hands. “‘No you won’t!’ ‘No you won’t!’” you mimic him furiously. “I swear to god you’re making me into a fucking loser.”

Jason turns to Dick as you pace the room, muttering to yourself. “Think you can handle the rest?”

“What?” Tim asks, affronted. “You serious? There’s like, piles of work still to do!”

“Yeah, Timmy and I will take care of it,” Dick says easily. “Come on, Tim,” he slugs an arm over his shoulder. “Red Hood’s gotta deal with his vampire.”

Jason rolls his eyes but stalks over to you nonetheless. “Come on, doll.” He herds you toward the exit. “I’ll take you home.”

You dig in your heels. “You gonna let me have some?” you challenge.

“Christ, yes,” he mumbles out of earshot of Dick and Tim. “At home.”

“Fine.” Smiling in satisfaction, you turn and skip out of the warehouse.

Jason follows you outside. You’re already straddling his motorbike, grinning happily. Jamming his helmet on, he gets on behind you, giving you his bloody fingers to suck on. You lick them eagerly.

His stomach swoops, and he revs the bike as he lets out a growl. You giggle around his fingers and press yourself against his back, directing his other hand to fall on your thigh, right at the hem of your short short short dress. He gropes you eagerly.

Yeah, he can think of another way to get the adrenaline out.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #vampire!reader #batfam imagine #red hood imagine #dc imagine #jason todd x vampire!reader #teeth writes

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blueiscoool · 5 months ago

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Beginnings of Roman London Discovered in Office Basement

A discovery underneath the basement of an office block has been described as one of the most important pieces of Roman history unearthed in the city of London.

Archaeologists have found a substantial piece of the ancient city's first basilica - a 2,000 year old public building where major political, economic and administrative decisions were made.

The excavation has so far revealed sections of stone wall that formed the base of the basilica, which would have been two-and-a-half storeys high.

The site, which will eventually be opened to the public, sheds light on the city's beginnings.

"This is so significant - this is the heart of Roman London," said Sophie Jackson, from the Museum of London Archaeology (Mola), who revealed the new find exclusively to BBC News.

"This building will tell us so much about the origins of London, why London grew and why it was chosen as the capital of Britain. It's just amazing."

The site was discovered at 85 Gracechurch Street, an office building that's about to be demolished and redeveloped.

Earlier archaeological investigations revealed the ancient basilica's approximate location, so the team created several small test pits to see what was hidden beneath the concrete floor.

On the third attempt, digging between the filing cabinets, they struck lucky.

"You can see a huge chunk of Roman masonry, and it's incredible that it survives this well. We're absolutely thrilled that there's so much of it here," said Sophie Jackson.

The wall is made from a type of limestone from Kent, and formed an imposing building - the basilica would have been about 40m long, 20m wide and 12m high.

A tile is stamped and the three lines next to it are the finger marks of the tile maker

Other artefacts have been found too, including a roof tile imprinted with the stamp of an official from the ancient city.

The basilica was part of London's forum, a social and commercial hub with a courtyard that was about the size of a football pitch.

"The basilica is the town hall, and then in front of it was a big open market square with a range of shops and offices around the outside," explained Ms Jackson.

"It's the place you came to do business, to get your court case sorted out, it's where laws were made, and it's where decisions were made about London, but also about the rest of the country."

It was built around 80 AD, just a few decades after the Romans invaded Britain and founded Londinium - the Roman name for the city.

But the first basilica and forum were only in use for about 20 years. They were replaced by a much larger second forum, perhaps reflecting how quickly the city was growing in size and importance.

The discovery has meant a change of plans for the building's owners, Hertshten Properties.

The basilica sits at the back of the Roman forum, which had an open courtyard

The Roman remains, which will now be fully excavated, are to be incorporated into the new offices - pending planning approval - and opened up to the public.

For the architects, redesigning a building around an archaeological site has had some technical challenges.

"The scheme has been comprehensively adjusted," explained James Taylor from architecture firm Woods Bagot.

"Simple things like the columns have had to literally move position, so you're not destroying all these special stones that we found in the ground."

And so as not to disturb what's there, fewer lifts can now be installed - and this has meant that the team has had to reduce the height of the building.

But Mr Taylor said the effort will be worth it.

"To actually see people using and enjoying the space, moving through the public hall and down to see the remains, will be absolutely incredible."

This is the latest piece of Roman history to be discovered lying beneath the streets of London's Square Mile. And there's a growing effort to find innovative ways to show these sites to the public.

