#How Does Drug Detox Work

[heavenlybodies333]

They Always Come Back -S.R part II part I

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Detox, Day 3

Of course he wasn’t going to send you to some rehab two states away—he was too much of a federal agent and too little of a father for that. No, he wanted eyes on you. So the same hospital that saved your damn life just happened to have a narcotic outpatient treatment program. And what a coincidence: the director just happened to owe Hotch a favor.

Three sessions a week. Random drug tests. Supervised medication protocol. All of it, specifically requested by your father.

Hotch wants you to “earn back his trust.” What trust? The man never gave you any to begin with.

You’re sprawled on your bed in your dad’s house—the one he barely sleeps in, because he’s always at work or with Jack or too busy running the Bureau to remember he has a daughter bleeding out at his kitchen table.

The ceiling fan makes a gentle clicking noise. The blanket smells like dryer sheets and bleach. Like something designed to erase your scent.

There’s a knock at your door. You don’t answer. But the door opens anyway.

“Don’t you fucking knock?” you mumble.

“I did.” Spencer steps into the room like it still belongs to him. Like you still belong to him.

He’s holding a tray. Soup. Bread. Water. You roll away.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You almost overdosed.”

“And you almost choked me out with your concern,” you snap. “So let’s call it even.”

He sighs. “You know you’re not alone in this, right?”

You glare. “Oh my God. Shut the fuck up.”

Silence. Then—“I have sessions too,” he says. “Hotch thought we could alternate appointments.”

You scoff. “Cute. Co-parenting me now, are you?”

Spencer’s jaw ticks. “I don’t want to parent you,” he says. “I want to fix what I broke.”

You feel your heart twist, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you throw a pillow at the door.

“Get out.”

He does. But the tray stays.

Detox, Day 4

The day starts with a lock on the liquor cabinet.

You didn’t even try to open it—Hotch just installed it like a silent accusation. Like he’s afraid you’ll fall into another bottle the second he’s not watching. Maybe he’s not wrong.

He leaves a note on the kitchen counter before heading out to Quantico:

Be ready at 2:00. Therapy. Spencer’s driving.

Nothing signed. Nothing soft. Just instructions. Like a case file. You crumple the note and throw it away. You don’t get dressed.

When Spencer arrives, he knocks once and lets himself in, again. You’re still in one of your dad’s oversized sweatshirts and no pants, curled in the corner of the couch.

“You’re late,” you mutter.

He checks his watch. “I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. “Do I have to carry you?” he asks eventually.

You arch a brow. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” His eyes darken—but he looks away. Like touching you is still sacred. Off-limits. You hate how much that hurts.

You finally drag yourself to your feet, brushing past him on the way to your room to throw on leggings and grab your therapy binder—yes, therapy has homework, apparently—and when you return to the living room, Spencer’s standing by the door, keys in hand.

“Ready?”

“No.”

But you go anyway. The car ride is quiet. You stare out the window while he drives. You count the telephone poles. You bite your nail until it bleeds and then chew the skin beside it.

Spencer doesn’t speak until you’re two blocks from the outpatient building. “Have you thought about what you’re going to talk about today?”

You shoot him a look. “Jesus, are you quizzing me now?”

“No,” he says gently. “Just asking.”

You look back at the window. “I’m going to talk about how I hate being watched like a criminal in my own fucking house. How my dad doesn’t trust me. How the one person I thought gave a shit about me abandoned me the second things got hard.”

Silence.

“Good,” Spencer says quietly. “Start there.”

Detox, Day 6

You told yourself it would just be a walk.

Just one lap around the block. Just enough time to clear your head. Just long enough to feel like something—anything—was still yours to choose.

But your dealer lives three doors down. The universe has made it so easy. But you don’t even make it halfway down the driveway before you freeze.

Spencer’s standing in the shadow of the garage. Arms crossed. Hoodie on. Silent. Watching you like he’s been doing it all night. “You’re kidding me,” you mutter.

Spencer. Fucking Spencer.

“Seriously?” he says, voice low, tense. “After everything?”

“I needed air.”

“It’s midnight.”

“Good,” you snap, “then the disappointment won’t show on your face.”

You turn, fingers curled around your hoodie pocket. But his hand catches your wrist. “Don’t run again.”

You freeze. Your pulse jumps beneath his fingers, warm skin to warm skin, familiar in a way that hurts. “Just—don’t,” he says.

“I’m not your problem,” you whisper, voice catching on the tail end.

“You are,” he replies. “I can’t stop caring about you. Even if I should.”

The breath leaves your lungs.

“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t called me,” he says, stepping closer, eyes searching yours. “If I’d ignored it. If I’d ignored you.”

“I didn’t call you. I called muscle memory.” You yank your arm free. “I didn’t want you, I wanted someone.”

“Bullshit,” he says quietly.

You shove past him. “You should hate me,” you spit. “I’d hate me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you’re more fucked up than I thought.”

You reach the sidewalk. He doesn’t follow. But when you come back ten minutes later—empty-handed, angry, shaking—he’s still there. Waiting. Tears come hot, humiliating, unstoppable. You hate crying in front of anyone—especially him—but the sob breaks free anyway.

Spencer gathers you before the first tear even falls. He pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping fully, completely—like he remembers the exact shape of you. You fist his shirt, shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you choke.

“For what?”

“For making you see me like this.”

His lips brush your temple. “I’d rather see you like this than never see you again.”

Detox, Day 8

The boredom is worse than the withdrawals.

No phone. No laptop. No exit.

Garcia blocked everything with a parental lock that should be illegal. You tried to ask her nicely. She sent you a selfie of your own hospital intake form. And Hotch? He’s not around. You think maybe that hurts more than anything.

But of course—you’re not alone. You can’t even fucking leave without someone chaperoning you like a toddler on a leash. And Spencer—of all people—is your assigned babysitter when Hotch is spending his late nights at the BAU.

Today, he’s at the coffee table, unfolding a chessboard.

You groan. “If you say one more line of psychobabble I swear to God I will scream.”

“We could play chess,” he offers, ignoring the threat.

“Or you could take your condescending Mensa-ass brain and leave me alone.”

He smiles, faintly. “There she is.”

You scowl. “Don’t pretend to be proud of my bitchy recovery.”

“Not proud.” He sets the board up anyway. “Relieved. Anger’s better than nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He pauses, then quietly: “Because I didn’t last time.”

The room goes still. You don’t say anything until he makes his move. “Pawn to E4.”

“You’re going to regret this,” you mutter, curling your legs under you on the couch.

Spencer doesn’t flinch when you slam your pawn down in retaliation, nearly knocking it off the board. He just tilts his head, studies you the same way he does crime scenes. Like if he stares long enough, the puzzle will unlock itself.

"You always open aggressively," he says.

You roll your eyes. "Maybe I’m just trying to end the game faster so you’ll shut the hell up."

A small smile tugs at his mouth, and for a second, it almost feels normal. Like you’re back in your apartment, ordering Thai takeout and playing chess in your underwear while pretending the world didn’t exist outside of his hands on your waist.

Five moves later you’ve boxed yourself into an unwinnable position, furious at the board, at him, at the four sober days clawing at your nerves.

“Check,” he adds.

You don’t even look at the board. “Fuck your check.”

“Not quite how the game works.”

“I’m not playing anymore.” You shove back from the coffee table, the chair scraping hardwood as the chess board flies with pieces falling everywhere. The motion rattles a nearly empty mug—the chamomile Spencer made you instead of the glass of whiskey you asked for.

He stands too, blocking your retreat to the hallway. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere you’re not.”

“Running again?”

Your laugh is ugly. “What’s the alternative, Spencer? Sit here sober, saintly, and supervised?”

“No,” he says quietly. “Sit here angry. And seen. And safe.”

You hate that his voice cracks on the last word. It makes your throat burn. “M-Move,” you whisper.

“No.”

You shove his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. “Move,” you repeat, louder.

“Hit me if it helps.”

You do. Open palm, center of his chest—the same place you used to flatten your hand when you kissed him in stolen Quantico stairwells. The memory punches the breath from your lungs. His fingers curl around your wrist, gentle but immovable.

“I’m not your problem,” you say again, voice shaking.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “But you called me. You overdosed, and you called me.”

Tears prick hot behind your eyes—rage, shame, want.

“Why, sweetheart?” His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, pulse point thrumming. “Why me?”

“Because I knew you’d come.” It spills out before you can stop it. Your voice is raw. “You always come.”

Something fractures in his expression—relief, devastation, desire all at once. He steps into your space, and you don’t retreat. Your back finds the hallway wall. “Are we both making bad decisions right now?” he asks, breathless.

“Probably.”

“Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head, throat tight.

“Say it,” he pleads, nose brushing yours.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth crashes to your throat, sucking bruises you’ll have to explain to your therapist. “I should stop,” he whispers against your collarbone. “I have to stop.”

You run your hands through his soft hair, meeting his lips with yours. “No. No you don’t get to, not this time. You left,” you gasp against his lips. “You left and you let him win—”

“I know,” he says, kissing you harder. “I know, I’m sorry—” You bite his lower lip. He moans.

“I needed you.”

“I know.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing and lays you out on the couch, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. When he slides his hand under your sweatshirt, you don’t stop him. Your shorts are yanked down your thighs. He groans when he finds you bare underneath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “You’re soaked.”

“For you,” you whisper.

He kisses down your neck, your chest, between your breasts, all while his fingers press inside you, curling just right, pulling a cry from your throat.

“I love how loud you get,” he says, biting your inner thigh. “Missed that, too.”

He throws one of your legs over his shoulder. His tongue flicks against your clit and you shudder, a whimper clawing out of your throat as his fingers dig bruises into your thighs to hold you steady.

“Spence—” your voice breaks. “F-Fuck, I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice is a low growl against you. “I’m not stopping until you do.”

You come undone on his tongue, one hand yanking his hair, the other clawing at the wall, thighs trembling around his head as he fucks you through it with slow, punishing strokes of his mouth.

When you finally push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation, he rises slowly—mouth shiny, eyes wild.

“You taste the same,” he says, kissing you before you can respond. “Still fucking perfect.”

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him.

He shoves his pants down just enough, lining himself up against your slick entrance as your legs wrap around him like instinct. You’re already whining when he presses forward, slow and deliberate, filling you so deep you choke on it.

“Oh my god,” you sob. “Spence—fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants, voice shaking. “Let me take care of you. Let me make it better.”

He does—long, measured thrusts at first, letting you adjust, then faster, harder when you hook your heels behind his thighs. Sweat beads at his temple; you lick it away. Every push rocks the headboard against drywall; somewhere distant you think Hotch will notice dents, but Spencer cups your jaw, forces focus to him.

You sob against his palm, and he lets you speak. “I missed you,” you cry. “Fuck, Spencer—no one’s ever—Jesus—no one fucks me like you.”

“That’s right.” His thrusts get harder. Sloppier. “Only me. Always me.”

You can’t answer. You’re too close. Your back arches as you clench around him, a strangled moan tearing from your throat. “You’re close,” he pants, grinding into you with precision now, every roll of his hips hitting something devastatingly perfect. “I can feel it—fuck—come for me, sweetheart.”

You dig your heels into his back, pulling him deeper, closer, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers tight, grounding you.

He follows with a moan punched from his chest, hips jerking forward once, twice—then stilling as he spills inside you with a breathless, "fuck."

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing—ragged and uneven. You can see Spencer looking up at the ceiling with tight shut eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs.

“You always say that,” you whisper, lips trembling. “And then you do it again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Good.”

He leans his forehead to your shoulder. “I need you to stay clean,” he says.

You nod. “I need you to not leave again.”

He kisses the nape of your neck. “I won’t.”

You let him hold you even though you didn’t believe him, because love is the cruelest drug of all.

a/n: I spend too much time with limerence

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[brookghaib-blog]

Almost Loved - II

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 5,9k

Warning: Bulimia, eating-disorder, eat-shaming (?), drug addiction

--

Y/N lay still in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Her limbs felt heavy, as if her body had stayed up crying even though her eyes hadn’t shed a single tear. Beside her, Serena stirred with a soft groan, arm flopping across the covers.

“Ugh,” Serena mumbled. “Why does sangria feel like betrayal in the morning?”

Y/N gave a faint smile, a ghost of amusement that never made it to her eyes. “You had three glasses.”

“Four.” Serena blinked slowly, sitting up. Her messy bun hung sideways like it had lost the will to live. “Because someone decided to trauma dump at midnight and ruin my detox week.”

Y/N winced, half laughing. “Sorry.”

Serena paused. Looked at her.

“Hey…” she said more softly. “I’m kidding. Kinda. But also… not really.” She leaned against the headboard, pulling her knees up. “We need to talk about yesterday.”

Y/N groaned and rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. “No, we don’t.”

“Y/N.”

“Serena.”

“I swear to God, if you ‘I’m fine’ me—”

“I am fine.”

Serena stared at her for a long, long second. Then she got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of too-hot coffee, handing one silently to Y/N. She didn’t speak until she’d sipped enough to burn the roof of her mouth.

“You saw him, Y/N,” she said finally. “Bob. At the grocery store. After a year and a half. And you ran. That doesn’t scream fine to me.”

Y/N exhaled hard through her nose, fingers tightening around the mug.

Serena waited.

“I didn’t run,” Y/N said quietly. “I… retreated. Gracefully.”

“You dropped your basket, almost tripped over a display, and disappeared like a cartoon ghost.”

Y/N laughed, but it broke too fast, cracking in her throat. She looked away, blinking fast at the ceiling.

Serena’s voice softened. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Y/N said immediately. Then, after a second: “Not really. I mean—what is there to say? He was there. He looked… I don’t know. Healthy? Taller? More real than I remembered. I was flirting with someone else, and then boom, he’s just… there. Looking like himself. Like nothing ever happened.”

Serena’s face darkened slightly. “He disappeared on you, Y/N. He ghosted you. No text. No call. Just vanished like some cliché bad boy in a Lifetime movie.”

Y/N gave a dry smile. “Yeah. And I still felt like I was the one who did something wrong.”

She took another sip of coffee, hands trembling faintly now. “You know what’s stupid? I laughed last night thinking about how we met. That party. Him running back to ask for my number after we said goodbye. It was so… stupid and adorable. He was nervous. I remember thinking he was going to trip over his own shoes just to get back to me.”

Serena was quiet.

Y/N looked down into her mug. “I used to love him so much. Not the kind of love you talk about at brunch. The kind you… whisper to yourself at 3 a.m. when everything’s quiet. I think I still do. A little.”

Serena reached over and rested a hand on her arm. “Y/N…”

“No, it’s okay.” Y/N shook her head, trying to smile, though her chin wobbled. “It’s fine. Really. It’s been over a year. I just—I thought I was over it. And then I saw him, and it felt like my lungs stopped working. Like no time had passed at all.”

She pressed her thumb hard into the seam of the mug, as if grounding herself there.

Serena’s voice was gentle. “Do you still want him to explain? Or do you just want to move on?”

Y/N looked away for a long time. Her voice came barely above a whisper.

“I think I just want to not feel like this anymore.”

Silence filled the space between them, thick and heavy.

“I hate that he still gets to live in my head rent-free,” Y/N continued. “I hate that I saw him and my first instinct was to run because I knew my legs would give out if I stayed. I hate that I still care about what he thinks of me. If I look different. If I still laugh the same.”

She stared at the wall like she was trying to burn through it. “I wish he’d just stayed gone. Because now I know what he looks like happy. And I wasn’t there.”

Serena didn’t have any words. She just moved closer and wrapped her arms around her best friend, letting Y/N bury her face into her shoulder, finally letting a tear fall that she didn’t try to wipe away.

It rolled down quietly and disappeared into the soft cotton of Serena’s t-shirt.

"Come have some breakfast, that body ain't going to keep iself looking good with no food." Serena pulled her out of the bed taking her to the kitchen.

“Okay, but you do remember you have a date tonight, right?”

Serena’s voice came out halfway between a warning and a challenge as she stood at the kitchen counter, buttering toast like it was an Olympic sport. Y/N, still in her oversized hoodie and mismatched socks, sat at the table nursing her second cup of coffee like it owed her emotional stability.

Y/N blinked. “Date?”

Serena turned around slowly, dramatically, her face unreadable. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing the thing,” Serena said, pointing the butter knife like a wand. “The thing where you completely forget you agreed to a dinner with Toby and now you’re pretending like it wasn’t real.”

Y/N groaned, dragging her palms down her face. “God. I forgot. I mean—I didn’t forget forget. I just… emotionally forgot.”

“Emotionally forgot,” Serena repeated. “That’s new. I’ll add it to the glossary of avoidance tactics.”

Y/N shot her a look. “He’s too perfect, Serena.”

“That’s literally the point, babe.”

“No, but like… perfect perfect. He has a 401K. And indoor plants that aren’t dead. And he folds his laundry.”

Serena sat down across from her, raising a brow. “Are you about to spiral because a man uses fabric softener?”

Y/N slumped dramatically, laying her head on the table. “I can’t do this. I’m not ready to be someone's grown-up girlfriend. I’m still emotionally on the floor of a party in 2022, eating Cheetos and telling people Bob had ‘potential.’”

Serena snorted. “Okay, that was actually 2024, but go off.”

Y/N groaned louder into the table.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Serena said, reaching to gently tap her arm. “Toby is kind. He’s funny. He’s not running some underground science project in a secret lab. And he’s very into you. He told me he already picked the wine he’s going to order tonight.”

Y/N peeked up, forehead creased. “He picked wine? Is he… okay?”

Serena laughed. “I told you, he’s a tech guy. Everything is pre-programmed.”

Y/N sighed and sat back up, hugging the coffee mug again. “It’s just… not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“That I’m going on this date with a guy who’s doing everything right, and I’m still stuck thinking about the guy who did everything wrong.”

The air shifted. Serena’s smirk faded into something softer, more protective.

“I keep comparing them,” Y/N admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just Toby, but like… every guy I meet. No one makes me feel like Bob did. Like the first time I saw him across that bar. Like that stupid run back to get my number.”