An artist's impression of what the public will eventually be able to see

Parts of an amphitheatre are on display under a glass floor at the Guildhall Art Gallery, and at Bloomberg's offices, people can visit the Temple of Mithras, which has been brought to life with an immersive sound and light installation.

Chris Hayward from the City of London Corporation says he wants more people to experience the link between the past and the present.

"The fact that Roman London is beneath your feet is, frankly, quite a remarkable emotion to experience," he said.

"You can actually see and visualise how Roman London would have been in those times. And then you can walk outside and you can say, 'now look at the skyscrapers, now look at the office blocks', this is progress, but at the same time, progress combined with preservation."

By Rebecca Morelle and Alison Francis.

#Beginnings of Roman London Discovered in Office Basement #Roman London #85 Gracechurch Street #roman basilica #roman ruins #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #roman history #roman empire

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conkreetmonkey · 9 months ago

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trick or treat

You reach out and knock on the rusty old bulkhead, yelling "trick or treat!" as you do.

It produces a hollow, resounding clang that echoes around you, a vibration you feel in your bones.

Wait, where exactly are you? How did you get here?

Looking around, you find yourself in what could only be described as a "facility." You seem to be at the bottom of a rusted metal stairwell you have no memory of descending. The walls are of a rough, filthy concrete, skirted in decaying institutional white tile up to about your shoulders. The floor is of much worse-off dark green tile, accented with the occasional aquamarine one.

Everything is covered in a layer of dry dirt, building up in the corners and missing tiles, save for where the criss-crossing pipes snaking up and down the walls and ceiling drip foul water from corroded fittings, supporting pockets of green algae and moss, and the occasional unnatural-looking mushroom. A completely rusted drainage grate sits in the middle of the room, revealing only darkness beneath.

The air is stale and musty, with an acrid chemical tinge to it. Motes of dust hang languidly in the air, illuminated by buzzing, half-dead flourescent tubes. Wait, this place looks totally abandoned, why is there still electricity? You have no clue what purpose this area could possibly have served. There isn't even an indication of what floor you're on, let alone who built this place and for what.

The door in front of you is all there is down here, save for a few strewn-about pieces of trash, and some ominous neon yellow barrels in the far corner. You don't even want to know.

The door is odd, clearly old and abandoned, yet at the same time bearing evidence of regular use. The valve that presumably opens it is well worn, darkened white paint rubbing away to reveal fresh, unrusted steel. One of the hinges looks newly installed, its gleaming metal surface starkly contrasting its dull surroundings. Shoeprints not matching your own cover the dusty floor, most saturated at the base of the door.

Most damning of all, though, is the laminated piece of printer paper taped to it, reading "NO SOLICITORS" in calibri bold. Somebody definitely lives here, in the rotting guts of some Soviet-ass brutalist hellhole, and you just knocked on their door and yelled "trick or treat!" Uh oh.

As if on cue, the moment you think this, the valve begins to turn with a mechanical squeak, and the bulkhead opens outwards just a sliver, a seemingly gloved hand curling around the edge as somebody peeks out a-- what.

"Ah! I was starting to think there wouldn't be any of you this year!" a nasally male voice says as the door is heftily shoved all the way open, forcing you to take a step back.

Standing before you is some sort of freak.

The man(?) before you is slightly above-average in height. His baggy avocado green t-shirt obscures his midsection, as do his maroon pants, but based purely on the way they hang off his form and the look of his hands and forearms, you subconciously clock him as scrawny to skinnyfat in build, clearly no athlete. His worn black and white sneakers peek out from under the cuffs of his too-big pants, whatever's holding them up obscured by his even more ill-fitting shirt. Both seem to be scavenged from scraps, repaired over and over again with sloppy hand stiching and the odd strip of duct tape.

This is where the normal aspects of his appearance abruptly end.

His hands were never gloved, it turns out; rather, they, along with the rest of him, is a deep, unnaturally saturated bondi blue, seemingly the actual colour of his skin. Even his battered fingernails are a tealish cyan, his lips and lower eyelids fading to a darker, comparatively less ostentatious shade of catalina blue.

A thick, wild mop of taffy pink hair hangs down to his shoulderblades, and would likely reach down to his mid back without its fluffy, springy texture. It looks coarse and unpleasant, but at least not greasy.

A pair of inhuman eyes stare excitedly into yours, neon yellow scleras clashing against red-40 irises in tones typically reserved for candy or tropical fish. They seem far brighter than they should be in this light, and his pupils glint in the industrial gloom like those of a raccoon or similar nocturnal garbage animal. His boyish face sports a five o' clock shadow of pink facial hair, implying it's his natural hair colour, which wouldn't be too surprising considering the rest of him.

He overall looks rather scruffy, yet at the same time clearly at least somewhat takes care of himself. His stubbly face and tangled hair bring up imagery of some sort of basement gremlin, and your surroundings do little to contest this. He smells like sour fruit gummies an-- Wait, what's that on his lip?

Some sort of ooze is trailing from his mouth, luminescent neon green, looking like the liquid inside of a green glowstick. Before you can get too good of a look at it, he licks it up. Then he speaks.

"Here ya go, little guy! A li'l snacky-snack for ya!" he says, plopping something cylindrical and heavy into a plastic bag you just now realize you've been holding. The blue man, despite looking like somebody rubbed magnets on a TV screen tuned to a documentary about homelessness, clearly means you no harm, even if his demeanour is a little eccentric, his scent a little unusual. Before you can thank him, the door slams shut with a "Happy Halloween!" and the squeak of the valve. You're alone down here once again. You look into your bag and remove a strange object:

Huh, weird. It seems metallic, and your hand tingles against its lukewarm surface. What kind of candy is this? Wait, is it even Halloween?

You look around yourself, weighing your options. You don't want to disturb the blue man, him having been so kind as to give you this... whatever it is. It's not like there's anything else to do down here.

With no other directions avaliable to walk in, you start up the rusty industrial stairs, your strange gift sitting heavily in the bottom of your bag.

#halloween 2024 #conky lore #trick or treating #trick or treat #inbox trick or treating #thanks for trick or treating!!

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eff4freddie · 10 months ago

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After She Left | Nine

Words: 5k

Joel leaves Shauna to race to the mess hall, trying to prevent an attack that will obliterate half of Jackson. You keep Ellie safe while Joel is out for blood. Tommy has his suspicions.

Chapter warnings: Angst, again. Slow burn. Joel continues to be bad at feelings.

A/N: Thank you again for your support of this series. It's putting the slow in slow burn, but these two idiots just refuse to give any ground. Joel is starting to soften, slowly, but will Teach let him in?

Eight | Series Masterlist | Ten

Joel’s legs were moving almost completely without volition. He didn’t even hesitate, taking off towards the mess hall screaming, bellowing, over his shoulder for Shauna to run to Tommy and tell him. There wasn’t any time, there wasn’t any knowing how much time there was, but there were families in that mess hall, there were some of the town’s best men and women and their children and he was going to make damn fuckin’ sure not you. Not Ellie. Not you.

He could feel his breath coming in hard and sharp, the comparatively warm night air doing absolutely nothing to stop his lungs feeling as though they were shredding right there in his chest. He was stumbling, must have looked completely mad, as he ran to the centre of town. Shauna had said the gas line ran over the street. In rebuilding Jackson with next to no equipment they wouldn’t have been able to pull up the concrete to bury it, not with the little tools they’d had. It would have made sense to install all the services above ground without a digger to get them under, but now they were just exposed. Jackson had been built on a fuckin’ fuse and he’d stood at the gates while the guys with the match marched right past him.

Jesus, he’d failed. Again, he had failed. If that mess hall went up before he got there he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to live with himself, knew in his heart he would have to take himself off to a mountain somewhere and let the elements have their way with him. Walk into a horde of clickers. It would be fair and it would be just in this lawless, gnashing world.

Breath coming in too fast to catch it, pulse too hard to hear anything else he rounded onto the main street, bellowing at the top of his lungs to clear the area, waving with his hands over his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tommy running from the other direction, his eyes wild, raising his own hands over his head and bellowing a warning when he saw what Joel was doing. A few other men appeared on Joel’s periphery, confused but on alert regardless, and he screamed to them as he ran past ‘MESS HALL. GONNA GO UP. GET ‘EM OUT. GET ‘EM ALL OUT.’

He was dimly aware of people staring at him, gaping at him as he streamed past. He yelled in their faces to get clear, having to restrain himself from physically pushing them out of the way as he wrenched open the door to the mess hall just as Tommy appeared at the bottom of the steps.

It was all just pure instinct. He’d never been a fire warden, had done safety training for the job sites more than twenty years ago. Didn’t need instructions or a manual, just stood in the doorway as the hall fell silent around him, cupped his hands over his mouth and screamed ‘OUT OUT OUT’.