She laughed bitterly. “You remember that? He looked like a lost Golden Retriever in a denim jacket.”

“He was a lost Golden Retriever,” Serena said, fondness and exasperation in equal parts. “But yeah, I remember. He ran into a chair and still managed to flirt.”

Y/N shook her head, tears stinging but not falling. “And now I’m supposed to just… meet someone new. Pretend I’m fine. Put on makeup and smile and act like I didn’t see the ghost of my ex-lover next to the ravioli display at the grocery store.”

Serena gave her the gentlest eye-roll known to mankind. “You make everything sound like a French tragedy. Y/N, you’re not cheating on Bob by going on a date. You’re trying to move on. And please, for the love of God, let this man kiss you if it goes well.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Serena took a bite of toast. “Toby has been thirsting for you since the charity mixer. You think he asked me for your number because he needed help debugging code?”

Y/N grimaced. “I don’t know, Serena. It just feels weird. I haven’t done… that… with anyone since Bob.”

Serena softened again. “I know, babe. And I’m not saying jump into bed with someone to prove something. I just don’t want you to stay frozen in place. You deserve to feel something again. Even if it’s awkward flirting and mediocre tiramisu.”

Y/N groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “This is gonna suck.”

“It won’t,” Serena said. “He picked a really nice place. There’s a candle chandelier. The pasta portions are disrespectfully small. It’s very datey.”

“Great,” Y/N mumbled. “Tiny carbs and forced chemistry.”

Serena leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. “Fake it till you make it. Or at least until dessert.”

Y/N let out a weak laugh, staring into her coffee cup as if it held answers.

“Okay but, real talk,” Serena said, swirling the last of her orange juice. “I never got it.”

Y/N raised a brow, still slumped over her coffee like it was her life support. “Got what?”

“You. Him.” Serena gestured vaguely, as if the name “Bob” was some cursed entity she didn’t dare say too loud. “I mean, yeah, he was sweet. Kind of like an emotionally constipated lumberjack with a tragic backstory. But I never understood how you got so hooked.”

Y/N blinked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Serena said slowly, picking at the crust of her toast like she was trying to avoid a landmine, “You’re you. You’re like… color and noise and sparkles. And he was like if a cardigan came to life and forgot how to smile.”

Y/N burst out laughing, snorting into her coffee. “Oh my God, Serena.”

“I’m serious!” Serena grinned, leaning forward. “He was always hovering like he was scared to touch anything. All broody and apologetic, like he broke a vase just by existing.”

Y/N tilted her head back, laughing hard now. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m not!” Serena insisted, trying not to laugh herself. “He was sweet. Like, sweet-sweet. But you—Y/N, you fell hard. I just never knew why.”

Y/N sighed, her smile fading into something softer, almost guilty. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug like it might keep her grounded. “Because he didn’t treat me like I was made of barbed wire.”

Serena blinked, taken off guard.

“Everyone before him either wanted to fix me,” Y/N continued, voice quieter now, “or they wanted to… own the mess. Wear it like a badge. Like, ‘Look at me, dating the hot disaster.’ But Bob…” She trailed off, smile turning wistful. “Bob saw me crying in a parking lot the second time we met and just… sat with me. Didn’t ask me what was wrong. Didn’t push. Just sat there.”

Serena didn’t say anything, letting her speak.

“He treated me like real good,” Y/N whispered. “Like he couldn’t believe I was even looking at him. And maybe that made it easier to believe I was good.”

The silence that followed was soft, a rare peace between the laughter and sarcasm that usually filled their mornings.

Then Serena tilted her head, brow raised. “Okay… but also. Be honest. Was it just the sex?”

Y/N choked on her coffee so hard she slapped her chest like it owed her an apology. “SERENA!”

“I knew it,” Serena declared, triumphant. “I knew there was a ‘he ruins me emotionally but also rearranges my organs’ layer to this!”

“Oh my God, shut up—”

“No, you shut up,” Serena laughed, pointing at her. “I lived with you during that era. I heard the playlists. I heard the walls. I had to sleep with a pillow over my head on Thursdays.”

Y/N covered her face in horror. “Please let me die.”

“No, no. I want you to live in the truth,” Serena said dramatically. “Because if you’re gonna be emotionally haunted by a man, he better at least have made your spine see stars.”

Y/N groaned. “Okay, yes, he was—he was great. Incredible. Like… criminally intuitive. It was like he had some kind of sixth sense for what would make me melt. I don’t know if it was a power or just talent, but—”

“—this is a man who barely talked for 3 hours when we all went to brunch to meet him and you’re telling me he used powers to give you the holy spirit in bed,” Serena deadpanned.

Y/N howled. “You’re the worst person alive.”

“I’m sorry, but I needed to know what I was fighting against here,” Serena said. “If I’m gonna help you emotionally detach, I have to understand what kind of… voodoo wand he was packing.”

“STOP!” Y/N shouted, beet red. “I can’t talk about this anymore or I’m going to text him.”

Serena raised both hands. “No texting the ex-superboyfriend. That way lies chaos.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N muttered, cheeks still burning, “Toby’s gonna have to perform miracles to get me to forget that.”

Serena leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Then let’s pray Toby brings holy water and a decent jawline to dinner.”

Y/N buried her head in her arms again. “I hate you.”

“You love me. I make your trauma digestible.”

--

Y/N had tried. She really had.

She'd showered twice that afternoon, changed outfits four times, and let Serena give her a pep talk while doing her makeup. Serena had picked out the dress — a dark green slip that hugged her waist and left her shoulders bare — and had styled her hair while they both tried not to mention the ghost in the room. Or rather, the ghost in the Watchtower.

“You’re hot,” Serena had reminded her, squeezing her shoulders in the mirror. “You’re funny. You’re too good to be crying about some emotionally-unstable superhuman who ghosted you.”

And Y/N had nodded. Smiled. Said she was fine.

Now, seated across from Toby in the golden glow of a candlelit restaurant, she was doing her best to act fine.

The place was upscale — softly lit chandeliers, jazz murmuring from overhead speakers, white linen napkins and wine glasses that caught the light like crystal. It was all very… composed. Expensive. Controlled.

Toby looked the part too. Crisp white shirt, blazer, a silver watch that glinted every time he raised his wine glass. He was charming in the kind of way that came from practice — not sleazy, just… polished. Pre-approved. Like someone who had a laminated checklist of first-date behaviors and was determined to hit them all.

He'd picked a bold red wine, one of the best on the menu, and ordered it without blinking at the price. She tried to laugh at his jokes. She tried to smile when he told stories about his job in software development, about conferences and deadlines and venture capitalists she couldn’t quite bring herself to care about. But her laugh came a half-second late. Her smile felt pasted on. Her body sat rigid, her eyes flickering to the shadows between flickering candles as if expecting someone else to appear there.

And underneath it all, she was starving.

She hadn’t eaten all day. Not really. Just a piece of toast in the morning and coffee. She didn’t even realize how empty she felt until the food came — hand-rolled pasta in a rich cream sauce, soft warm bread, olives swimming in oil and herbs. Her stomach had practically sung.

She tried to eat slowly at first, like the women at the surrounding tables — careful bites, delicate gestures — but after the second glass of wine and a little more comfort, she let go just enough to enjoy herself. She dipped bread in the sauce, let the flavors melt in her mouth, even licked a little off her fork, trying to soothe something that wasn’t just physical hunger.

Toby was in the middle of explaining his favorite vacation spot in Capri when he paused, watching her with an amused smile.

“You’re really going at it, huh?” he said, laughing.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. “It’s just cute. You’re not exactly shy with your food.”

Her fork hovered in the air.

“I mean, I like a girl who eats,” he added quickly, clearly trying to make it a compliment. “But, you know, moderation is sexy too. Leave a little mystery.”

Y/N froze.

Her heart didn’t shatter — not like glass. It contracted. Twisted in on itself.

She looked down at her plate — half-finished, sauce smeared. She suddenly saw her bite marks in the bread. The little drop of wine on her napkin. Her shoulders tensed.

“Oh,” she said quietly, placing her fork down.

Toby didn’t notice her change. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

“I mean, if we’re being honest,” he said with a chuckle, “you’re already gorgeous. But if you just trimmed a little, like, this much—” He held his fingers an inch apart. “You’d be lethal, you know what I mean?”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. The wine in her glass was suddenly sour.

He kept talking, unaware, laughing again at his own brilliance. Something about keto. Or intermittent fasting. Something someone on TikTok told him once. His words blurred into background noise, like a TV left on in another room.

She nodded slowly, though she wasn’t listening anymore. She wasn’t even in the restaurant.

She was somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

She was in a small, quiet diner at 2 a.m., with Bob across from her in a threadbare hoodie, his hair a mess. They’d ordered pancakes and eggs because it was the only place still open after their fourth date — after she told him about the worst parts of her past. And Bob, instead of recoiling or turning awkward, had reached across the table with a kind of cautious reverence and said, “You’ve survived so much.”

And then he asked if he could steal a fry.

She remembered the way his eyes had lit up when she laughed, like he’d just heard the sound for the first time.

Y/N swallowed hard.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said suddenly, her voice distant. “I think I need to go home.”

Toby blinked, mid-sentence. “Wait—what? We haven’t even gotten dessert—”

“I know, I just…” She stood, already pulling her bag over her shoulder, trying not to cry. “Thank you. For dinner.”

He said something as she walked away — maybe asked if he said something wrong, maybe tried to smooth it over with another compliment. She didn’t hear it. She was already outside, into the humid night air, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like thunderclaps in her ears.

She didn’t cry right away. Not until she got home. Not until she stepped out of her dress in the silence of her bedroom and stared at herself in the mirror, cheeks flushed from wine and humiliation.

Moderation is sexy too. Trim a little. Leave a little mystery.

She let out a breath like it hurt. Her reflection blurred.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

--

Tampa, Florida - Four dates in

The diner was almost empty, save for the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter and the crackling of an old jukebox playing something faint and bluesy. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the air smelled of syrup and burnt coffee. Outside, the world was sleeping. But inside, it was just the two of them — Y/N and Bob — tucked into a red leather booth with a plate of pancakes between them and a quiet that felt strangely sacred.

Y/N was curled slightly forward, stirring her coffee with a shaky spoon, her eyes flickering between the sugar packets and Bob’s steady gaze. He had noticed her hesitation when the food arrived — how she’d only pushed a few eggs around her plate, how she’d looked at the pancakes like they were made of glass.

“You okay?” he had asked, softly, not pushing. Just noticing.

She took a breath. It rattled slightly in her chest. Her lips trembled with the beginning of words she didn’t know if she could say out loud.

“You know I used to like… not eat,” she murmured finally, not looking at him. “I mean—I did. But only sometimes. And when I did, I’d… make myself sick after.”

Bob’s smile faded. His posture shifted, leaning in just slightly, his brows furrowing with quiet concern. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t flinch.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers trembling around the spoon.

“It started when I was seventeen. My mom had this way of always commenting on what I ate. Or didn’t eat. It wasn’t even mean, just... little things, you know? Like, ‘Are you really going to finish that?’ or ‘That dress looked better before dinner.’ I didn’t even realize how much it got into my head.”

She laughed once — dry and humorless.

“By the time I was in college, I had it down to a routine. I could pretend I was fine in public. Smile, drink a smoothie, skip meals, throw up in clean bathrooms with scented candles, so there's no suspicion. You’d be amazed at how good you can get at pretending.”

Bob stayed silent, his eyes gentle but focused entirely on her. He wasn’t afraid of her truth. He wasn’t shrinking away.

“I haven’t told many people,” she said, her voice lower now. “I’ve been trying to get better. For a couple years now. But eating around people still makes me anxious. I overthink every bite. I wonder if they’re watching. Judging. Even if they’re not.”

She looked up at him then, as if bracing herself for the change. For the shift in his eyes. For the sudden distance.

But Bob didn’t move. Not away from her.

Instead, he picked up his fork and cut a piece of pancake from the middle of the plate, loaded it with syrup, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth in one go. A huge bite.

Y/N blinked.

Bob chewed exaggeratedly, bulging his cheeks out like a chipmunk before swallowing and letting out a dramatic sigh. “God, that’s good,” he groaned, smacking his lips. “I mean, life-changing. Like... Michelin star stuff.”

Y/N stared at him, confused — then let out a startled laugh. He grinned, syrup at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, casually reaching for another bite, “you could eat this entire plate by yourself and I would still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And I’d help you eat it. Happily.”

Her laugh wavered, turning into something wetter. Something deeper. Her eyes stung.

“You don’t have to say that,” she whispered, trying to keep her composure.

“I’m not saying it to be nice,” Bob said, his voice softening again. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He looked down at her hands — still gripping the coffee cup — then gently placed his own over them.

“I know I’m not perfect. I’ve got... my own monsters. Big ones. But if you ever feel like they’re too loud,” he said, voice just above a whisper, “you can tell me. Even if you don’t want me to fix it. Even if you just need someone to listen.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight.

“And if you ever feel like eating three stacks of pancakes in front of me,” he added, the teasing lilt returning to his voice, “I promise you — I will never, ever judge you. Even if you unhinge your jaw like a snake. You’ll still be the prettiest person in the room.”

She giggled, half through a sniffle. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “I’m serious. You could gain thirty pounds and I’d still carry you everywhere.”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” Bob insisted, puffing his chest. “I’m like super strong, remember? I could lift you if you were made of cement and regret. You think a little ice cream weight’s gonna scare me?”

Y/N finally let out a real laugh, leaning back against the booth. Her face still damp, her eyes still red — but something had lightened in her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time: safe. Seen.

Weird really. How a battle has been inside of her for years and a boy this chaotic had already made her feel so good about it.

It had to be real love.

--

Bob's pov

Bob sat on the end of his bed, elbows braced on his thighs, staring down at his hands. His knuckles were raw again. The skin peeled at the edges where he’d been picking at them without realizing. Nervous habit. The kind Y/N used to catch and gently stop.

He felt her everywhere, even now. Like she was stitched into the seams of his life.

Another knock.

Yelena didn’t wait for a response—never did. She slipped inside like a breeze of sarcasm and intuition.

“I brought tea,” she said, holding up a steaming mug. “Because you look like the tragic ghost of a dead poet.”

Bob blinked at her. “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Don’t care.” She shoved the mug into his hands and sat across from him. “Talk.”

He hesitated. She didn’t blink.

“Who is she?” she asked, softer now. “The one Walker said has you all… scrambled.”

Bob exhaled, deep and cracked, like the breath had been trapped under a mountain.

“Y/N,” he said. “Her name’s Y/N.”

He paused. The name tasted like sunlight and ash.

“We met at a club in Florida. One of those places where everything smells like too much perfume and spilled rum. She was with her friends—girls’ night. I was tagging along with some guys I barely knew. I was already spiraling then. Small stuff, pills mostly. Not that anyone could tell.”

He swallowed hard.

“She was radiant,” he continued. “Black dress, laughing at something her friend said at the bar. I kept staring like an idiot. She caught me, smiled, and waved. That wave... It felt like a lifeline.”

Yelena tilted her head, listening.

“I eventually walked up to her, nervous as hell. I wasn’t good at talking to people then. Especially not women like her. But she didn’t make me feel like a creep or a loser. She smiled like she saw something in me that was good. And that terrified me.”

His voice dropped, quiet and hoarse.

“She gave me her number. We texted the next day. And I remember being more excited about her reply than I’d been about anything in years.”

Bob sat back, eyes clouded, as memories poured like a slow leak from his chest.

“She was… warm,” he said. “The kind of person who’d talk to the barista like they were an old friend. Who would bake banana bread on random Tuesdays and always burned the edges but insisted it was better that way.”

Yelena smirked faintly.

“She talked a lot, especially in the mornings. I liked that. She had this way of waking up and instantly being in full story mode—telling me her dreams, or what she wanted to do that weekend, or what new podcast she was obsessed with. It was chaotic, but it was… home.”

He looked away. Pain flickered in his jaw.

“And I was high for most of it.”

Yelena’s smile faded.

“She never knew,” Bob said. “I kept it together just enough. Told her I was anxious. That I had insomnia. I was good at hiding the tremors and the dips in energy. I always wore long sleeves. Told her I didn’t like the cold.”

He laughed bitterly.

“I was a walking lie.”

“But did you love her?” Yelena asked.

Bob’s eyes snapped to hers.

“I still love her,” he said, voice cracking. “That’s the worst part.”

He stood up, pacing now, restless with the memory.

“She used to make pancakes on Saturdays. Bad pancakes. Burnt, lumpy ones. And I ate every bite because she looked so proud. We’d spend entire Sundays just lying in bed, her feet always cold, shoved between my thighs while she played music and asked me about my favorite songs.”

His chest heaved, eyes rimmed red.

“She asked me once if I was happy. Just out of the blue. She was brushing her teeth. I said yes. But I wasn’t. Because every day I spent with her made the guilt worse. She thought she had this decent guy. And I was using behind her back.”

He paused.

“Once, she brought me soup when I was dope sick. I told her I had the flu. She held my hand while I threw up and kept saying I was the strongest person she knew. And all I could think was, if she knew the truth, she’d leave me right now.”

Yelena said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

“I kept trying to get clean,” he added. “Not for me—for her. But the more I tried, the more I hated myself when I failed. The last few months, I got mixed up with a really bad crowd. Dealers. Violence. She had no idea. She thought I was working longer hours.”

He clenched his fists.

“And then one night, I overdosed.”

The room fell still.

“I didn’t tell her. She didn’t even know I was in the hospital. I just… blocked her. Told her I didn’t want her anymore. And then I disappeared.”

Yelena exhaled slowly. “And now she’s back in your life.”

“Not really,” he said, eyes hollow. “I saw her at the store. She saw me, and she ran. And I can’t even blame her.”

Yelena stood and walked over, her voice gentler than he’d ever heard.

“You think she wouldn’t have stayed if she knew?”

“I know she would’ve tried,” Bob whispered. “But I would’ve dragged her down with me. And I couldn’t do that. Even if it meant losing the only good thing I ever had.”

A long silence passed.

“Do you want her back?” she asked.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just stared out the window at the stars.