Tommy pulled him aside, gesturing people to the door now that Joel wasn’t obstructing it anymore, and later when Joel had the wherewithal he’d curse himself for being so stupid as to block the only exit he was screaming at people to use.

The place emptied in minutes. Town Council had a thing about practicing drills: clickers, raiders, fires and floods. Being the only safe haven at the end of the world a fair amount of effort went into preparing for disaster, and everyone was assembled at the muster point by the gate within minutes. Maria was busy doing her headcount.

Out the front of the mess hall Tommy held Joel by his trembling shoulder as he relayed to his younger brother everything that Shauna had said. Tommy sent a bunch of men under the floor to check the foundations, ran his own eye up the gas line because he didn’t trust any of the men, got Joel to do it too when he was done shaking. Whatever Steve and Wren had been planning they hadn’t pulled it off yet. There was still time. Joel felt himself exhale for the first time in an hour.

Over Tommy’s shoulder he saw the townsfolk of Jackson lined up along the street at a safe distance. Moms holding their babies to their chests, husbands with their arms over their wives’ shoulders. He saw you in the crowd, your hand held fast in Ellie’s, and he felt something settle in his chest as his girls watched him work. His girls.

Not his girls.

But in that first moment, before his legs had taken him in the direction of the mess hall, he’d fought a traitorous urge to turn around, head back to your place, pack you and Ellie up in blankets and hunker down with you in your bedroom, let the whole fuckin’ place burn to the ground around him so long as he had you both safe.

He blinked. There was fury bubbling in his belly, he could feel the fire rising up his sternum as he tried to swallow it down.

‘Where they at, Tommy?’ he grunted, his brother having already been anticipating that this would be Joel’s next move, once he was confident the town was safe.

‘Sent Guillaume and a few of the boys to round ‘em up,’ Tommy said, hoping this would be enough for Joel and knowing it wouldn’t be.

‘Gollum?’ Joel said, almost spitting the name in disdain. ‘That fuckhead’s the reason we in this mess. I bet you my life they were the ones skulkin’ around out there that time I saw the tracks, I bet you anythin’ they been planning this for months and I fuckin’ told Golllum…’

‘Ok, easy, easy,’ Tommy said, raising his hands, watching the heat blooming on his brother’s neck. ‘I know, Joel, but we got a proper process.’

Joel scoffed, rolling his eyes, clenching his fists. He was spitting acid now, the left-over adrenaline mixing with bile and misery. ‘We’re a civilisation, Joel,’ Tommy said, almost pleading with him to see some kind of reason. ‘That means we gotta be civil.’

‘I’ll be real civil with ‘em, brother,’ Joel said, his voice low and heavy and full of venom. ‘F’they behave themselves I might even make it quick.’

‘Joel, enough,’ Tommy said. ‘This ain’t…this is for Town Council-’

‘The HELL IT IS’ Joel bellowed, the people still milling around on the street flinching and glancing back at him. He cleared his throat and lowered his gaze.

‘You can’t cut me outta this, Tommy,’ he said, his turn to plead. ‘S’my family they messin’ with.’

‘All our families they messed with, Joel,’ Tommy said.

‘What you think they been doin’ to Shauna all this time?’ Joel said, and Tommy blanched a little. There wasn’t any evidence, Shauna had always implied more or less that she’d agreed to whatever it was they got up to on the side of cold mountains, but Joel knew how to push Tommy’s buttons, having spent the better half of his little brother’s youth installing them himself.

There was a shout over the hill leading down to the stables, a cry and a string of insults that, even though neither Tommy or Joel could make out the words, were nevertheless unkind.

Tommy pulled on Joel’s arm to try and hold him back, but Joel was already streaming over to the sound, his longer legs striding strong despite his older years, his eyes narrowing. Tommy knew this look. It was the look Joel got when he was ready to do anything to defend what was his. He stumbled after his brother, motioning for Maria in the hope that her cooler head might prevail.

Joel could see Wren being held between two of Guillaume’s men, his shoulder bent at what appeared to be a truly uncomfortable angle.

‘They’ve dislocated my shoulder!’ Wren screamed, looking a little green, Joel thought.

‘That’s the last of your worries,’ Tommy said, catching up to Joel and a little out of breath. ‘Wanna tell us about the mess hall?’

‘What about the mess hall?’ Wren asked, and Joel was ready, in that moment, to rip his dislocated shoulder clean from the rest of his body.

‘You fuckin’ sick piece of shit, going to blow it all up with all those kids in there, all those women. People’s fuckin’ families?’ Joel was aware he was spitting, that his face was red, that he was forcing his finger into Wren’s face, but the shock was wearing off now, and pure blind rage was seeping in where it had left, and he couldn’t stop thinking about pulling Ellie’s charred little body out of the wreckage, trying to figure if it was her by her shoes and her proximity to you.

He was going to vomit if he didn’t stop thinking about it. He steeled himself, let the world spin around his head for a moment longer before he pulled it all back into focus by sheer force of will.

‘You and Steve, you sick fucks, been planning this the whole time? When we fed and clothed ya, gave you fuckin’ jobs!’

‘Joel, easy,’ Tommy said, because he could see that Wren was near tears, that the younger man looked dumbfounded, and that dealing with 200 pounds of Miller in the form of a man-sized fist wasn’t going to get them to a resolution.

‘What are you…’ Wren was asking, but then there were more footsteps, and Steve was being dragged along the street to join the party by another of the patrol, and this time Shauna was trailing behind him, eyes wet and hands wringing in front of her. She moved straight to Maria, who wrapped her up in her arms.

‘Just fuckin’ confess to it so we can get down to the punishment,’ Joel was saying, even as Tommy was trying to pull him back so that the Council could form a proper impromptu trial.

‘We didn’t do fuckin’ nothing,’ Steve said, because he was quicker on the uptake it seemed. ‘Whatever she’s said to you it’s fucking bullshit.’

Joel looked at Shauna, who was starting to sob.

‘They said if I said anything they’d kill me,’ she said, eyes on the ground as Maria practically held her up. ‘They said I had to do it, I had to get the plans, I’m so sorry,’ she said.

Wren was shaking his head at her, panic on his features, but Joel was too far gone to notice or care, too interested instead in punching his features through to the other side of his skull.

‘But I couldn’t let them hurt the kids,’ she stuttered, turning her eyes to Joel now, who held her in his gaze. He could feel some of the fury ebbing away at the sight of her so distraught. Could feel a kind of inevitability settling in over his bones, a sadness and an understanding of what had to be done.

‘You fuckin’ lying whore!’ Steve screamed at her, his neck straining from the force of it. Shauna shuddered and took a step back and Joel found himself moving over to her, taking the other side from Maria to help hold her up, as Shauna transferred to his shoulder and buried her face into his neck.

‘You don’t talk about the women of Jackson that way,’ Tommy was saying as Maria nodded her head. Robert, who had been watching the proceedings and taking it all in, pulled Tommy, Maria and a few of the other Councillors aside.

In the silence, Shauna continued to whimper, reaching up to hold firm to the front of Joel’s shirt. He could feel his heartbeat settling, could feel the ache as he breathed over scorched lungs. ‘I’m so scared, Joel,’ Shauna whispered to him, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.

‘I know, I gotcha,’ he said, as he wrapped both arms around her shivering form. He cast a glance at Wren, who was staring at the ground unable to move with his shoulder sustaining what Joel now saw was likely a bad break, and then at Steve, who was watching Shauna with a cold intensity that set Joel’s teeth on edge.

‘Get your fuckin’ eyes off her,’ he hissed, and Steve, instead, raised his eyes to him.

He started to shake his head, slowly. ‘You cunt-struck fool,’ he said to Joel, almost with pity. If he hadn’t been holding Shauna up, Joel would have knocked him out then and there.

Robert cleared his throat, the conference apparently over.

‘For conspiring against the town of Jackson and its citizens, you are banished,’ he said, simply and quickly. Efficient and without fanfare.

‘That’s it?’ Joel said, sputtering. ‘They could still get back in here, the fuckers know the place like the back of their hands. They’ve got plans.’

Shauna whimpered again a little in his arms. No thanks to you, Joel thought, and then felt bad about it.

Robert continued to address the men. ‘Tomorrow morning you will be taken on horseback to a destination two and a half hours ride from here. You will be dropped off with no supplies or weapons. You will not return. Should you attempt to darken our gates again you will be shot on sight. Do you understand?’

‘Just shoot us now, you fuckin’ cowards,’ Steve said, the fight receding from him so that now he was just sort of swaying in the arms of the men. ‘Don’t just let a clicker do it.’

‘The Town Council’s decision is final. You will be placed in remand until the morning. We will ride out at dawn.’

Robert nodded to his councillors and to Joel and strode off. Joel was angry but he had to admire Robert’s composure. He considered, not for the first time, that Robert was exactly the man for the job he held.