“I want to be the man she thought I was,” he said. “That’s all.”

Yelena stood by the window now, arms crossed, watching the dark skyline of the city through the reinforced Watchtower glass. The silence between them had thickened like fog, dense with things unsaid.

“You ever think this isn’t just a coincidence?” she asked quietly.

Bob didn’t move from where he sat. “What?”

“Seeing her again. After all this time. Not in Florida. Not in a memory. But here. New city. New life. You — sober. Her — still breathing the same air as you.”

He flinched.

Yelena turned to face him, voice more insistent now. “You don’t think that maybe… maybe the universe is handing you one of those cheesy second chances people pray for?”

Bob scoffed, bitter and tired. “She ran when she saw me, Yelena.”

“People run when they’re scared.”

“She’s scared of me.”

Yelena moved closer, unfazed by the rawness in his voice. “Or scared of what you meant to her. People don’t run unless there’s something still burning in their chest.”

Bob looked up at her, eyes glassy.

“You don’t get it,” he said, each word grinding out of him. “She didn’t leave me. I left her. She believed I was good. Kind. Worth something. And I ripped that illusion from her the moment I disappeared without explanation. She doesn’t owe me a single second of her time. And she definitely doesn’t owe me forgiveness.”

Yelena sighed, sitting beside him.

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But you owe yourself the chance to try.”

He was quiet again. Still. His whole body felt like it was made of stone.

“I used to fantasize about running into her one day,” he murmured. “In the early months of rehab. When the cravings hit so hard I wanted to claw my skin off. When I thought about using again just so I could feel human for five minutes.”

His hands shook slightly in his lap. He didn’t hide it.

“I’d imagine her seeing me all clean, apologizing, holding her hand, telling her everything. And she’d look at me the way she used to. Like I was worth it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, voice cracking.

“But that’s not how it happened.”

Yelena watched him quietly.

“I saw her face when she recognized me. It wasn’t joy. It was pain. Like seeing a ghost she’d buried and hoped never to see again.”

“Maybe she was just shocked,” Yelena said gently. “She probably thought you were dead.”

Bob flinched again.

“Maybe I was,” he whispered. “And maybe the version of me she loved still is.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, fingers pulling at the fabric of his jeans.

“I’m not hiding anymore. I’m sober. And it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But that doesn’t erase what I did. She spent months — years — not knowing why I left. Thinking it was her. Or worse, thinking she wasn’t enough. And the truth is, she was too much — too good, too bright, too patient.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes cast downward.

“I don’t deserve her. Not after the hell I put her through. Not when I let her love a lie.”

Yelena was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, she said, “But you’re not lying anymore.”

Bob looked up at her, expression hollow.

“Doesn’t matter. Truth or not… some things don’t get to be fixed.”

He stood, walking slowly to the window where she had stood before. He leaned a hand against the cool glass, staring at the city lights below. Somewhere out there, Y/N was breathing. Existing. Living a life that no longer had room for him.

“I saw her with Walker,” he said, his voice barely audible. “And maybe that’s good. Maybe she’ll get the life she wanted, she looks like she moved on just fine.”

Yelena stood behind him, her voice softer now. “Is that what you really want? Walker had a wholw family drama going on...I wouldn't say that's exactly a great option.”

Bob didn’t turn around.

“I want her to be okay,” he said. “Even if it kills me.”

A beat of silence passed. And then —

“But you miss her.”

He nodded. “Every damn day.”

The ache inside him pulsed like a bruise that never faded. He thought of her laugh, her late-night texts, the warmth of her skin under his fingers, the stupid inside jokes, the scent of her coconut shampoo, the way she danced barefoot in his apartment while brushing her teeth. He remembered it all in excruciating detail.

And he remembered the silence she was met with when he vanished.

He thought of all the versions of himself he tried to be — the lover, the liar, the addict, the coward — and how none of them were enough to hold onto her.

“I had the whole world in my hands,” Bob said, his voice breaking. “And I dropped it.”

Yelena stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Then maybe it’s time to pick something up again,” she whispered. “Even if it’s just the truth.”

But Bob said nothing.

Because in his heart — beneath the layers of sobriety, regret, and bone-deep yearning — he still believed that redemption was something meant for someone else.

[sageivyreads]

cat nip detox

Ghoap x street kitty!hybrid fem!reader

introduction: hello! this is part 4 of Kitty! i’m honestly not sure if there will be any more parts as i don’t have any more ideas as of yet :/ sorry if future me leaves u on a cliffhanger forever. there is another puppy reader part in the works though! no timeframe on that yet so let’s just get into what’s here today ;) basically gross simon and icky johnny who plays into it.. so yeah. can u tell i like choke holds. abuse of commas 😓😓 partially proofread. 4.3k words. previous part and masterlist

contains/warnings: nonconsensual groping & touching, yucky descriptions of spit, dubcon oral sex (reader does want the sex to an extent but there’s something else she doesn’t consent to), 2 spanks, coercion & manipulation, kidnapping, drugging, barely there threesome, ‘Kitty’ used as nickname for reader, negative self talk.

A heaviness is lifted from your shoulders when Simon leaves. You may have interacted more with him, but not many were positive. He was unpredictable, rude, and trapped you inside his house, all while seeming to hate you.

You appreciate Johnny a bit more. He’s nice to you. He’s a bit of light streaming from a window into Simon’s cold apartment of a heart. You don’t know why he’s keeping you here.

Johnny seems to like you. Maybe it’s just a relationship thing, but Simon will deal with you until Johnny gets bored. And you know the deal, then you’ll be tossed to the streets again. It’s not new.

At least they seem to be somewhere around middle class. They have enough to spare. You’ll stay a few more days, stock up on some essentials, and you’ll be on your way. They can’t kick you out if you’ve already left.

So, you let him tug you to the bathroom, willingly go along with him using that horrid disinfectant on your arm, and bandage you back up with some clean gauze. You let Johnny pull you into his side once Simon’s left, turn on the television, and tuck your head against his shoulder.

You struggle to stay awake, the only fuel you have being fear and rage at this whole situation. At yourself. How could you have ended up here?

You know better.

You know you’ll get out of this. You chose to be reckless, and now you’ll choose to be smart about it.

He smells nice. Like pine tar. Warmth.

A bonfire, only you’re just a little bit too close.

Your nose easily falls into place into the indent behind his jaw. Your breaths wash over his collarbone. You can hear the dulled roars of a crowd, and every once in a while, his muscles tense as they cheer.

You only get more tired. You sit up a little more, side propped against Johnny's, hand coming up to cover your mouth as you yawn.

You see him smile in the corner of your eye, and he still is when you turn to him.

“Need t’be put down fer a nap?”

You shake your head, ignoring the urge to roll your eyes. His head turns back to the screen briefly, noting the beginning of half-time, before taking your hand in one of his hardened ones and beginning to stand.

“Well, how about we go wash up?”

Just the motion of standing makes you nauseous, stomach turning lin waves as you resist the urge to gag. You quickly brace your free hand on the couch to help prop yourself up, blinking rapidly to help with the dizziness.

“We?” you ask, confused.

His smile turns more impish, and he tugs you closer as he starts pulling you towards the bedroom.

“Yes, we. Not shy, are ya? Jus’ to conserve water, of course. Bills are expensive these days, y’know?”

No, you don’t know. You don’t remember the last time you’ve even seen a bill in your name. You don’t know the prices considering you don’t- can’t pay them, but you’ve sure heard a lot of people with a home complain about bills.

You wish you had that issue.

You also don’t know how he hasn’t realized you’re not quite the outgoing type. No, he knows.

No response is given.

Once he’s brought you to the bathroom attached to their shared bedroom, he reaches for you. You can’t help the instinctive step you take back, and you almost feel bad when you see the wounded look on his face.

“Ye okay, Kitty?” he questions, brows furrowing slightly. Like he hasn’t trapped you in his home. Like he hasn’t started treating you like his girlfriend. Like it wouldn’t make total sense for you to be unsettled.

“Yeah, I’m just, uh…”

He sighs through his nose, pulling back the curtains of the tub.

“Listen, how about you get in first, and I’ll keep my eyes closed the whole time. Deal?” he adds, pushing his hand out towards you.

Whatever it takes.

You take his hand and let him pull you closer as he turns the faucet on. He switches the water to be directed through the shower before he lets the two of you switch places, stepping back to be behind you. You don’t know if he’s turned around or closed his eyes, but you don’t think you want to.

Trying to be quick with the removal of your clothes isn’t easy when your hands are trembling. You shudder violently when you step under the warm water, squeezing your eyes shut as you stay facing the wall.

“I-I’m in,” you breathe shakily, hugging your arms.

“Alrigh’. Gonna step in behind ya. Don’t rip ma head off.”

You hear the rustle of clothes, ears twitching. Your tail wraps around your thigh as you listen to him step into the shower behind you, flinching slightly as you feel him place a hand on your back.

“There ya are,” he murmurs, tucking his chin over your shoulder and grasping your side with his hand. You’re familiar with this feeling now. He’s not quite pressed up against you, but you can feel the warmth of his chest. You ignore the way your head naturally tilts to one side to make space for him.

“What’s got you so skittish today?” he asks, as if this is new behavior from you. As if he isn’t the one who trapped you in his home.

“Just… not used to this, is all. Want to go back outside.”

“Soon,” is all he tells you, and you don’t know if you believe him anymore. You want to.

He holds you carefully, tilting your head back to keep your hair out of the water as he reaches around you to grab men’s body wash. Compared to the 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner next to it, it looks almost ornate.

His rough hands are surprisingly gentle with you. Even as they scrape against your skin, he’s slow and leisurely with the way he washes you. Around the slopes of your shoulders, down your sides, up your chest. You ignore the way his hands unnecessarily cup around your breasts. Over the curve of your stomach and dipping between your thighs.

You choke on saliva as he does, hand jerking to grip his wrist.

“Easy, Kitty,”

His hand stays strong.

He isn’t looking to give you pleasure. Instead, his fingers swerve around your clit and down your slit to ‘clean’ you. You wish you could enjoy it. Wish you could lean into his touch and-

No.

“Jus’ washin’ you.”

“I can wash myself,” your voice tremors, chest rising up and down a little harsher.

“Ah’ know you can.” he huffs, leaning his cheek against your jaw from behind. His hand leaves you, briefly, squeezing more soap into his hands before he begins on your legs.

You’re not brave enough to fight him. Not today. You don’t want bad blood, you just want peace. You can only have peace if you leave.

He washes the entirety of your body before moving onto himself. Avoiding your hair. It makes sense to you, considering they’d just done it the other day. While you were unconscious. While you have no recollection.

What else could they have done?

The thought makes you shiver.

You quickly shift your thoughts to something more digestible. He cleanses his hair as though he’s a dog, scrubbing aggressively and shaking his head to send excessive water flying all over the bathroom as he turns the faucet off. You both step out.

He wraps up in a towel and turns to clean himself, seemingly unconcerned with the fact you can fully see his ass. When the rustling of him putting on clothes gets loud enough to cover the sound of their sink cabinet creaking open, you manage to snag a few pads from ripping open a brand new box.

You’d seen them earlier when Johnny was giving you a new bandage for your arm. You tried not to ruminate on questioning why these grown men had period product, women’s clothes, women’s underwear-

Maybe they had an open relationship? No, you would’ve seen someone in the time you’d watched them. A roommate? Nope, same thing. Maybe they were swingers.

Yeah, that makes sense. You’ll go with that.

You crouch down to slip them into the pocket of the pants you wore previously to the shower, and you toss them in the laundry bin casually when he faces you once more. He doesn’t seem suspicious. Just annoyed with the fact that his hair keeps dripping, cursing under his breath. He wraps a towel around his waist and grips your wrist to tug you along with him.

Your wet feet slip along the floor as he drags you, much more focused on getting to the bedroom. He releases you once you’re inside, letting you wander to the bed on your own as he fishes through the dresser.

You sit with the towel wrapped around your armpits, holding the fabric tightly to your body. He stumbles around a little as he pulls some new clothes on. Blue boxers, a red wool-looking sweater, and some casual black pants. He’s not very balanced.

He rifles through the other drawers and brings you out a new outfit, but places them aside instead of clothing you like you expected. You watch as he huffs and puffs until he finds a pale green bottle of lotion, giving you another one of those smiles that make your breath tremble while he kneels in front of you.

“What’re you doing?” you sniffle, holding the towel closer to your body.

“Relax,” he coaxes, squeezing a pump of lotion into his hands. “Yr’skin is so dry, jus’ giving ya a little moisture.”

He rubs his hands together, reaching for your left ankle and starting a soft massage up your leg. You notice the tip of his tongue popping out, running along his lower lip. It makes you anxious.

Excited.

“You don’t need to. Really.” you breathe, but you don’t pull away.

“Let me do this for ya, Kitty.” he says, looking up at you with those blue eyes. They don’t scream danger. No, it’s something else. Something wild and fierce. Not scary or scared, just… off.

It unsettles you. Turns you on.

You nod absently, staring down at him as he reaches higher up your leg. His fingers work near flawlessly. Purposeful. So, when he gets to the top of your leg and his fingers slip along the cleft between your thigh and cunt, you know it’s intended.

He switches to your right, using his warm hands to encompass you all the same. When he’s made your upper leg, he rests one of his hands on your right inner thigh, the other palm slipping under you to slather your left cheek. His thumb is resting on the curve above your slit. Rubbing up and down, back and forth, not quite touching your more sensitive parts. It feels like a warning.

The rest of his movements are made with his left hand only. You feel him reach towards your towel, pulling it to slowly fall on the bed behind you. You exhale shakily. He keeps his right hand just above the little bundle of nerves, pumping some more lotion into his other. He begins to rub it onto your hip, up around your lower stomach and sternum.

His thumb lowers. Resting right over your pulsing clit. Presses.

“Johnny-“ You jolt, voice wavering.

“Shhh. Yer fine.”

You glance at his face, insides clenching, “I don’t- You-“ your voice breaks off on a choked whine, head falling back between your shoulders. It shouldn’t feel like this. You don’t like feeling out of control, but now you feel that your entire being, bare throat and all, has been plucked by them.

Your lips part to pant as he starts to rub half-circles atop your clit. You can’t tell whether it’s from stress or pleasure. Your lids fluttered closed.

Stop, no, more, now-

He abandons rubbing the lotion part your collarbones, both thumbs parting your lower lips. One thumb just above it, raising the skin of your clitoral hood to expose the little bead beneath. “Fuck, look how pretty she is…” he mumbles softly, his voice startling you all the same.

“Please-“ you choke out, head lifting forward and righting itself. You feel too vulnerable. Too exposed. He rubs his thumb in light circles around your bare clit, your fingers curling against the bedsheets.

His hands slip around your thighs, gripping the curve of your ass to pull you to stand, feet dragging against the floor. Your hands snap to press against his shoulders for support, your vision fixed on the way his pretty blue eyes look up at you. Fuck.

“I gotcha, baby.” he exhales, and you frown. He cranes his neck to press kisses along the part of your slit, gaze focused on you, then flitting to somewhere behind you, before opening his mouth to carefully suck your clit into his mouth. Your mouth drops open, cheeks feeling warm as the muscles in your neck knot together, head falling back just to shove you back into reality as your head hits a firm pillow of flesh.

You flinch in surprise, head snapping to the side to see the side of someone’s jaw, then raise your gaze higher to meet Simon’s. Your muscles are stiffened in preparation to flee, eyebrows pinched together in a guilty expression, corners of your lips tugged down into a frown.

He’s staring at you. You return it. What’s there to say? ‘Hey, you’re back. By the way, your boyfriend is eating me out. Sorry?’

Until Johnny’s lips part to make way for his tongue, your spine curving inward and eyes rolling to the back of your eyelids as your head meets Simon’s shoulder. Your hands drop from your chest to lace into his hair and tightly grip the strands.

“Fuck,” you sputter, eyelashes drifting shut. You feel a pleasant ache in your lower stomach, muscles twinging in a good sort of pain.

There’s movement behind you, a rustling of Simon’s pant pockets against the back of your bare leg. You feel his hands raise- and there’s pressure on your neck now, a clasping noise right next to your ear.

It’s hard to make your eyes force themselves open when Johnny's mouth feels so good, but the strange noise has you curious.

One of your hands comes up to your neck, feeling around to feel a leather strip banded around your neck. Johnny tightens his grip on the backs of your thighs and pulls you closer. Renews his efforts. Your pleasured noise is cut off by how startled you are, hand frantically pulling at the collar on your neck.

“What-“ you squeak, only a finger or two fitting between the collar and your skin before Simon is redirecting you. He grips your forearms, maneuvering you until he can clasp both your wrists in one of his bear-like hands, pinning them against your sternum. His other arm hooks around your collarbones and pulls you flush back against him. “What’re you doing- Stop-“

“Settle down,” he scolded, feeling your muscles tense as you squirmed. A grunt- halfway between pleasure and panic is then the next thing that slips from your lips as you struggle. Johnny is acting none the wiser, flattening his tongue against your opening and dragging up until your fingers twitch.

You moan, displeased, as Johnny draws his hand up to press his thumb to your clit. Firm pressure at first, almost a bit too much for your liking, until he starts rolling the nerves underneath his thumb.

It’s when you get to the point of baring your teeth that Simon decides you truly need an attitude adjustment. His forearm tightens around your collarbones until it is flush with your neck. Holding the fragile dip of your throat in the stiff tendons underneath the roughened flesh of his arm.

A justified rumble of disapproval bubbles up your throat only to be caught in its tracks by his grip tightening. Your breath gets weaker, vision a little hazier, muscles losing some of their fight, while your head gets lighter.

“There y’go…. That’s it.” His words are molten against the back of your neck. He steals your last breath, holding you for a few more seconds until he loosens his grip. You gasp, the air whooshing down into your lungs harshly. It leaves your head delightfully fuzzy from the rush, eyes watering until a tear streaks down your cheek.

You let your head fall back willingly this time. You go a little looser in his arms, hands going limp in his grip while you lean back against him. Johnny takes the newly relaxed muscles as his sign to slip his tongue inside of you, your thighs instinctively squeezing around his head.