Guillaume and his men dragged Steve and Wren away. Wren was gently weeping, his legs not working so well anymore now that he was almost bent double from the pain. Shauna didn’t lift her head from Joel’s chest to watch them go. She stayed, practically glued to his hip, until Joel had no other choice but to take her home.

You’d seen the look on Joel’s face, had ushered Ellie under your arm and away from the crowd before she had to see him rip those two men apart with his teeth. He was furious, like an adder poised to strike, while Tommy stood beside him and tried to keep a level head. Rumours were already swirling about what had happened at the mess hall by the time you turned up your street with Ellie behind you, and you blocked them out. The truth would become apparent whether you got caught up in the eddying flow of it.

Your main concern was just Ellie. You did the only thing you could think to do with a stressed-out teenager in your house: you fed her. Standing at the bench with her peeling potatoes the two of you discussed absolutely nothing at all – what air conditioning used to feel like, how loud planes were in the sky, what it was like to go to the mall and spend the whole afternoon just looking at clothes – knowing that Joel would come for her.

After a long silence, while you lay the potato slices down in a pan and poured cheese over the top to bake, Ellie finally spoke.

‘Was he a bad man?’ she asked you, and you sighed.

‘I don’t know, I didn’t know him all that well.’

Ellie looked at you sharply, surprise on her features.

‘What do you mean? You’ve spent nearly every day with us.’

You felt the thud of realisation in your chest. Joel. Was Joel a bad man.

‘Ellie, why do you ask that?’ you questioned, but she turned away from you, her shoulders rounding over. You watched as she tugged on her long sleeves, even in the heat of the kitchen.

‘He gets that look…’ she said, and you found yourself nodding.

‘He would never hurt you, or people he cared about. That looked to me like a man fighting to keep his family safe.’

‘Which family?’ she asked. You put the tray gently on the bench, to take a moment, to steady yourself.

‘Ellie…’ you started, but there was the sound of the front door opening, and heavy footfalls in the hall. Ellie was already moving towards him.

‘Ellie!’ he was calling, booming into the quiet of your house.

‘In here!’ she called back, and they met in the doorway, nearly toppling over with the force in which they collided into each other, Joel holding her fast to his chest.

‘Are you alright? Are you hurt?’ he was saying, and she was shaking her head. He pulled her away from him, cradling her head in both of his hands as he studied her, from her scalp to her toes. ‘Nothin’? Nothin’?’ he asked again, and she stilled in his hands.

‘What was that, Joel?’ she asked, and you watched as his eyes slid closed, pulling her into his body again.

‘Nothin’ babygirl, it was nothin’.’ He muttered.

You swallowed harshly, something thick and hot in your throat suddenly making it hard to breathe. He finally noticed you, his brown eyes snapping to yours as you watched him cradle his daughter.

‘You alright?’ he asked you, genuine concern written over his face.

You nodded. ‘We did just fine,’ you said, quietly, but he shook his head in response.

‘No, you,’ he clarified. You weren’t sure if you were alright, actually. Weren’t sure if you could instruct every cell in your body to stop screaming for him to reach out for you, grasp your wrist so gentle in his hand and pull you into his chest to stand by Ellie, your nose tucked in under his jaw and feeling the heat of his pulse there on your skin.

You exhaled, slowly, steeled yourself. It hadn’t been anything, and it wouldn’t be. You nodded your head at him, not trusting your own voice under the strain of the moment.

He seemed satisfied, his eyes gently closing again as Ellie wriggled out from under his arms, straightening her shirt and wiping her eyes with her sleeve, trying to hide it by turning away from you both.

‘What’s gonna happen to them?’ she asked, and he sighed.

‘They’re gettin’ kicked out,’ he said, and you watched the anger bloom over her face.

‘That’s it?’ she asked, her voice rising as she worked herself up. ‘That’s bullshit! They nearly killed like 50 people!’

‘Easy,’ Joel said, raising his hands. You watched as his brows saddled.

‘Ellie, come help me set the table,’ you said, trying to divert her. She was still caught up in the indignation of it, though, like all teenagers when faced with an injustice.

‘That’s crap though, they shouldn’t be allowed to live!’

It jarred you for a second, a teenager calling for the death penalty, and you wondered for the first time in a while what the world had become. Such that it was, such that it would ever be again.

‘Enough,’ Joel said, quiet but deadly, and Ellie jutted out her lower lip, but stopped. You could see a well-worn dynamic playing out in front of you. You felt out of place in the middle of it.

‘We oughta get goin’,’ he said to her, and he looked exhausted all of a sudden, far older than his years.