You let out some sort of indignant squeak as your voice comes back, hips leaning away from his motions and causing you to bump into Simon behind you. It doesn’t give you much, besides a guess on Simon’s opinion of the situation considering the imprint of his cock against his thigh.

Johnny just digs his fingers into the meat of your thighs while he hums against you. Simon doesn’t seem as pleased. “Give it up, love. Fighting just makes him want you more.”

You moan, displeased as Johnny’s tongue makes its way back inside you. It somehow feels more visceral, more raw than your fingers do. It aches in a beautiful way. Johnny’s hand slips up your side, palming the swell of your breast when he reaches it.

His tongue slips out of you, drawing the muscle up to replace his fingers against your clit. Your toes curl in your socks as he sucks it into his mouth, thumb coming down to rub circles around your opening instead.

They work together like a perfect melody. Johnny’s finger pressing just barely inside, his lips making way for his tongue, Simon’s forearm tightening just at the right time. It feels like amber burning between your legs, the fire spreading up your abdomen and down your thighs.

You nearly screech your way through the climax of it, your throat grating painfully. Simon’s arm around your throat makes you feel ten times lighter. You should feel scared.

You don’t.

Your eyes flutter back open without the knowledge of ever closing them, flicking down to Johnny between your legs. He slowly pulls his mouth off of you, his smile surprisingly sweet for the filthy things he just did to you. It nearly enrages you.

“I hate you.” You pant, bare chest heaving. He just fucking smirks at you.

Simon releases your arms, and your shoulders release their tension. Your hands stay where they are, glued to your sternum, fingers curling and flexing to test the renewed sensation. His freed hand dips down between your legs, your brain too fried to defend yourself. Your nose scrunches in disgust as he collects your saliva on his fingers before subsequently smearing the liquid on your cheek with his index and middle fingers.

“Yeah, m’ sure y’do.”

Your hands come up to push at his forearm, sending yourself further back into his chest. “Ew, that’s- fucking gross!” you blurt, ignoring his snicker.

Johnny stands in front of you and grabs your face in his hand, smushing your cheeks between his thumb and other fingers. He takes his time licking the stripe of slick off your cheek, moaning like it’s the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted.

He pulls away with a laugh, deep in his chest, licking his lips and releasing your face.

“Fuckin’ delicious.”

You scowl at him, the space between your eyebrows crinkling with the amount of distaste in your expression, ears turning to the side. You wish you could like them. You wish you could relax for once.

Fuck them. Fuck their apartment. Fuck their money. Fuck their perfect faces and gentle hands. You want out.

You cringe internally at nearly every other interaction with them throughout the day. They’ve touched you. Felt what it’s like when you come. Tasted the tacky substance between your legs.

It grosses you out to have someone know you so intimately, without even knowing your name. ‘Kitty’ isn’t *so* insufferable anymore, but you still don’t love to hear it.

It’s later in the day, Simon doing whatever he does in the bathroom that makes him take so goddamn long, when you decide it’s time. Johnny is curled up in their bed, under the covers, waiting for you to return with water. You won’t.

You’d said you were thirsty when you saw a moment that your biggest threats were at their weakest. It’s not nice. You don’t enjoy it. It's necessary.

You open the cabinets a few times, pretending to look for the glasses. (You wouldn’t need to, you’ve already been here a dozen times.) You turn on the faucet, too, hoping it covers some of the noise while you're grabbing the things you’d stashed below the sink. A few pads, some protein bars, and a bottle of water. A pair of socks, ibuprofen, and some toothpaste. Things they won’t miss. Things they don’t need.

You’re currently kneeling in front of the cabinet under the sink, shoving as much as you can fit into the front pocket of the hoodie snatched just a few minutes ago. You curse quietly to yourself as the toothpaste clatters to the ground to your left, and you go to reach for it, startling when the tube is beside a pair of legs.

“‘the fuck are y’doing?”

A jolt of surprise runs through your body at the sound, lips parting and closing like a fish out of water when your startled gaze lands on him. You wince as you bang your head on the counter on your way up. You frown, ears tilting to the side at the sound of his voice.

Your shoulders are up by your ears, and your arms are held close to your chest while you stare at him. Your voice comes out unnaturally high-pitched and quick-paced. “I- You just- You don’t even *like* me. It doesn’t have to be a big deal, I’ve already thanked you for everything, you can just let me leave-“

He grabs you by the face, thick fingers digging into the flesh of your cheeks. You can only imagine the way you look, lips smushed together by his grip, despite your attempt to glower. “Y’think I’d let you stay in my fuckin’ apartment, eatin my fuckin’ food, if I didn’t like you?”

And when you don’t respond, you can’t with the way your lips are pressed together, he shakes your head like an unruly dog might. You can almost feel your brain rattle around in your skull. “Hm? Think I’d let you make out with my boyfriend?”

“Mmph!-“ you aren’t allowed to begin speaking with how quickly he smashes his lip against yours, your teeth catching on his upper lip, but he doesn’t mind. Your hands raise to his abdomen, ready to push away.

His other hand comes around to press a heavy hand on your ass, pushing you to stumble forward until your chest collides with his.

All the while, he’s pried your mouth open, ignoring when you try to shove him out, moaning unnecessarily loud as he sucks on your tongue. You can feel the copious amounts of spit swapping back and forth between mouths as he ravages you, a foamy glob sliding down your chin and onto his thumb, where it drips down his hand.

It’s only when you’re struggling to gasp for breaths that he decides to pull away. When you open your eyes again, your head immediately turns to the side with the way he’s staring at you, heavy breaths coming from his nose.

Your eyes are watery and glossed over, lips raw from his teeth, a bit of perspiration at the back of your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“That help you?”

You nod, lips parted to pant, eyes reopening. You’re not sure it did.

“Good.” He huffs, tugging on the D-ring of your collar before freeing you and shifting aside to let you pass. “Go join Johnny. I’ll get your water.”

You’re frozen for a moment, mind buffering before it catches up just to hear the sound of Simon reengaging the lock on the window. You feel a clap on your ass just as you start to walk away, shoulders jumping while a yelp leaves your lips.

You hurry your pace, nearly stumbling in your urgency to get away from him as you hear a chuckle from behind you. You frown, tail agitatedly swishing between your legs as you walk through the hallway. Soap is sleepily smiling on the bed when you come across the open bedroom doorway, lifting one of his arms for you.

“There ya are. Where’s your water?”

“Um…”

“I’ve got it.” Simon interrupts from behind you, causing you to jolt once more. You look at him over your shoulder, and he just raises a brow, signaling for you to continue.

“I couldn’t find the cups. Simon helped.” You breathe, exhaling through your nose. His name tastes foreign in your mouth. Tingles on your tongue. You swallow through thick saliva, walking around the bed to sit on the opposite side of the bed.

Johnny does seem to mind the space, opening his mouth, just to be interrupted by Simon coming to sit next to you. He squishes you up against Johnny and forces you to settle between them. Johnny hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you down to be reclined with him.

Simon hands you your water wordlessly. You take it, hands clasped around the glass, eyes distracted by the small, white flurries swirling around at the bottom of the cup. You make eye contact as you pause. He holds strong with that same, dead look in his eyes, and watches as you take your first sip.

You know better.

You shove the thought down, as well as the small satisfaction at Simon looking pleased. You settle in closer to Johnny, fixing your blurry vision on the television.

You’ll try again tomorrow. Maybe.

notes: not my best work 😞 i might edit some in the next few days. just wanna get it out or ill never post it. this is also like my third time writing smut soooo… did i match your freak. be honest

taglist: @eyes-ofhell @insideboburnham @mellohimmku94 @uglygirltrying @ghostsoapwhore @callsignao3 @risk606 @theyoungeagle @honestlymassivetrash @lazystorycollector @kxnnxy @skullcrawler @sweetnightowl @angelic-thingys @pagesfalling

[di-writes-stuff]

loml

Greg House x Reader

A/N: So, I haven’t written anything in months. Whoopsies! (I have no excuse, I just didn’t want to.)

TW: It’s House. There’s your trigger warning. (Drugs.)

“Who’s gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames, if we know the steps anyway?”

This is a mistake.

That’s the only thought that runs through your head as you sit in the sterile examination room, the chair under you hard and entirely uncomfortable. It’s fitting, nothing about this will be pleasant, you knew it going in.

And yet you still did. You walked into this damn hospital, snuck around like some criminal, praying that you wouldn’t run into him before the time was right. If it ever is, it never really has been with you two. Maybe it never will be, maybe the world is trying to tell you something you’re just too stubborn to hear. How many times can you keep going back to the same broken thing?

Apparently you haven’t hit your limit yet, considering where you are.

It’s like every nerve in your body spurs to life as the door slides open and he walks in. Him, House. His eyes are glued to the chart in his hand, not really bothering to look at you. He’d treat his patients through the door if he could.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asks in a way that’s so typically him you almost roll your eyes. Abrasive, cold, these should be red flags. They are, you just don’t care.

Maybe he had a point with all the masochist jokes.

You quickly refocus, clearing your throat and waiting. For what, you’re not sure. Obviously he’ll look up, recognize you as, well, you. His ex, but that’s not even close to covering whatever twisted role it is you serve in his life. On and off for…how long? Years, you know that. Two, at least, maybe more. There’s always something wrong, something ruining your chances. The drugs, the painfully obvious emotional unavailability. The same one you ignored the existence of when you decided to come here.

Then there’s you. The constant desire you have for more. More devotion, more love, more than he’s willing to give.

Or more than he can, you refuse to explore that option.

You’re fucked, simply. There’s no possible way that you two work. It’s too much conflict, more than a mouthful of pills or some hate sex can solve.

His eyes flick up and widen as he freezes. Speechless. In another circumstance you’d be proud of this. It’s an achievement after all, he never does know when to shut his mouth.

He wasn’t expecting you, not for a second. Maybe he should’ve. You’ve always been stubborn, a trait you both share. It made for some agonizingly long arguments, and some wildly good make up.

That’s the issue with you two. You are eachother. It’s why you’re so chaotic together. It’s also why you can’t be with anybody else.

“Hey.” You say weakly, and the word feels stupid as it comes out of your mouth. You’re long past pleasantries, which is exactly why you receive silence in return.

You knew he’d be like this.

You feel your face heating in humiliation anyway. At the very least, you won’t cry, you won’t let yourself.

The stinging sensation in your nose is persistent as ever.

He slowly crosses the room, sitting down in the chair next to you, a small creaking noise filling the otherwise empty silence. A thick swallow from you, the awkward drumming of fingers from him. This is painful, and for a second you hope his pager will go off. He’d bolt with an excuse, you know he would. And because you’re the same, you would too. And then you’d be back, in a week, maybe a month, and it’d be even worse.

You’ve always had a knack for self-destruction.

You both know how it ended last time. All over a stupid bet. Cuddy thought he couldn’t make it a week without Vicodin, he thought he could. Back when he was still adamant about denying his addiction. Halfway through it might as well have been torture. Deep into detoxing, and still, he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t listen as you begged him to stop being so childish, so stubborn. He wouldn’t even let you come near him, let alone help. He said it’s cause he didn’t need your pity.

In reality, he just didn’t want you to see him like that. Nobody would. Every inch of his pale, shaking frame was covered in sweat, bags under his eyes and a bloodshot gaze had him looking damn near dead.

He was sick, and he hated having to face it more than anything. The Greg House being forced to admit he was wrong. Sometimes you wondered if he’d rather die than say it out loud.

Neither of you handled it well, you never do. He was too stupid to see the obvious, see that he needed help. Needed you. And you, you were too sensitive to let it go. Let him go. Give up on any hope that this could go anywhere.

You still are, and you feel it keenly as the two of you sit in silence. His eyes are trained on you, and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think the look in his eyes was judgement. But no, it’s a myriad. Confusion, anger, guilt, longing. All things he’d never admit. That’d be far too human.

“Say something.” Your voice comes out pleading, a tone you loathe on yourself.

He turns to you, his eyes tracing over your every feature like he can’t decide which one to settle on. How many times has he seen you like this? Desperate, vulnerable, because of him. He loses count. He wants to forget it, but you have to go through the motions. Pretend you’ve worked through your issues so you can live in a momentary state of bliss. Maybe it’ll last a few months this time. Could be less, if he really screws it up.

He’ll take what he can get.

“What do you want me to say?” The words come out harsh, cold, and for a moment he expects you to turn away. You don’t. Of course you don’t.

You sigh heavily, you expected it, the ice you’d be met with. You know him intrinsically, predicting his moves like the plot twists of a movie you’ve watched one too many times.

“Something, anything.” This is sad, pathetic, even. You always do this. Go back to each other, pulling out a past that’s probably better off left in the dark closet it belongs to. Still, how can you just forget? The idea feels foreign after all this time weaving in and out of one another’s lives.

Still, this is familiar, comfortable, in a way. The feigned indifference, the cold tone, the need to pretend neither of you care nearly as much as you do. It would be easier, less painless, to just move on. Have lives separate from each other.

But he’s starting to think he lives off pain. Physical and mental. It’s all he’s known for years. Why change a routine that’s become so commonplace? And even with the pain, he’s never been happier than he was with you. You understand him, and the part of him that hates that kneels to the part that needs it.

The break ups, the separation, it’s all just a low between highs. Ones he finds far more addicting than the pills sitting in his pocket.

He begins tapping his cane on the floor, a restless rhythm. “I miss you.” His voice is deadpan as the words come out, and you know why. He’s being honest, his tone can’t betray how hard that really is for him. He leans his head back, letting it thud against the wall behind you in a way that makes you flinch.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s just saying what you want to hear.

You quickly remember who you’re talking to.

He lets his knee fall sideways, brushing against yours. It’s tiny, imperceivable, almost. If you weren’t so clued into everything he was doing, maybe you wouldn’t have noticed it. But you did, your eyes flicking down to the point of contact. It feels dangerous.

“I missed you too.” Your voice is shaky, quiet, pathetic. To you, at least. Most might see this as normal. A healthy display of vulnerability. You, though. This is hell. It is for him too. It’s also necessary. Maybe this is your twisted way of proving yourselves to each other, giving evidence to your devotion.

“This won’t end well.” He says, pragmatic as always. Cold, sensible. Too smart for hoping, waiting on change that’ll never come.

“I know.” And I’m here anyway. Words go unspoken, you’ve had enough honesty for today.

He sighs, and the noise is too tired. For a second fear settles in that you’re the one doing this to him. That trying to be decent. Trying to be suitable for a relationship is just too much for him to handle.

“Then why are you here?” He knows the answer, he’s not stupid. Maybe he just needs to hear it, and then he’ll get the common sense to tell you to leave. To give up on this, spare both of you the inevitable pain.

You sigh, the idea of having the explain worse than just letting the truth linger unspoken. “What if it works this time?” You know it’s stupid, and you know he’ll tell you just that. For a second you remember something your therapist told you. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. You’d rolled your eyes, told her this wasn’t anything like that. That people can change, you can change.

You stopped going to your appointments after that.

You just look at him, watch as he closes his eyes, running a hand over his face before looking to you. “For how long?” For a second, you think there’s hope in his voice, like he’s waiting for you to lie to him, say this can last forever. It probably will, you think. On and off for the rest of your lives, never stable.

“We can find out.” The words are an invitation, a reckless one. You’ll let him back in, and it’ll end poorly, and you won’t be able to be mad. You knew how this would go from the start, how can you blame him for the inevitable?

He looks to you, and you can tell he’s given up. It was always gonna happen, you wouldn’t stay away forever. No use in wasting time waiting.

“I hate you.” The words are empty. It’s his last ditch effort to push you away. He has to do it, he has to know he didn’t just let you in. Something in him has to hold onto the false belief that he doesn’t need this, that he’s indifferent. That he’s the same cold man he’s always been.

As he mutters the words he reaches out, his hand sliding over your jaw, pulling you in closer.

You smile weakly, rolling your eyes at the absurdity of the statement. You know him, you know when he’s lying, and he’s never done a worse job at it than he just did.

You’re hardly inches apart now, your lips nearly ghosting his own. Your voice is shaky as you speak, “Love you too.” As his lips brush yours, he just melts, leaning into you with a fervor he used to call lust. There’s no use pretending that’s all this is now.

The kiss ends all too soon as he pulls away, shallow breaths leaving both of you, filling the silence. You almost wonder if you should leave when his voice sounds, quiet, tentative, all things he’s normally not.

“I’m going to screw this up.” The look in his eyes is guilt for something he hasn’t even done. He will, but you ignore the nagging voice in the back of your head that says to run before he has the chance. Yes, he’s hurt you. It’s not as if you haven’t done the same to him. You know where to aim when you’re mad, and you’ve turned him to a dartboard more times than you can count.

“I’m okay with that.” For a second, as the words fall off your tongue so easily, almost instinctually, you wonder if your mother would be disappointed in you. This isn’t how she raised you. Offering some man a hundred second chances all because what, you love him? Because when it’s good, it really is so good?

Because at the end of the day, you don’t think you could do it. Leave him, live the rest of your life without him in it. You’d wonder, you’d always wonder what would’ve happened if you just gave him one more chance. And so you will, again, and again, and again.

Sometimes you wonder what your life would look like if you’d never met him. Maybe you’d be married, happy with some man who gave you far less trouble than House ever did. You curse the way you find the thought boring. He’s awful, but he’s thrilling. You might even have kids, or at least be ready for one.

You know deep down you could have a future like that, and still, all thoughts of it dissipate when he opens his mouth.

“I’m off at eight.” Self loathing drips from each word. He’s a selfish bastard, he’ll let you forgive him, and time and time again, he’ll know he doesn’t deserve it. Still, he can’t turn you down. He can’t leave. He can’t not have you. The one good thing that’s ever come out of his life. He just can’t. Not when you’re offering.

“I’ll be here.” The words are so horribly fitting. Won’t you always? Will there ever be a time he takes it too far? Or will you always go back to him? Will you always turn away from the better life, the happier life you could have without him?

Yes. It’s always yes, because deep down, you stopped wanting a life without him the second you experienced life with him. Everything else became boring, commonplace, once you’d had him. There’s nothing like House. Not a person, or drug, or liquor strong enough to come close to how he makes you feel. Nothing can make the memory fade, and nothing can replace it either.

There’s no good outcome, it’s either life alone or life with him. And so you let his fingers interlace with your own, let the sensation numb the thought that never left your head this whole time, the one that’ll haunt you on sleepless nights you spend in his bed, staring at the ceiling with his arms wrapped around you.

This is a mistake.

A/N: thank u to the taco bell fire sauce packet i quoted.

[bloomzone]

2025: #10 take care of your mind

your brain is the most powerful tool you will ever own. YOUR BRAIN IS MORE POWERFUL THAN UR PHONE, LAPTOP ... . Yet how many of us actually take care of it? How many of us think twice about what we feed it, how we use it, or how we let it rest? u don’t rise to the level of your dreams you fall to the level of your mind. And if your mind isn’t sharp, disciplined, and protected, you’re setting yourself up for failure.

✒️..You’re probably wondering: “What does it mean to take care of my brain?” It’s simple but not easy. First, let’s talk about what you’re consuming EEEEVRY single thing you watch, listen to or read is planting seeds in your mind. Are you planting weeds or flowers? Scroll endlessly on social media, filling your brain with nonsense, comparison, and negativity—guess what? You’re planting weeds, and they will grow. Your thoughts become your beliefs, and your beliefs become your actions.

THE TRUTH IS you are what you allow into your mind. If you keep surrounding yourself with negativity, if you keep replaying the same self-doubt, if you keep absorbing content that doesn’t serve you don’t be surprised when you feel stuck, overwhelmed, or anxious. You’re not broken you’re just fueling yourself with the wrong things.

"So, what do you do?"

1. Detox your mind. Cut out the noise. Start filtering what you consume. Unfollow accounts that drain your energy. Stop watching content that makes you feel small. And for the love of everything pookie stop engaging in drama—it’s not worth the space it takes up in your head.

2. Feed your brain the right fuel. Read books that challenge you. Listen to podcasts that inspire you. Surround yourself with people who uplift you. And no, this isn’t just some feel-good advice it’s about wiring ur brain for growth. The more you surround yourself with knowledge, positivity, and action-oriented energy, the more your brain starts working for you instead of against you.

3. Train your focus. Your brain is a muscle. If you don’t train it, it gets lazy. Meditation isn’t just for monks it’s for anyone who wants to build laser-like focus. Start small—two minutes a day. Sit down, breathe, and let your mind rest. Because a rested brain is a powerful brain.

4. Protect your energy it mean it’s about who you let into your space. People can either fuel your fire or extinguish it. If someone in your life constantly drags you down, you need to set boundaries. Your mental energy is sacred. Guard it fiercely.

🪧-FACT BOX !

『When you kick unhealthy habits to the curb, your brain actually starts to thrive! Imagine cutting out constant stress it’s like a weight lifted off your mind, lowering cortisol levels and giving your memory and learning a boost. Eating betteeeeer and healthier cuz those omega-3s and antioxidants help reduce brain fog while also cranking up serotonin and dopamine, the feel-good chemicals that keep you motivated and happy. Regular exercise is like a power-up for your brain, releasing endorphins and encouraging the growth of new neurons. It’s like giving your mind a fresh start every day (try to wake up early and do any type of exercise and u will see how well ur day will roll) Sleep is another secret weapon—by getting enough (6-7 or even 8 )you’re helping your brain detox and organize memories, keeping everything sharp. And let’s not forget about avoiding things like alcohol and drugs—this keeps your brain’s reward system in check and prevents it from burning out or killing you lmaooo .. All these changes together supercharge your brain, boosting focus, creativity, and mental strength. Your brain will thank you!』

@bloomzone ❕

[rat-rosemary]

Is this character in Dream's cult?

A list of almost everyone! I'm pretty sure!!

--Yes--

George and Sapnap

They were the first to receive it when they and Dream were extremely young and had no idea what they were doing. Way more affected by their blessing then most people, and gain powers from it that most people dont

Tommy

Feels the loss of community pretty heavily, and has turned to the church to try to fill this void. Literally. He does the upkeep of the church building so he doesn't go insane doing nothing at home and waiting for another war

Tubbo

Became stuck in a chimera form after the Manberg festival because of the trauma of the event and feels like being stuck as a chimera it is a curse and shameful. Is a mix of ram and creeper

Wilbur

He is a bit of hypocrite about it, specially during the original L'manberg war but he depends on Dream's blessing very heavily. Him giving his soul to Dream frees him from the prophecy he has been running from his whole life, specially when it came to his death.

Fundy

Was born with the blessing, he could not be considered human-born because of it. The best way to describe Fundy is a fox that is a human hybrid

Punz

Yes.

Jack Manifold

He has it because almost everyone in L'manberg had it, and in true Jack Manifold fashion he has never questioned why he took the blessing or what he is doing with it. But hey, cool wings!

Niki

She actually dropped the blessing for a bit after joining the syndicate? She was doing a lot of thinking on what things she wanted to keep carrying, so she tried dropping the religion for a bit. Turns out tho, living without Dream's blessing is unpleasant! Not in a "I am in never ending pain all the time way", but there were so many quality of life upgraded that Niki forgot were because of the blessing. She has to wear so many fucking layers in the arctic now. So she contacted Dream by prayer and jumped back in after about a week. Very much a "man I wonder I still take medication for this symptom, I haven't experienced symptom in years!" and then you stop taking the medication that treats symptom and starts experiencing symptom.

Karl Jacobs

Depends incredibly heavily on Dream's blessing because the in-between and the other side are constantly trying to kidnap him and completly break him, is one of the few people who will actively drink from the pool of blood in the church. Became stuck in a chimera form after the first time Dream found him drugged by the in-between and detoxed him. Is a mix of rabbit and brightly colored snake (not poisonous. He would rather you think he is tho)

Antfrost

I imagine he also took the blessing at the young age, and has grown very accustomed to the effects of it after the years.

Ranboo

They find Dream's blessing incredibly freeing! They've found a lot of joy in the freedom of the ocean and of aquatic forms, shedding the limitations of their enderman identity (tho not abandoning it completely). Ranboo is also particularly loud when praying, so they get visits from Dream in their head often telling them to stop screaming.

--Not anymore--

Awesamdude

He gave up the blessing when Dream was trapped in pandora. Has had the blessing since before the dsmp, letting go of it was like cutting off a limb. He had dealt with it horribly.

Quackity

Gave up the blessing when he started torturing Dream. He wanted to have Dream completely fold to his commands, and he couldn't do that if Dream had his soul. He did return eventually tho. It will be a painful process for both sides. Has also dealt with the lack of Dream's blessing horribly

--No, and never will be--

Eret

Eret thinks that they should not have to offer something as large as their soul for the blessing. In her eyes giving away their soul means becoming inferior to Dream, and they should just get the blessing with no trade off. Which. Is not how that works. But she is chill and polite to the people who carry Dream's blessing

ConnorEatsPants

Is technically banned from getting a blessing ever. He approached the concept of Dream's blessing in a very capitalistic way, and did in some ways think he could scam Dream. Really, with the way he wants this prayer it would be impossible for him to use it, wanting the benefits of shape-shifting without any of the instincts that come along with it.

Captain Puffy

Feels extremely entitled to the blessing, but wants to pay nothing in turn. She truly wants Dream to bend the knee and offer free power with no consequences or cost, and is extremely loud about it. Basically, the most unpleasant TA mom you've heard of.

Philza

Is already devoted to another God (kristen) tho he did consider getting the blessing, but was put off by the fact that he has to treat Dream with actual respect and have a relationship with him instead of just using him as a power boost, so he started claiming Dream was a scam. He is also banned from the holy lands and from any sort of religious holiday. Phil is incredibly impolite and pushy to anyone who carries Dream's blessing, specially Wilbur.

Foolish

Nahhh, he's chill, thank you for offering tho! Will come over for every holiday celebration tho, and has a really good time feasting with everyone.

Slimecicle

When he met Quackity the other had already given up his blessing, so he never really got a chance to try it. And then he became public enemy n1 and made it so Dream abandoned all slimes after the Las Nevadas Finale

Tina

She gets that the blessing is a thing, I mean she sees the other people of kinoko shape-shift often, but also she kinda forgets about it? It does sound really nice, but the only times she is on the main smp is for holiday feasts, and no one has seen Dream on a long time, so she just kinda pushes it to the side. She would take it, but she keeps procrastinating it and there's never really a good time to do it

--Does it on the weekends--

Technoblade

Techno already has his own thing going on with the thousand voices in his head calling for blood, but seeing how most people in the dsmp have Dream's blessing he has been studying it and eventually took the blessing himself (tho a weaker version, because his soul is already occupied). He's terrible at it. Absolutely shit at it. But! He does have changing his coats color down now! He's learning!

JSchlatt

His version of the blessing was also weaker (whatever human-born godly nonsense is happening with Schlatt Dream really doesn't wanna poke it with a ten feet pole), and Schlatt never really used the blessing much. But it was still enough that Dream was responsible for keeping Schlatt's soul after he died. Was, because then the people of L'manberg fucking ate him. The feeling of Schlatt's soul dissolving in his hold was horrifying to Dream, and that's the reason that cannibalism is now banned for his devotees, and the reason their bodies now dissolve into blood upon death. There's still a bit of Schlatt in there, but is more a shadow of the man, the rest having moved on elsewhere. It's not enough to revive him.

--Unsorted--

Ponk

I just need to think about them more, and how they react in this story

BadBoyHalo

uh... it's complicated. Extremely extremely complicated. Um. Bad is. Oh heavens

Skeppy

It depends on whether Bad has it

Purpled

-very big maybe? I could see him taking it because of the cool powers, but also him skipping on it because it's not a easy thing to carry and is very involved, so he just got that it wasn't the best fit for him. Punz can carry him if he needs to fly

Hannahxxrose

I'm also really unsure on Hannah. Like purpled I could very much see her taking it because it gives you cool powers and almost everyone has it, but also skipping out on it because she doesn't quite like how the blessing feels

Hbomb, Eryn and Aimsey

Might get cut from this au completely.

Vikkstar and LazarBeam

Resurrection works very differently in this au, so I don't even need them for experimentation. They stopped by for like a week and have long past moved somewhere else

[oneforthemunny]

YAY MY FIRST TIME DOING THIS GAME!!!

Rockstar!eddie, rehab, angst (because I have been think of this concept all day)

starting the day off strong with some angst! tw bc it does mention drug abuse and some darker kinda themes.

"Eddie Munson," Eddie looked up from the guitar he'd been strumming towards the nurse- no, the holistic helper at the door. They didn't use words like that here, not at this rehab.

"You have a visitor here." She nodded, giving a soft smile.

Eddie set the guitar down, tucking the pick back between the strings, following the woman down the long hallway of the center. The music room was where he spent most of his time these days. He'd tried hiking and the spa once he'd finished detox, but always came back there- his own oasis in his own personal hell.

"We're going to go back to your room for this meeting, if that's alright with you, Eddie." The nurse smiled gently.

"Fine with me." Eddie grumbled, his shoulders feeling heavier and heavier with each passing step.

Ninety days, it's what he agreed to. He felt better after twenty, but he'd finish it out- for you, for your girls, his family that he'd fucked selfishly. His stomach turned at the thought.

"And, there's no limit on this visit today." The nurse stopped before she opened the door. "So no need to feel pressured to rush."

Eddie's brows furrowed. It was Gareth, maybe Jeff, he knew it was. They were the only ones who came to visit him anyways. Still, he grumbled in response, turning the knob to his room. It was nice, a private suite that felt more like a hotel room than the prison cell it'd become.

"Hey, man, didn't know you were coming by today. I've been working on some stuf-" Eddie's breath hitched, falling flat in the air when he turned.

It felt nearly like a mirage, like he might have been dreaming, hallucinating that you were here. Here, on his bed, sitting too rigidly to be comfortable, arms wrapped around yourself.

"Working on stuff?" You hummed, eyes barely meeting his and he didn't miss the way you swallowed. "What kind of stuff?"

"Y-You're here?" Eddie croaked, shutting the door with a harsh snap. "Wha-What are you doin' here, baby?" Every bit of his being screamed to hug you, hands tingling and twitching- itching to feel you, to hold you.

You shifted uncomfortably, finger running over your ring finger out of habit. Eddie nearly threw up when he saw you'd gone without your ring, he wondered how long ago you'd stopped wearing it.

"Um, Gareth came by the other day to see the girls." Your eyes cut to Eddie at the mention of them, how his face nearly crumbled at the thought. "He told me you'd been doing much better. Told me you were scared straight."

"Yeah." Eddie nodded. He was frozen, unable to move, so he stood in the doorway. "I am. I-I..." There was a million things Eddie wanted to say. He wanted to drop to his knees, beg for your forgiveness, for mercy, for anything.

"He," Your voice cracked, turning your head politely to the side to compose yourself. So prim and proper, Eddie's heart leapt at the action- he'd missed it so fucking much.

"He also brought me your letter." Your lip wobbled at the mention, pressing them tightly together to keep yourself from bursting into tears. Ten pages, front to back, with scribbling, tear soaked, inked ramblings about his feelings- poured his heart out onto those pages. Everything he'd ever wanted to say in his entire life, there on those pages, his whole bleeding heart.

"He did." Eddie sounded relieved, shoulders slumping, rounding with the weight of everything he'd kept in for so long.

You nodded slowly, watching him carefully from your own perch. "The girls made you some things." Your voice shook with your hands when you reached in your bag, piles of drawing and scribbles they'd made for Eddie.

Eddie looked at the colorful papers, just a glimpse in your hand, choking on a sob that was tearing mercilessly through his chest. "I, um, I didn't bring them today." You barely met Eddie's eyes, hand smoothing over the construction paper. "I didn't think you'd want them to see you like this."

"No," Eddie shook his head, tears falling down his stubbled cheeks. "No, I-I don't. Thank you."

The air was thick between the two of you, an unsure uncomfortable feeling that left you both on ease. Eddie finally sobbed when your hand brushed his, passing the drawings to him.

"I'm-I'm so sorry." Eddie broke, teeth gritted, trying to swallow back his own cries, hand holding yours tightly. "I don't-I don't know why I-I fucking did that. Why I did it to you, a-and to the girls, and fuck- I don't know why-" Eddie's sobs choked his words.

You knew you shouldn't have, that you should have stood strong, colder and meaner. Your mind screamed at you to stop, but you couldn't- not when your own heart was shattering all over again. So you held him, arms wrapped around his torso, body moving towards his in that familiar way. Your puzzle piece, you two fit so well. His arms hugging you tightly, nearly crushing you into his chest like he wanted you to fuse to him. Eddie's face pressed to your head, wetting your scalp with his tears, nose rubbing into your skin babbling apologies over and over again, promises that he would keep, that you hoped he would.

[sergeant-angels-trashcan]

Hi! I'm at a loss as to where to find the info I'm looking for, so I'm gonna try with you. Feel free to ignore this. I'm writing a fic in The Pitt & I'm struggling to find data on the Langdon situation. Aka, what is the outcome for his job in the first case figure proposed by Robby? This one : "Here's your second chance. 30-day inpatient treatment program, followed by random urine tests, followed by mandatory NA meetings, three to four times a week for the first 3 years [of a 5 years prog]." Ta!

So, if im understanding your question correctly, the outcome for his job is: he keeps it. I'm not sure if there's some kind of external reporting that would be done to medical licensing organizations, or if that would happen only if Langdon was not compliant with whatever PTMC came up with.

This is one of those situations where ha ha I do have some real world knowledge, albeit limited and not from the provider side. But I DID have a coworker who was suspected of using drugs (in general and also while at work). What happened then is a direct supervisor and the department supervisor pulled this employee to the side at the start of their shift to do a random urine drug screen (which is a normal job expectation thing) and this person said "ok well im not going to pass it". As I understood it (and obviously I was not allowed to have the full details) the choice was either you quit effective immediately or you go inpatient and detox and after you come out you still have your job conditional on staying clean.

Its a twofold thing here--the hospital has invested time and money into their doctors, and the doctors have invested time and money into becoming doctors. Neither party wants you to NOT become a doctor unless you are just killing patients right and left. There's also the fact that healthcare abandoning you over addiction is not going to play well to the public, so helping employees get clean is good PR as well as fiscally good. There's also the fact that, I imagine, Langdon not losing his license is contingent upon him completing the rehab program while at PTMC--hes a fourth year resident? That means that they are guaranteed him staying at PTMC for at least five working years. He's shown to be a good physician, so I imagine they'd put a fair amount of effort into getting and keeping him clean. Not because it's the right thing to do, mind you. Just financially speaking. Also, he's white, so he has that going for him (his comments about the gummy ingestion family are very delicious because he does NOT see the similarities imo)

The hospital may actually have a policy about this that outlines specifics like Robby threw out; I don't know if i believe he looked that up after he kicked Landon out or if he's pulling numbers out of his ass as far as how many meetings a week etc. so there's potentially some wiggle room there--and Robby might get a bit of a say in stuff like that since it's likely he's going to be one of the people keeping tabs on Langdon and he's Langdon's supervisor-- if he says "no I think he needs to go to meetings four times a week" well. He does know Langdon best.

I hope this answers your question?

[ineffablecabbage]

Robby/Langdon #46 for the fanfic memes

(lolololol it's here eventually. Final word count: 2983 words)

"Life goes on, even when it's not fair," Alan, Frank's detox partner, tells Frank on his first day of rehab. "That might be advice from my stint of rehab. Or it might be from a country song. But whichever one it is, it is fucking accurate."

Frank, who is in the middle of some pretty gross withdrawals of his own, can only agree.

When it comes time to start work again, Frank is pretty sure that he is never going to forget Alan's little saying, no matter where it came from. Because nothing seems fair.

It's only one more year he reminds himself. Then his residency will be finished and he can leave. He can go somewhere fresh and be an attending somewhere that nobody knows him. The PHP requirements will still be there, which means meetings and drug tests and all of that happy bullshit in order to keep his license, but it won't have a whole hospital full of people who clearly know all of his mistakes.