‘We made dinner,’ Ellie said, angry and pouty still.

‘I won’t eat all this, I can bring some around,’ you offered, and realised you had already betrayed her, that you were supposed to campaign for them to stay. You faltered, looking between her and Joel. Did you want them to stay? Was it a good idea? To even offer? ‘Unless you…’

‘We’ve imposed enough on Teach tonight,’ Joel said, not looking at you, and you felt the sting of the rejection even though you had been expecting it, had been reminding yourself not to hope for any different.

Ellie stomped down the hall, and you heard your door swing open so hard you wouldn’t have been surprised if she wrenched it free. Joel looked at his feet, his eyes only ever flitting in your direction, his face pink.

‘You doin’ alright?’ he asked.

‘Nothing for you to feel guilty about, Joel,’ you said, quickly, and he sighed. You watched him flex his fingers once, twice, on his left hand. He pulled it up to his chest and rested it over his heart.

‘-nk you for still seein’ her,’ he said, and you shrugged.

‘I care about her, Joel. More than I care about you. Or me.’

He nodded. He knew it was true, he had always known it, and he knew he had used it against you when it suited him, when it meant he could wonder closer to you, when he could feel the heat of you gentle on his skin.

‘M’sorry…’ he started, but Ellie was calling for him from the front porch.

‘We goin’ old man OR WHAT?’ she yelled. You hid a little smirk, which Joel returned. Suddenly you were both shy, but some of the weight had shifted. You stood firmer on your two feet.

‘G’bye Joel,’ you said. ‘I can bring some of this around if you need me to…’

‘Shauna’s cookin’,’ he said, without thinking, and then suddenly thinking too much when he looked up and saw the look of shock pass over your face.

‘Oh…’ you said.

‘She ain’t good at it…’ he tried, to see if he could get the lightness back, to see if he could get you to smile. He could get through it if he just got you to smile.

You felt yourself falter. You hated it, hated the feeling and yourself for letting yourself feel it, for putting yourself in the position to.

Joel stared at you, helpless and deflating. The back of his neck ached from tension, his hands still tremoring from the adrenaline, from the fury.

‘Y’know you’re welcome over anytime,’ he said, because you were suddenly so still, your breath so light he could barely see your chest rise and fall, and he hated the idea of you over here alone, hated the idea of you missing your family, your friends, Ellie and maybe even him a little bit, if he still deserved it. He coughed, clearing his throat, trying hard to ignore the sound of Ellie pacing on your front porch. ‘I know I don’t deserve any more of your time, and I ain’t askin’ for it, I just…’

You watched as he seemed unable to decide what to do with his hands, digging them into his pockets, pulling them out again to rest on his hips, crossing them over his chest. You watched his hands because it was easier than looking at his face, easier than having to look him in the eyes while he actively, outwardly pitied you.

‘You know I had a life here before you got here, Joel,’ you said, your voice clear and unwavering. ‘You know I was here a long while before you? Don’t look at me some lost little puppy now that you’ve decided not to play with me anymore. I have a job and…friends and…enough memories of a family that loved me to fuel me ‘til my last sunset. I miss them and I love them but I’m not sad, Joel.’

You lifted the pan of potatoes and slammed them, a little more forcefully than you intended, into the oven. ‘Go home to Shauna, whatever she’s cooked up for you. You do what you need to do, Joel.’

He cared about you, he knew it then by the way he wanted to wrap you in his arms and kiss you until dawn even while you told him off. By the way he would let you yell at him every minute for the rest of his days if it just meant you were talking to him, if it meant you got firey and animated and more yourself.

He knew you were shooing him away. And he would go, in just a minute. ‘I ain’t sorry for it,’ he said, when you looked like you might have been ready to listen. ‘M’sorry for how I treated ya, for how I reacted when…everything changed. But I ain’t sorry for kissin’ ya, and I ain’t sorry for that…’ he gestured to the couch over his shoulder, and you resolutely didn’t look where he was pointing. ‘I’d do that every day of the week, sweet girl, if it weren’t for how things are…and if I thought for any second y’might let me.’

He came forward and you stood, hypnotised, unable to step back even as he lifted his hands and cradled your head in them, just as he had minutes ago with Ellie, just as you had wished, quietly, and only so that Rose could hear, that he would hold you the same.

‘I regret nothin’ about you, only how I handled it, and for that I’ll be sorry for the rest of my time.’ He stared into your eyes, not wavering until he could see that you had understood, that you had heard him. You felt tears threatening, and you were so fucking sick of crying over this man, but right then you wanted him to kiss you even though you knew, for all the heat of his gaze, he was really saying he never would again.