They shouldn't; he wonders who told them. But in the end, he supposes it doesn't matter.

It's only a year. He can suffer that long and consider it atonement.

So he goes back to work, and life does indeed go on, even when it's not fair.

~*~

In general, Frank's rule for work is to talk to his coworkers when they talk to him and then mind his own business and go the fuck home.

This works pretty well. Mel talks to him often, as does Cassie. Collins, newly promoted to attending, is friendly in the professional kind of way that makes him think that he will definitely miss her after the year is up. Dana definitely makes it clear that she is rooting for him. She asks the kind of personal information that he doesn't volunteer anymore, about home.

He makes it vague enough; does everyone need to know that he's getting divorced? No, this place has enough gossip on him. If she notices his reluctance, she doesn't say so.

The other residents and med students report to him or they don't; since Collins became an attending, she's put a new system into place about dividing up the junior residents so that they now have assigned permanent senior residents. Santos is assigned to Samira, so that's one less thing he has to worry about, and since she isn't his problem, he doesn't have to talk to her. So he doesn't.

It's just a year, after all.

Then there's Robby.

Robby is chief attending. Sometimes he asks questions. Frank answers them. Sometimes, Frank has to make a report to him, so he does. But that is the extent of their interactions.

Unlike with everyone else, Frank misses all of the stupid bullshit he used to have with Robby. But he remembers back to that day in the ambulance bay, and if it is possible for there to be phantom pain in your chest, Frank definitely feels it.

He doesn't know how to fix it. They told him in rehab that some relationships simply never recover, and he has to accept that.

He doesn't know how to do that, either.

~*~

Frank keeps up his Instagram mostly to keep up with his old marathon buddies. Thanks to the back injury, more marathons are likely out forever. His therapist suggests that maybe he should delete the Instagram if it causes him too much distress, but Katie in his NA meeting suggests that he should look at staying sober as his new marathons.

So he starts posting dumb inspirational quotes and following NA pages, and all the other stereotypical addict shit that you do when you're first in recovery.

It's cheesey, but he smiles and feels some sweet, sweet validation when Cassie, Abby, Samira, Dana, and even fucking Abbot likes his posts. Since when is Abbot on Instagram? Is it that old? Maybe he should delete it.

But then he notices a like from Jake, and something in his chest seizes up. That seems like forbidden territory.

It feels even worse when Jake comments. good job, buddy. keep it up! ;)

Frank doesn't talk to people, except for when he has to, but people still talk. He's heard about the big blow out that Robby and Jake had. He knows they aren't on good terms.

Frank very hesitantly writes, ty! and tries to move on with his life without feeling like combination of Brutus and Benedict Arnold.

Except, the likes keep coming, and so do the comments, and Frank starts to think that perhaps Judas is a more appropriate metaphor.

~*~

"So what am I supposed to do?" Frank asks his therapist.

His therapist hums. "What do you want to do?" he asks, and not for the first time, Frank thinks that therapy is a fucking scam.

So he asks Katie, in his NA meeting. "Well," she said. "Boundaries are good. But are you upset that Jake is contacting you, that he is a memory of your relationship with Robby, or that Robby isn't contacting you?"

"I'm not sure we ever had a relationship," Frank says.

"That's avoidance," Katie tells him. "That won't solve your problem or keep you sober."

Frank thinks back to the day in that ambulance day. "I only apologized to my family, you know. They are the only ones I think I owed anything to, for step nine. Do you think that's avoidance?"

"You know that we can't make those decisions for each other," Kate says. "You're in the medical field. Harm reduction vs. healing, Dr. Langdon."

If he was any good at that, he wouldn't be here now, would he? ~*~

So, he starts small.

He corners Dana in the lounge, like he did that day in September, takes a deep breath, and says, "You know about Step nine?"

She smiles, her knowing smile and pats his arm. "Of course I do, kid. You need to get it out of your system?" He nods. "Well, then go ahead."

"I'm sorry for being so selfish. I'm sorry for prioritizing myself on a day that was already shitty for you. I'm sorry for harassing you all day. I'm sorry for constantly putting more on your plate when you didn't need it."

"I already forgave you, kid," she says, and god, he wishes all of his amends were going to be this simple.

~*~

He plans to apologize to Mel next. Because he likes to keep the simple streak going, and in fact, he knows that is very simple.

He seeks her out in the lounge, and she is there, but she's also there with Whitaker, who has apparently decided to pursue Emergency Medicine.

Well, what the hell. Frank probably owes him an apology, too.

"So. Mel. Whitaker. There's something I need to say," Frank says.

"Oh. Go ahead," Mel says, and she looks very pleased to hear from him, because she's a good person.

"What is it, Dr. Langdon?" Whitaker looks confused, which is fair, because he's Samira's responsibility.

He takes a deep breath. "I owe both of you an apology for my behavior last year. I'm sure you already heard through the grapevine that I was struggling with substance abuse, and I won't bore you with details. But part of my recovery requires me to apologize to those that I fucked up with. And I fucked up as a teacher to both of you. I was fucked up, either high or managing withdrawals the whole first day you were here. I was not the teacher you deserved, and for that I'm sorry. And Mel, I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye." He pauses. "Uh. I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye to you, either, Whitaker."

"Oh, that's okay," Whitaker says.

Mel does something unexpected. She gets up, and she hugs him. That's weird. She doesn't hug.

However, he doesn't let go. "Least problematic trainee," he murmurs.

"Do we have to hug?" Whitaker asks.

"Absolutely fucking not," Frank says.

~*~

They are slammed for the next four hours, but he finally manages to find Cassie and Victoria searching for some extra gauze.

"Hey!" he says. "Something I need to say."

"I heard," Cassie says. "Rumor has it you're doing your steps today."

"Oh. Whitaker tell you? I think I freaked him out."

"You definitely did," Victoria tells him.

"Right, so anyway!" Frank says.

"You don't owe me an apology," Cassie interrupts him. "You can say something if you think you need to, but I promise you, I've seen worse. You were never not there for me as a senior resident when I needed you, so I'm just glad you're getting the help you need. Keep it up, and be kind to yourself."

"Thanks, Cassie. And I'm sorry for letting down the team, anyway."

She pats him on the shoulder with the gauze packet.

He turns to Victoria and gives the same speech he gave to Mel and Whitaker, more or less, minus the part about saying goodbye. It's a little less sincere, truth be told, because he doesn't know her as well as Mel, but he didn't know Whitaker that well either, and regardless - he fucked up.

When it's done, she shrugs. "Um, you don't owe me an apology. I made a major fuck up that day, too. Like, probably ruined a woman's life and her kids, too. So… I … uh… forgive you, or whatever."

"We all fuck up with patients," he tells her sympathetically. "Learn from it, and do better. That's all you can do."

"Same for you, right?" she says.

~*~

He tries to apologize to Yolanda. She tells him to not fuck up again, and that it will all be forgiven.

~*~

By 5 p.m, Frank figures he has three people left: Heather, Samira, Trinity, and Robby.

He sits in the lounge, for a rare break, and wishes that his appendix would explode or literally anything else would happen to keep him from reasonably being expected to talk to these people.

Samira comes in the lounge just as he is crumbling up his bag of hot Cheetos. Well, so much for his appendix being remotely useful.

"Hey, Samira," he greets.

"Oh, Frank Langdon, back to small talk," she says in surprise. "What's the special occasion?"

"You haven't heard?"

She shrugs. "You hear a lot of things in this department. I don't always pay attention. It can make you extra slow to pay attention to gossip, you know?"

He smiles softly at that. "Part of my recovery is doing direct amends. I owe you an apology for my behavior, especially during - uh, you know, that trauma with Santos. That was full fledged benzos at their worst, and you never should have been subjected to that."

"Neither should have Dr. Santos."

"I'm aware of that," Frank says with a sigh. "But they are direct amends, and she isn't here right now. So. I'm apologizing to the person who is. I'm sorry."

Samira nods. "Apology accepted. We're rooting for you, you know."

"Thanks," he says.

~*~

"I owe you an apology," he tells Heather, and she laughs at him.

"I know this is Step Nine, but stop it," she says. "We've all fucked up. The only person you need to kiss and make-up to is currently in the locker room. Maybe go give this speech to him."

"There's fucking up, and there's benzos," he tells her.

"Fifteen percent of doctors, and even an greater amount of EM doctors, will struggle with substance abuse. Now stop making me nice to you, Langdon," she says. "And go make up with Robby so he can quit pouting."

But he's not ready for that.

~*~

They're in the middle of a crike, and Ellis is already there; it's time to change over to nightshift. He's almost out of time, and he wants to be done for the day.

He glances over at Santos and sighs.

"I'm sorry I was such a drugged out fucking mess, and thank you for saving my life," he says.

She blinks at him. "What the fuck?"

"Fucking step nine," he answers.

"Oh."

Ellis looks back and forth to both of them, then shrugs, because night shift rarely gives a fuck about anything.

~*~

His finished all his charts and he's almost ready to go home, but he has one more thing he has to do in this hell day, no matter how much he doesn't want to do it.

But when he goes to look, Robby has already left.

"You missed the checkout meeting with your little NA meeting with Santos," Ellis tells him. "Don't worry, I'll put in a good word about what a good, contributing team member you were."

"I appreciate that," he says dryly.

"Don't I get an apology?" she teases.

"Do you want one?"

She laughs at him, and for a moment, he thinks he might miss this terrible place when he leaves next year.

~*~

The problem is, he wants to be done with these stupid amends tonight.

The other problem is, he is never going to make amends with Robby at work.

The third problem is that his phone buzzes to let him know that his Instagram is getting yet another comment.

It's fucking Jake, again.

Well, that makes his decision for him.

He decides to go to Robby's apartment.

~*~

He's only been there once, actually. He hopes Robby hasn't moved in the meantime. He should move, because chief attendings shouldn't live in apartments. They should live in real houses.

But Robby likes walking to work, and he has commitment issues, so he lives in an apartment instead.

And that is unnecessarily judgy, and not something he should think as he rings the doorbell.

Robby opens the door and stares at him for a few minutes. "Frank," he says slowly. "What are you doing here?"

"I was helping with the crike. And … talking with Dr. Santos. I missed the meeting," he says lamely.

Robby frowns. "Is that why you're here? It's fine. Don't worry about it. You're not in any trouble. Abbot said you were helping out."

"That's not why I'm here." Frank closes his eyes and opens them again to see Robby giving him a look that is not nearly as annoyed as he imagined it would be. "I'm here because there is something I need to say to you."

"Oh." Robby shakes his head. "Your step nine stuff. Well, it's fine. You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do. Look, will you just. Christ, are you going to make me stay out here in the hallway?"

Robby looks startled, like maybe he had forgotten that Frank was standing out in the hallway. At the question, he steps back and gestures into the apartment.

Frank steps in, and he tries not to look around. But he wants to. He wants to take in everything in the apartment that is part of Robby, because the last time he was at Robby's apartment, he was sharing it with Jake's mom.

"Thanks," he says. "Look. Just let me finish, okay? This is - really hard to do, but it's important."

"Okay," Robby says, and he pushes his hands down the front of his pants, and it looks so familiar. Frank hates it.

But he doesn't hate it, and that is the whole fucking problem, isn't it?

"I owe you an apology. For a lot of things, actually. I'm sorry for not coming to you when I was struggling in the first place. I'm sorry for breaking your trust over and over again every time I stole from a patient. I'm sorry for being a shitty teacher and making the worst anniversary of your life worse. I'm sorry for coming back and putting you in a shitty position. I'm sorry for - "he falters here, because fuck that ambulance bay, actually. "I'm sorry for the long list of shitty things I said to you in the ambulance bay. I'm sorry Jake keeps liking my Instagram posts on purpose to hurt you."

Robby nods. "You done?"

"Yeah," Frank says, expecting that Robby will kick him out now.

"Most of that you don't owe me an apology for, because it was your addiction at work, not you. Jake's actions aren't yours, so you aren't responsible for them. You saved a lot of people when you came back. As for the rest… well. You're not the only one who was a dick in that ambulance bay, were you?"

No, Frank thinks, but he has spent so long feeling guilty for thinking it that he doesn't have an answer for it.

"I'm sorry too, Frank," Robby says.

Well, what is he supposed to do with that?

Frank kind of figures he's on a roll, and he might as well keep going. "I missed you."

Robby ducks his head the way he does when he's having an emotional beat that he wants to pretend he isn't having. "I missed you, too. I was trying to give you the space you needed. I didn't … want to push."

"I appreciate that," Frank says. "Well. I didn't come here to keep you up all night. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, Abby will have my ass for keeping you out this late," Robby says.

Oh, ha, ha, that's right, you have been unsubscribed to updates in my life for a while. "Actually, we're getting divorced," Frank says. "And I don't have the kids or the dog til this weekend, so nobody's waiting to be pissed at you at home."

Why did he say that? That sounds weird

Maybe Robby thinks so too, because he says "Oh, really?" followed by "I'm sorry" followed quickly by "You want to stay, then?"

Frank doesn't, exactly, have time to consider exactly what "stay" means, before he says "Yes."

~*~

As it turns out, maybe he won't leave after this year is up - that's what "stay" means.

[steddie-island]

Wiggly worm Wednesday🪱🖋️

I was tagged by @just-my-latest-hyperfixation and @whimsicalwadewinstonwilson

There are brain worms today but they're pretty angsty ones-- with a happy ending, because I can't let something just be angsty!

CW for recreational drug use, talk about addiction, mention of canon character death, PTSD

This is another long one, these get away from me somehow.

No pressure tagging @runninriot @stervrucht @rozzieroos and anyone else who wants to do this. 😌

I keep listening to My Fault by Shaboozey and seeing Eddie, rolling in the fame and glory he fought so hard for. He wonders why that doesn't fix him, wonders why he still has dreams about Chrissy Cunningham dying in front of him, why he still wakes up in a cold sweat with a mob hot on his heels.

Even having the love of his fucking life there doesn't make it all better, doesn't make it go away. Besides, Steve has his own shit, his own nightmares, his own trauma he's still trying to work through. Eddie refuses to be a burden.

So he turns to booze, and to drugs. He parties harder and harder, until he passes out hard enough that he doesn't dream (at least, he doesn't remember dreaming).

Steve knows something's changed. He's not an idiot, he's lived with Eddie for a few years now. He's seen enough rock stars on a downward trajectory, has had a few who crashed on their couch. Eddie's going down and he's going down hard, and Steve is fucking terrified.

He talks to Eddie, who insists he doesn't have a problem, he's fine, Steve's just being a worrier the way he always is. Eddie finally promises to slow down when Steve breaks down in front of him and literally begs.

And it's a promise Eddie means to keep, only slowing down means the dreams come back harder, stronger. So he doesn't slow down for long.

Steve tries to stick around and help him, but he can't handle seeing the way Eddie starts to look like a hollow shell of himself. He's still a livewire on-stage, but there's something more manic to it. The rest of the band notices it, too. Eddie tells them all to get off his dick when they try to have the same talk that Steve had with him.

Finally there's a breaking point. They're at an aftershow party. Someone flirts with Steve (something they're both used to because, fucking duh, Steve's hot). Only this time Eddie snaps, and he ends up breaking this poor asshole's nose, getting his own ass kicked a little, and he leaves in cuffs.

Steve leaves that night. Calls up Robin, who knows how worried he's been, and she and Vicki come help him pack his bags and come back to their little apartment to stay for a while.

Eddie's mugshot is all over the tabloids, followed by news of Corroded Coffin cutting their tour short, taking a break.

Then Eddie disappears from the public. It was one thing for the band to be as pissed as they were, but coming home to an empty apartment (not empty empty, but empty of the only thing he really gave a damn about besides Warlock) almost did him in.

So Eddie, for the first time since he left Hawkins, goes home to his uncle Wayne. Wayne helps him detox. And it's fucking hard. Eddie wants to give up, almost does a few times. Wayne catches him leaned over the bathroom counter and doesn't stop him, just says he hopes the hit is worth losing Steve forever.

Eddie hates him for a few days, but when the worst of it is finally over and Wayne brings him hot chocolate in a chipped Garfield mug, he instantly melts.

That isn't the end of it, though. There are meetings to go to. Apologies have to be made, and not just to the band and Steve. Eddie makes his way down the list, saving the most important person for last.

Finally he does show up at Steve's (Robin's) door, though. He thought about showing up with flowers and candy and the notebook full of songs he's written to try to show Steve just how sorry he is. He doesn't do any of that, he just apologizes. Asks Steve out for coffee.

They get to sit and talk, and it's like old times again. Steve's still cautious, but he has the man he fell in love with in front of him again. When Eddie drops him off at Robin's again it's with a kiss so gentle, so tender, it nearly makes Steve cry.

He moves back in a week later.

divider credit

[tobiasdrake]

The Hundred Line: Last Defense Academy 41 - Of Your Own Volition

Day 14. Two days remain until the deadline. Darumi and I are on an expedition to make Gaku become less of a sourpuss. Morale is low because at the end of this, I will have to speak with Gaku again. But I get to spend time with my bestie before then so that makes it worthwhile.

Here it comes. Moment of truth. Was this the most brilliant gift in the world or a stupid-ass decision?

WE GOT HIM FOLKS

Next steps in my Dating Sim Instruction Manual say we have to debate him in the arena of logic and reason until he agrees to die for us. LET'S GO.

You are, however, the kind of person who uses the term "Chad". Which I am not, by this point, surprised by.

Honestly, this experience will be good for you, Gaku. Think of it as a 100-day detox from the Andrew Tate videos.

Now let's go. Debate me, bruh.

TAKE THAT

I see your argument and I raise you THE FUCKING PAYCHECKS HIRUKO IS WORKING ON FOR US

Which...

Honestly has nothing to do with what you were talking about. It's not so much a rebuttal as it is a "Shut the fuck up and listen to me for five minutes".

Yes. I'm saying what literally every armed forces in the world says to the povertous in order to shore up their recruitment. Just stand here and let me tantalize you with promises of a steady paycheck so I can make you fight my ugly wars.

...fuck me, that was not the direction I foresaw this conversation going in. Gaku wants to let the TRC burn. He's not just apathetic to their safety; He actively wants them dead.

I don't... have an answer for this.

I don't know how to explain to you that you should care about other people.

Maybe his foster siblings are a soft spot? Though the way he talks about them doesn't make it sound like it.

Yeah, I can admit I misdiagnosed that one. I wouldn't say it's a complete misdiagnosis, though. He does feel like he lacks control over his life. But he's a lot more actively bitter about it than I realized.

I thought he felt hopeless, but it's more than that. He's vengeful. He wants the society that abandoned him and forced him to suffer like this to pay for it.

And... yeah. Obviously, some shit is bad in the TRC. Poverty is a failure of government to provide for its people. Gaku would absolutely be an Ultimate Despair cultist if he had the option. 100%

Alright, let's play the sibling card so we can charismatically persuade this poverty-stricken soul to vote against his own self-interest and die for the people who ruined his life.

OBJECTION

That's not how you really feel. If it was, you wouldn't have worked so hard to feed them. You're just posturing. I present, as evidence, your own fucking life.

You're just mad, bruh. Mad at the world. Mad at society. Mad at your life. It's okay to be mad. But you have to use it constructively.

Come do drugs with me. I can help you. By letting you stab things until your feelings dry up, and also you'll get paid to do it. It's amazing stress relief! Except when you die!

No, I get it. Buried deep down beneath all the bitterness and misanthropy, there's the tiniest little gold nugget of a decent guy somewhere inside you. It's just been beaten down so thoroughly by a shitty socioeconomic environment that it's made you receptive to predators like m-- uh, like Sirei. Yeah.

Good thing I got to you first before he could get his hooks in you! Keep it up, champ!

Yep! That's me! The decent guy who only has your best interest at heart. Looking forward to seeing you out on the battlefield! And remember, no matter what happens to you out there, it was always your choice that you made of your own volition.

You will, of course, need to sign this liability waiver before you can be given access to an Infuser.

[swifty-fox]

I’m curious why you’re anti-therapy? Personally I’ve never done it and you hear a lot about people going to therapy and how everyone should do it but not a lot from the opposite perspective

(Personally I’m skeptical of therapy and I’m genuinely curious because often my skepticism feels unfounded and people are weirdly touchy when you say that)

since these are so similar of asks I',m just gonna answer both lol.

First and foremost, medication and therapy are life saving care. My brother would not be alive without his antipsychotics, without the care of hospital staff and his mental health team. My sister would not be able to function and succeed in life the way she does. My closest friends would not be where they are without all the hard work they have put into therapy and the care of their therapists. You can ask any of my friends on tumblr and they will tell you I have always encouraged medication and therapy as an option Never in my post did I say they weren't. I said personally for me, I dislike them.

My blog is first, and foremost, a place for me to post about my personal life views and opinions and I stand by that. I was medicated from the ages of eight to eighteen, wherein I was abandoned by my psychologist and left to detox off of vyvanse, wellbutrin and prozac all at once (all dangerous to quit cold turkey) I was put on multiple medications as a child despite being, for all intents and purposes, a very mild case of both adhd and depression. This deeply affected my ability to feel emotions, to the point it would be my family reporting to my care team how I was feeling and behaving any given week because I didn't know. It affected my ability to experience sex, sexuality, sensuality, explore my body at the times when I should have started to do so. It left me emotionally numb, unable to eat to the point I was the same weight for a decade. I was let down by the adults and professionals in my life.

As an adult, because I was alread diagnosed, I was able to access and dicatet my own dosage of adhd medication as a way to exploit the system in order to manufacture disordered eating in order to lose weight. This slipped under the radar of both my therapist and psychiatrist. This medication also affected me to the point even friends at the time who hadn't seen me in years said, yeah, your personality is unrecognizable.

Medication, of the six different types I have been on, has never worked for me. It is frustrating to have to have this battle with every therapist because it is always their first and last solution, with the undercurrent of 'well I cant help you unless you are on drugs' and I simply don't accept that. Medication is support it Is not a fix and it is treated like that by so many therapists and mental health professionals.

And to therapy, I have been through seven therapists in my life and go into it with them being confident of being able to help me, and end with the message of 'well there's nothing seriously wrong with you, but also you're beyond my qualifications to help.' This has ranged from councilors, social workers, people with doctorates and masters and an array of years of experience. I am both an easy case and impossible to help. I've been posited as having autism, as having bpd, and then both retracted with a shrug.

I believe that we overmedicate people rather than deal with the root issues. Therapy, real therapy, is majority inaccessible to the people that need it most, and most people are not equipped to deal with people with serious mental health conditions. I have seen the system let down countless people.

When I say me personally, I mean I personally have deep, complex, negative feelings around medication and therapy.

To Gale, and Cicada Season. Again, this fic is for me. I love that people love it but the reason I wrote is because I almost ended my life last year and have only recently started talking to people about it. I had nobody on my (metaphorical) bridge; I didn't have a therapist, I didn't have medication. So I wrote a fic where Gale gets those things and those things work. And medication isn't for him. He's going to go off his medication because he doesn't like it and that's just fine! He can learn skills without it.

To first anon! Therapy works. with the right person with the right credentials with the right style. I am less anti-therapy for myself (cause damn I keep trying it) than I am anti-medication. But I have found myself frustrated, lost, forgotten and slipped between the cracks and the one style that everyone thinks might help me I cannot afford. And often it is a cycle of getting an expensive test done, and then getting no answers. Rinse and repeat. It's frustrating, it's isolating, it makes you feel uniquely sick in the head and broken and confused about what your own reality and mental state is. So yeah. I have little interest in pursuing further therapy at this time. But it can be beneficial to people. It just has not been to me.

and to the second anon, I am glad those things saved your life. They negatively impacted mine and I am allowed to talk about it, I am allowed to discuss how sometimes it feels weird to write about it so positively, when my own experiences are so opposite. The world is a spectrum and so are people's experiences

[15-lizards]

SUBMISSION FROM: @timcurry-imgoinghomedotmp4

It is I, swimming modern braime anon! Here is what I have so far, snipping up your "worst couple on god's green earth" post and using it as an outline:

they met while she was on her daily 5 am jog outside of campus and found him hungover on a park bench after a two week bender with coke in his pocket and 30 missed calls and 55 suggestive texts from Cersei.

She’s a college sophomore on a sports scholarship just trying to get through her classes. She’s managing but she also has insomnia so running and training her body helps.

She thinks he’s a bum but gives him her water bottle out of pity. She heads back to her dorm, where she changes into the the team logowear athleisure she lives in. t-shirt, hoodie, basketball shorts, leggings, all in combination, and of course parka. Socks regardless but sneakers or slides depening on weather. Or timbs in the winter, Wisconsin gets fucking COLD. Showering before grabbing huge breakfast and heading to classes.

A week later is the ribbon cutting on the new recreation and fitness center. Tywin Lannister's name is on the brand spanking new natatorium.

Jaime’s there bc he works at Daddy Tywin Roy’s multi media empire as a nepotism. He doesn't know what his title is. Director of management of talent, or talent management director, or something. Whatever.

He’s at the party bc again, nepotism, and also he has a bunch of swimming records on the books from the 00s when he was on the team there. He could not tell you the last time he was in the pool (he was burning out while setting those records, and then he got in the car accident and had an excuse to lose himself in cersei and booze and drugs and a bunch of pr girlfriends who thought they were his beard bc he was so disinterested in them. a real jude law's character in gattaca situation.

Anyway, he was drinking champagne and trying to decide if the high he would get from sneaking away to do a bump of coke would be worth the judgement from his father and had just decided he couldn't be fucked to care.

She's there because she's currently swimming and breaking her own records, in a Katie Ledecky-type situation of competing against herself in the women's races and being among the faster men. But she's there as STAR SCHOLARSHIP TALENT and is also very aware that she's so busy swimming that she's passing classes bc she can only afford to take "rocks for jocks" type stuff. anyway, oh baby she does not belong here. And also why does her dad have to be here too?

they meet eyes and immediately feel some kind of godawful connection they are Locked In now. He beelines over to her bc he subconsciously thinks she’s Mother Teresa but then verbally starts making fun of her for having a social climber daddy. She asks how his monthly detox at rehab was. They’re snippy with each other all night.

Next few days on Jaime’s end, Tyrion notices he can’t stop talking about how huge and strong Brienne looked in her dress. So big and fit? Just. I mean it’s like weird how she was so powerful and had also saved him in the morning and oh  remember how big Dayne was? Tyrion remember he had the 50 and 100 free records before I did, and he was HUGE and Brienne is so mannish like that. Strong. TOTALLYYYYYYY gross though ewwwww imagine if she was into me? and I had to talk to her and her awful father and her records and her swimmer's shoulders and. Tyrion yearns for death.

A few days later for Brienne, she’s getting coffee with Sansa after class. Sansa looks over to see who Brienne’s texting and goes why are you arguing with a thirty two year old man about whether he got touched out anchoring the medley relay at olympic trials thirteen fucking years ago?

More to come!

NOTE FROM ME USER 15-lizards: incredible impeccable no notes

[wilsonthemoose]

and after the fall, getting up again

Dean holds a spoon out in front of Sam like he's a kid again in bed with a fever. Sam expects the sickly sweet taste of cough syrup but gets a mouth full of blood instead.

Picks up after Dean has rescued Sam from a group of hunters who'd been using him as weapon to fight demons by force feeding him demon blood.

Written as a sequel to and if I swallow anything evil

Season/Series 05, Drug Withdrawal, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Detox, Implied age regression just a bit, Canon-Typical Violence

1.

Dean's colt houses seven rounds and can hold another in the chamber. Sam's Taurus takes eleven in the magazine plus one in the chamber and Dean's made a joke or two in the past, about Sam needing the extra ammo because his aim is just that bad, which is untrue, really but instead of calling him out on it or setting up a line of cans to illustrate like Dean would, in his shoes, Sam instead would say that he needs the extra ammo because of how often he needs to haul Dean's ass out of whatever he's got himself into, and they'd continue in that way until Sam took the high road and said, bitchily, whatever, or until Dean took the low road and mock-imitated Sam's voice in a childish whine that Sam could only roll his eyes at. These days Dean keeps Sam's gun concealed under his jacket at his back because Sam can't.

___

The world is only sound. At first distorted and unrecognizable, then resolving into discrete notes, crickets and owls, creaking wood, the sibilance of a voice heard from another room. Then sensation emerges, a chill first, then pain like a heartbeat, thudding against his chest, toothpicks driving into his brain, sandpaper throat and cotton-tongue. Hours or what feels like hours later, thoughts emerge but refuse to come into focus. Then the heartbeat of pain picks up, arrhythmic, and darkness closes in on him in waves.

___

Sam screams. And without 16 feet between them to take the edge off, Dean feels every sharp note until his entire body cringes in horror. He's there with a towel for Sam to bite into, there with hands to hold him down, there with a glass of water and a straw much later when he rouses, a little, and there again with stolen valium which he injects into Sam's arm with a shaking hand and watches, sagging in relief, when it works and Sam's body relaxes and settles back against the mattress. He is not there when Sam falls off the bed, but he's there to pick him up again. He's there next morning to mop up blood trickling thickly from Sam's nose. He is not there when Sam starts screaming again nor does he get there as quickly as he should, eyes screwed shut and hand clenched around the neck of a bottle, but he does go in time to hear Sam's voice start to break and fade, failing to keep up with the pain. Dean quickly twists the towel and sticks it between Sam's teeth, then incompetently, he has to run back out into the living room to fetch the kit he really should have left at Sam's bedside. He injects Sam's arm again and watches the arch of his back start to look less exorcist-y. He smooths Sam's hair back from his sweaty forehead and watches his breathing settle into a raspy rhythm.

He holds Sam's wrist, waits to feel his heart beat something like normally but every few fast beats, there is a discordant spike, like a stumble going down the stairs and he wonders how much longer Sam can take, really.

2.

There is a febrile turn to his dreams, a vividity and horror that evaporates when he wakes but lingers thick in the air until he falls into sleep again when it drips back down onto his skin and seeps into him. Faces loom above him, blood drips from a crack in the ceiling, Sam cranes his neck to catch a drop, the crack widens, splinters, the drops become a rivulet then a deluge. He tries to get away, arms catch him and hold him down. Dean's voice tells him it's okay so he goes still. Blood clings to his body, warm and sticky and unclean. He moves his head again and this time manages to catch a mouthful of the blood and wants to cry in shame and relief.

The Dean in his dreams shushes him and tells him it's okay and everything will be okay and Sam doesn't believe him but humors him with a smile nonetheless, licking the last drop of blood still lingering on his lips.

When he wakes up, Dean is there again, still, frowning in concern, pushing his shoulder back down into the bed when Sam tries in surprise and happiness to get up and fails. "Here," Dean says, "Drink," and pushes a straw against his lip, making it itch. Sam takes a grateful sip but the straw withdraws too quickly. "Give it a minute," Dean tells him and then he feels his stomach cramp and supposes it was probably a good idea.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean says again and this time Sam really does believe him because things actually do tend to be okay when his brother's around. He smiles. He's feeling better.

3.

Dean stands in Sam's doorway, leans against the door frame and watches Sam writhe and twist, face shining under a sheen of sweat. There is nothing violent about this. Nothing that would carry 16 feet into the room above. He's done this right, he thinks. Hopes. Doesn't quite pray but pleads out loud later sitting hunched over his knees on the edge of his bed.

4.

Dean scrubs blood out of the cuffs of his rolled up shirt and jacket, rubs it out from under his fingers though he'd be lying if he said it's bothered him in a very long time. He's stopped being able to tell the difference between his blood, someone else's, and a monster's. Time was he knew the source of each specific splatter or at least obsessed over it. He feels perpetually blood-soaked now, and has since before even hell, if he's honest. He thinks it should bother him.

___

"Here, Sammy," Dean's voice says and he tries to move forward, grateful for more water, tries to open his eyes. Dean's holding a spoon out in front of him. Cough syrup, he supposes, for his throat.

Dean always liked to play doctor, when Sam was sick. He'd ask their father if he could be the one to give Sammy his medicine and Dad would normally agree, even though he knew Dean might spill it on the blanket. His head hurts from thinking but he takes it as a good sign that he can think at all, his brain isn't totally fried. He moves forward, opens his mouth, expecting the molten berry-and-sugar taste of cough syrup. A sweet metallic taste fills his mouth instead and panic floods his body, clamps an iron grip around his throat, he chokes. Dean or the person Sam thought was Dean apologizes again and again. Sam curls up and cries.

___

Dean leaves the body to be found, after he's bled and killed the demon inside. Lets it be another unexplained disappearance and death rather than a total mystery, rather than disposing of it himself and maybe someone out there somewhere needs closure, maybe someone out there is looking and cares enough to keep looking in the way he should have. In the way it crossed his mind, fleetingly, when he first heard from someone that Sam hadn't been answering his phone. But he never stopped to seriously consider it. And that one fleeting moment of instinctual concern is not something he can offer Sam later, in the way of I-though-of-calling-a-hundred-times or I-just-didn't-want-to-impose-you-know-it's-been-so-long that he supposes people might offer to their friends or even to their brothers when they hear of a misfortune many months back that they offered no help with. As consolation. I thought of looking, for a very short moment there. Does that help? Does it show you I care?

___

Sam counts the popcorn cracks on the ceiling and gets disoriented at seven. There is a rat-bite on the index of his left hand that he's pretty sure needs attention.

___

Good intentions should mean something. Dean is not all that rational about things, generally, his thinking leans more towards emotion. He admits it, at least to himself though sometimes if a mirror is held up to his face he refuses to look into it. He admits this, to himself, too.

Good intentions should mean something, when actions are measured and a life judged. The notion is perhaps thin in the face of the end of the world but the thought pulls and nags, Sam only ever thought he was doing the right thing even if he felt that the means were wrong. Did he feel that? Dean has to suppose he did. Does. And then there's the matter of him screaming yes under Alaistair's pointy little ice-pick of a knife. So stones and glass houses then. There's plenty of culpability- it comes in a family-size pack. All self-defense dies bitter on his tongue. Sam thought he was doing the right thing the only way he thought he could do it. Dean has no such consolations for himself.

So then going against him is the problem. Dean's personal stick-up. Not the action, not the reason, the outcome only insofar as it turned out to support Dean's anger and the means in that he is entirely, even now, repulsed by the demon blood. But really the running away from that panic room. The lying. The walking out when Dean said he could never then come back. But then, like father like son, after all.

And look at him looking in the mirror. It only took so long.

5.

Dean's no good at guilt. Most things after long association, like loss perhaps, or hunting or shooting or drinking or anger or anything else really, you get to be pretty good at. But Dean's still no good at guilt. So he makes his apologies when Sam is asleep and does so in a whisper even he can barely hear.

It does no good to anybody.

___

Sam sits up, testing his strength. Dizziness threatens when he pushes himself up from the bed, his breathing becomes shallow, his vision goes dark, then slowly begins to clear again. He resists the urge to double up and heave. He sits back down on the bed and wraps his arms around himself, tries to get air into his lungs but it refuses to go further than the back of his throat and he's so out of breath he feels like he'll pass out just sitting there.

___

"I'm a screw-up," Sam tells him. "All I've ever done is screw things up," and Dean feels helpless watching him cry, fetal and shaking. He rubs circles on his calf and doesn't let go until Sam falls asleep.

6.

"They're giving you a wide berth, sounds like." Bobby tells him of the other hunters who'd been keeping Sam. Dean's gun houses seven rounds which he emptied into the bodies then corpses of the only two men he'd found when he'd gone to get Sam. From what they've gathered without ever asking Sam, there were three others and Dean's itching to empty another magazine and maybe drown some of his anger with himself in the process but apparently no such luck any time soon.

___

Dean isn't looking at him, he is, in fact, not looking at him. He comes up to the side of the bed, pours a spoonful from a flask and holds it up in front of Sam, says, "Here, drink."