‘Enough now…’ you said, taking his hands from your face and settling them back down at his sides. He nodded.

‘I know, baby,’ he said, quiet as he leant forward anyway and rested his forehead on yours. ‘Enough,’ he agreed, his words mingling with the hot tears on your cheeks.

Joel stood next to Robert, Tommy and Billy at the gate. He watched, closely, as Steve and Wren were dragged into their saddles, their arms still tied behind their backs. Wren had gone eerily quiet, apparently having passed out in the night from the pain, and he looked sweaty and pale now. Joel knew that sending him beyond the gates in this state was a death sentence, but he was finding it hard to care. His mind kept turning time back to the moment Shauna’s words hit him – mess hall, gas line – and the way he had immediately thought of Ellie, and of you. He would kill these two men a thousand times over if it meant he never had to feel that again. He was getting too old for it. He couldn’t bear a new way to fail his girls.

Not his girls.

Shauna had stayed, tucked up in his bed while Joel offered to take the couch, and he rubbed at the crick in his neck now as a result. There wasn’t fanfare, just the creak of the opening gates as Guillaume and his men rounded on them.

‘Follow the river, two-three hours West, there’s some mountain ranges, some rapids. They won’t get back,’ Billy instructed, and Guillaume nodded. Steve glared at Joel from the saddle. He stared, impassively, back.

‘Town’s a shithole anyway,’ Steve said, and Joel grinned at him.

‘Yeah, but this shithole still ain’t yours,’ he replied, because he couldn’t help himself.

The horses took off, Billy pulling the gate closed behind them. Joel stood watch until the sound of the hooves ebbed away.

Robert tipped his hat to the brothers. Tommy turned back towards the stables, and Joel followed on his heels.

‘Thank God that’s over,’ Joel said, and Tommy clicked his jaw a little. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Don’t feel right,’ Tommy said, without elaborating. Joel felt the urge to roll his eyes, his emerging need to believe it was dealt with for a moment overpowering him, before he remembered Tommy had never dismissed him even when he came, panic stricken, believing there to be monsters beyond the gate.

‘Tell me,’ he said, and Tommy sighed.

‘The look on Wren’s face…’ Tommy started, and Joel interrupted almost immediately.

‘They were guilty as sin, course he looked…’

‘Were they, Joel? We didn’t exactly investigate. He looked…surprised? I don’t know, confused?’

‘He thought he’d done such a good job of stitchin’ up Shauna he never figured she’d tell…’ Joel reasoned. ‘He was surprised because she said somethin’, is all.’

‘He seem like the scheming sort, Joel? The kind of fuckin…mastermind…’

Joel thought back to Wren, the way he was quiet and liked tending the animals, the way he was kind of reedy, kind of skinny, in a way that was more than just about starving half to death on the side of a mountain and somewhat genetic, somewhat constitutional.

‘Steve, though…’

‘Yeah, Steve,’ Tommy agreed.

‘Nasty fucker.’

‘Mmm.’

The two brothers fell into step, and then into silence.

‘Don’t see why she’d throw ‘em under the bus, she ain’t like that.’ Joel said, answering his brother’s unspoken question.

Tommy looked up at his big brother, at the way Joel’s eyes were narrow, resolute, in the early morning light.

‘You’re probably right, it was just the heat of the moment, I guess,’ Tommy said. ‘So much happenin’ at once.’

Joel nodded at him, satisfied. They arrived at the stables, Tommy reaching for a pitchfork and handing it, without ceremony, to Joel.

‘Whatchu doin’ with that, brother?’ Joel asked, refusing to take what was offered to him.

‘Muck out,’ Tommy said, nodding at the stable floor. Joel backed away, his hands in the air.

‘No, sir, that ain’t my job.’

‘Ain’t mine either but we got our best men out there right now, who else is gonna do it?’

Wren would have done it, Joel thought. Wren probably had been doing it, quietly, for weeks.

‘C’mon big man, you ain’t afraid of dirt,’ Tommy said, goading his brother with the absolute certainty that it would work.

‘Ain’t the dirt I’m worried about,’ he said, but he was grinning now, and Tommy was grinning back at him. He reached over and took the pitchfork.

It had been a while since he’d done this kind of honest, grunt work, Joel thought. There was a kind of poetry in it. Maybe all this time things were just leading to the eventual inevitability that he would have to shovel shit.

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