Soundless with terror, Sam shakes his head.

"Come on, Sam." Dean clamps a hand down on his wrist and lends the gesture a gentle touch by rubbing his thumb along Sam's hand. Sam fails to feel comforted. "Just— just drink this. It's just for a little while. You'll feel better."

"Dean, no," pleading, begging, confused. "Dean. Please." Not you.

Dean looks tortured and determined. "Just till you start feeling like yourself again," and Sam's short fear-soaked laugh is cut off by the spoon darting into his mouth.

___

He wonders what it's like to drink blood and repulsion boils up in his stomach, somewhat dulled from when he first found out and no longer blinding but it still makes his skin crawl.

Sam is sitting curled on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, holding something in his hands. So he's out of bed, meaning he's strong enough to get out of bed. So Dean's doing something right. He sinks down to the floor next to Sam and holds out his hand. "Can I see that?" he asks, gently. Sam hands over the little figurine, a mantle-piece soldier in blue uniform, ceramic, warm from Sam's hands. Talking to a victim in a situation like this, Sam would've known what to say. Dean just hands it back mutely and watches Sam's hands curl back around it. He holds out the flask. In place of an apology this time he tells his brother he doesn't want him to die and Sam came far too close last time, in the panic room. Like it's for him to tell of. Like it happened to him and not to Sam.

"We take this slowly," he says, "Until you have your strength back. Then we kick it in the ass." He looks over at Sam, hoping for a flicker of determination but sees deadened eyes looking at the unopened flask in his hand. "I can't make you— " he starts and stops. "You can't do this cold turkey, Sam. It'll kill you." Almost did.

"I think I'd prefer that." Sam says. There is nothing of teenage petulance or melodrama in the statement. It is not thrown out but laid down. As it is.

There is something like a glint in his eye when he finally takes a swig though. Then he presses his eyes closed and doesn't even blink when his head falls back against the wall with a thunk.

Dean tries to draw the line at four drinks a night but usually allows himself a fifth because five feels more like four than four does.

He finds a small plush reindeer in a box of Christmas lights in the attic and leaves it for Sam to find.

7.

"Only drawing it out," Sam says when he sees him watching. He's lying on the floor of the bathroom Dean really should have washed, in hindsight. He's on his side and curled, one arm wrapped around his stomach. His eyes are red, skin flaking and faintly yellow.

"I don't know what to do, Sam," he admits, softly, then regrets it when fear flashes across Sam's eyes. He blinks and it's gone, replaced with something that looks an awful lot like forfeiture.

"It's too much," Sam says, almost to himself before he passes out, right there on the floor, the reindeer's green ribbon poking out of his hand.

8.

Sam kneels on his knees in the bathroom, lets himself heave bile into the flush. Braces his hands against the floor and doesn't really try to stop shaking so much as let it happen and wait it out, not caring when his long hair falls on the porcelain of the toilet. He's beyond caring. Beyond dignity. A twitching pile of limbs shaking with spasms.

He hears Dean's boots thudding down the hallway, pausing at his door, receding again down the hallway and returning. And it is Dean. He's convinced of it now though when the tries to unravel the thread and trace it back to its beginning he finds that it's been cut and he feels lost in the weight of everything that he doesn't understand. But it is Dean. He kneels down in front of Sam, on the chipped and stained floor, pushes Sam's hair back from his forehead, gently tilts his head up and holds a flask out in front of Sam. It beggars belief.

"You of all people," Sam tries to say around his raw throat, sounding like a gasp rather than a voice. He clears his throat. Before he can try again, Dean begins telling him it's just for now, just until Sam gets his strength back, and they can taper him off, slowly, doesn't say anything this time about Sam feeling like himself again— hasn't since that once— so maybe he's noticed enough to want to spare his feelings if nothing else. Sam clamps his mouth shut and scrambles back until his back meets the wall. Dean holds the flask out again and Sam takes a sip.

Nothing makes sense.

Dean apologizes again when Sam scrubs his sleeve across his mouth and sits back on the floor across from him, drawing his legs up under him.

Sam supposes colour probably seeps back into his skin in tandem with the sickness receding from his stomach and is ashamed of it. The evidence that he needs this. That it works.

___

It goes. It doesn't go well but it goes.

Sam takes his first shower in— Dean doesn't even want to think how long it must have been— and comes out looking like a drowned kitten, shaking violently. Dean steers him over to the fireplace and runs out to gather some wood and foliage as fast as he can. He builds a sooty spluttering thing and resolves to gather something that will give off actual flames soon.

Pain, shock, habitual compliance, addiction, withdrawals, exhaustion or some combination of the six makes Sam do as Dean says.

Most things will become routine, routine will fall into habit, habit will become unthinking. Sam hasn't been protesting at all and Dean isn't sure if it makes him feel better about the whole thing or worse. And he doesn't examine why a cross-roads demon turns up at every summons to be bled out and gutted every few days. He even gets used to the bottles of blood in the ice-box.

He keeps the laptop charged and stares at the screen obsessively. He even sets up his phone to get alerts— credit-card fraud, he's always been good at, this is hardly much different. He stares at the small professional ID card pictures of the two men he'd killed when he'd found Sam and keeps his anger at a steady simmer.

Sam walks around the cabin like a caged dog, all bones and purple-blue blood vessels, several pounds the worse for wear. Back hunched and hands in his pockets.

He watches cartoons and sleeps with a pillow clutched to his stomach.

Dean temps him out to the porch one morning for fresh air. The hunting lodge they're squatting in offers not much in the way of a view, surrounded as it is on all sides by sparse woods and thick undergrowth, but the air is still crisp and fragrant. He breathes it in wheezily and faints going back inside, later, and Dean doesn't manage to catch his head. There's little blood.

9.

Minutes stretch into hours, hours inch forward into days, days tick on into a week. Sam's pretty sure it's been a week. The road-runner runs into painted mountain-sides, the pink panther paints the detective pink, Daffy jumps up and down in outrage, Dean sounds slurred even when he laughs. Sam feels cold all the time and his teeth hurt from clattering so much. Everything hurts, even breathing. He sleeps all the time and is still exhausted. Dean frowns when he brings it up and tells him there are no rats here.

___

Dean broods. He goes on supply runs, flirts with waitresses, builds a fire, sometimes. He takes a little too much pleasure in killing the cross-roads demons and has to remind himself he's doing it for a purpose. He finds himself drawing it out too much nonetheless and begins to feel like anger is the only thing he can really feel, anymore, which is the sort of lousy lie he shouldn't be telling even himself.

He checks the laptop obsessively.

Sam goes on walks and comes back in breathless. He manages to make it all the way around the cabin one day and Dean can see his legs shaking even under the too-loose jeans. Dean decides he'll let him have another day like this, just one more good day, then start tapering the blood down from four times a day to three to zero.

___

He didn't know it was possible to feel this cold.

10.

It goes. It doesn't go well but it goes.

Sam doesn't make it off the bathroom floor for about four days. Dean piles pillows, towels, and sheets under him and tries to get him to eat and drink. The violence of Sam's condition takes him by surprise and when Sam begs for blood, Dean almost gives in. He summons another demon, even bleeds it out and kills it but then upends the little bucket of blood into the sink and goes back to Sam empty-handed. He promises pain-killers if Sam will eat.

There is something broken in the way Sam acquiesces.

___

Time stops moving at all though he can hear an extraordinarily loud ticking from a clock somewhere. His gums start bleeding and fill his mouth with blood that does nothing for him. He is soaked in cold sweat and in dire need of a shower but only just breathing seems like a tall order mostly. His head thuds with pain.

___

It goes. It doesn't go well, but it goes.

Sam makes it out of bed and to the little dining table once a day, even assists Dean with a cross-word he's pulled out of an old newspaper. He starts eating like it isn't a punishment and goes for walks again.

11.

It goes. It starts to go well.

Sam loses the hungry, bruised look. He walks around the cabin sometimes twice a day. The tendons on his hands stop standing out so much and Dean takes him to a diner for breakfast one morning where he orders waffles and a milkshake and his eyes go a little cross when he looks at the straw while drinking.

Slowly, the hollows in his cheeks fill out. Lines smoothed out, Sam starts looking disquietingly young, like a lost child.

It's late in October so Dean asks if he's ready to move on, ditch the cabin and find a motel in a warmer state. He blinks, wide-eyed at being asked and nods, "If that's what you want."

On the drive Sam points out a herd of cows in a field and holds his arm out of the window where the sunlight makes his skin look almost healthy. Dean finds music he knows Sam likes too and stops along the way much earlier than he'd like because Sam's been squirming in his seat. In the motel they watch cartoons again.

Dean stops for meals, finds roadhouses and diners. Sam kneels down to pet a chained dog at a gas station once. It goes really well.

Until something breaks.

"Can we— " Sam hesitates, hedges, slowly ventures "Find a pinball machine?"

Maybe the break isn't new. Maybe he's just seeing it now.

Or maybe he saw it all along just didn't clock it for what it was. Or maybe that's a lie too— maybe mirrors aren't the only things he doesn't like to look into.

"Sure, kid," he hears himself say. Sam even smiles like a kid.

___

Sam chews on his collar, fiddles with the button on his cuff and is just about to ask, when Dean's phone pings with an alert and he lurches the car off to the side of the road, sending Sam barrelling into the dashboard. He doesn't get a chance to ask as Dean looks at his phone, announces they're going hunting and digs his foot into the pedal with much less reverence for the car than Sam would've expected.

He doesn't feel like hunting.

___

They drive across three states without stopping much at all. Sam squirms in his seat, even asks once when they'll stop, but Dean takes the drive in long stretches, stopping only to sleep.

It takes three days, even once they've arrived in the city, and Dean's beginning to lose patience, beginning to think they've probably moved on, beginning to think it might not be them— what kind of idiot uses the credit card of their discovered and dead partners anyway, and he's getting sick of sitting around in car parks outside motels, watching, of sitting outside diners and bars, watching, of driving all over the city chasing down people he wouldn't recognize even if he found them. He's getting tired of Sam always asking when they can go home and tired of wanting to snap that there is no home, tired of feeling like shit, tired of Sam looking like he's bored, and then on the third day, driving by what looks like an abandoned apartment building in the evening, thinking about giving up the chase, he sees Sam freeze in his seat and turns to follow his line of sight to the building. He asks if he recognizes it and takes Sam's tight nod as confirmation.

Dean's gun holds seven rounds in the magazine and another in the chamber but he leaves it with Sam in the car. He takes the stairs two at a time, runs at a low silent crouch across the halls, slinking from shadow to shadow until on the sixth floor, he hears sounds above. He walks the final flight of stairs and pauses until his breathing evens out completely. The deadened cold rage he feels surprises him. Sam's gun feels heavy in his hand, loaded with eleven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. He flicks the safety off and favours rage to good judgement as he kicks the door open. Three people leap up, three hands reach for weapons, three pairs of eyes go wide in recognition. Dean shoots the fastest draw in the hand just as her pistol comes up, and levels the gun in between the other two, making a show of looking between them as the girl doubles up screaming, and clutches her bleeding hand.

"Guess I've got the right place," he says coldly.

He's got the gun leveled between the other two and one is clearly injured already, but the room is too small for there to be enough distance between him and them— it's the sort of thing he's supposed to be aware of, keeping enough distance between himself and whoever he's pointing his gun at that they can't charge him or relieve him of his weapon without getting shot themselves. But he isn't thinking, isn't as cool headed as he'd thought he is. It happens too fast. One minute the two men are standing with their arms raised and the woman is cursing at him, doubled up, the next thing he knows, the men leap at him at the same time without warning. Dean's shot grazes one in the arm, if that, and then he's pinned down to the floor and watching the woman stumble towards her gun while the two men secure their hold on him. His hand holding Sam's gun is crushed under a boot, and then the gun is kicked away.

A hand grabs his hair and uses it to pull his head up from the floor and one of the men is gloating about how he's been waiting for Dean to turn up— they've got a score to settle— when two shots ring out in quick succession and two bodies thud to the floor. Dean kicks the legs out of the only man left standing before he can think to react and rolls to a crouch before standing up. "Your aim is shit," he tells his brother, watching one of the men clutching at his bleeding stomach, screaming curses out of clenched teeth. The other has his hands up in surrender. The woman is dead.

Sam is breathing heavily from his run up the stairs but his eyes are almost vacant as he looks at the third man. Dean gives him a minute, standing completely still, then goes to retrieve Sam's gun from the floor where it'd been kicked in the scuffle.

Walking back to the car, he returns Sam's gun empty and reclaims his own.

12.

They drive for hours, play pinball on an old-fashioned console with flashing neon, stop at a laundromat where Sam tosses the reindeer in with his clothes and fishes it fondly out of the drier, looking relieved to have it back. "So what else?" Dean asks. "Mini-golf, chicks? What'd you miss?"

Sam leans back in his seat. "Yeah I could go for mini-golf," he says.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Deadly Proposal: Part Four

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.9k

Warnings: angst, mentions of drug use, drug angst

Summary: Amber is detoxing which is dangerous for everyone. To make matters worse, Dean asks one of his friends to babysit you. You've been marked by Dean for all vampires to know but that doesn't stop Amara from wanting a tiny taste of your blood.

Deadly Proposal Masterlist

Square Filled: clothes sharing (2022) for @spndeanbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

The sound of yelling is what wakes you up. It sounds like your sister so you jump out of bed in fear that she is fighting with Dean. You throw on the first thing you see--Dean’s shirt--and rush downstairs to the kitchen. Amber is fighting the chef like she wants to cook something.

“Amber, stop! What are you doing?” you ask and pull your sister from the chef.

“She won’t let me cook anything!”

“Don’t worry about it. She will cook whatever you want to eat. Sit down.” She does. “I’m sorry.” The chef huffs out in anger before preparing breakfast. Amber rolls her eyes and starts picking at her nailbeds. “You need to calm down, okay? This isn’t home. You can’t boss everyone around when you’re detoxing.”

“Don’t act like you care about me,” she snaps. “You only got me because you had to.”

A surge of anger runs through your veins.

“No, I didn’t have to do shit for you. I could have left you there to fend for yourself. Mom and Dad tried to convince me not to go but I did. I’ve always been the one who was there for you.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she sighs sadly.

“Stop yelling at people who just want to help you. Chef Sonja works and lives here, okay?”

Amber’s attitude immediately changes when she hears your words. You can’t keep up with her sometimes. She gives you whiplash with how fast she changes her attitude.

“So, you got yourself a private chef, huh?” she smirks.

“She’s not mine. She’s Dean’s chef.”

“Tell me about this Dean.”

She gets up and searches through the fridge for something to drink. She pulls out a half-drunk vodka bottle. You hate she’s grabbing alcohol but you learned quite early never to tell Amber not to do something.

“I met him at a motel on the way to get you. He was at the bar.”

This is technically true but you decide to keep out the vampire part. She wouldn’t understand, and it would only complicate things.

“So, you’ve only known him a few weeks? You sound more like me.” Hate and disgust fill your chest. You don’t comment on it because you don’t want to upset her. You’ll never be like her and she knows it. “Have you fucked him?”

“Amber!”

“What? It’s a valid question.”

You give Sonja a side glance but her back is turned to you as she cooks. That doesn’t mean she’s listening in, though.

“No, we haven’t,” you grit out.

“Why not? I would have,” she shrugs. “Maybe I might.”

“No, you won’t. Leave him alone.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Amber. Leave him alone.”

“Okay, Mom,” she rolls her eyes.

You sit with her at the kitchen counter and fiddle with your fingers nervously.

“Listen, Dean only gave you a week to be here.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow. My boyfriend is going to pick me up.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. He’s real classy. He’s got his own car and everything,” she grins.

You honestly don’t know what to say to that. You’re trying really hard not to cry for her right now. She’s your older sister and her life is so sad.

“Who is he?” you ask after a pause.

“Dustin. I met him in jail as he was getting out.”

“What was he in jail for?”

“Drug possession,” she shrugs. She sees the disappointment on your face and waves you off. “He was falsely convicted.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Sonja plates the food and gives it to Amber who immediately digs into it. She offers you a plate but you politely decline. You leave Amber in the kitchen by herself while you think about her words. Are you really going to let her go off with this man she doesn’t know who may or may not have drugs? Yes, you are. She is not your problem. She made her bed, now she has to lie in it. It’s hard seeing someone you love go through something like this.

You’re not looking where you’re going and run into Dean in the main hallway. His hands grab your shoulders to keep you steady so you don’t fall on your ass. You turn your head away so he doesn’t see the blush on your cheeks but you think he knows.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“I have to leave for the day but one of my friends is coming to babysit.”

“Are you serious?”

“Maybe if it was just you, I wouldn’t need her but I don’t trust Amber..”

“Her?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he smirks. “Is that a problem?”

“Is she… like you?”

“Yes.” He must see the panic on your face because he immediately eases your concerns. “Don’t worry, I trust her. She won’t hurt you or your sister.”

“Fine,” you sigh.

Dean leaves once his friend comes over, and you’re floored at how beautiful she is. Amara is her name. She walks with purpose and in red-bottom heels. She looks at you with disdain and discontentment.

“He owes me for babysitting a couple of humans,” she rolls her eyes.

This is your chance. This is your chance to get to know Dean since he refuses to answer your questions. This is how you’re going to get to know him. Amara walks into the living room and sits on the sofa with her legs propped up. You follow behind her and stand awkwardly in the doorway.

“Either come in or leave but don’t stand there.”

“Sorry,” you mutter and step inside. “I just… Dean won’t answer my questions. Maybe you can?”

“What do you want to know?”

You sit next to her on the couch and hold your hands close to your body to try and hide how nervous you are.

“I want to know more about him. Does he have any family? If so, where are they? How old is he? How did he become a vampire? What does he do for work?”

“Slow down there,” Amara chuckles.

“Does he have any family?”

“He did once. He doesn’t anymore.”

What does that mean? With the way Amara is looking at you, you know she won’t deliver any more information than that.

“How old is he?”

“Old.”

“How did he become a vampire?”

“Someone turned him.”

“What does he do for work?”

“I don’t think he’d like it if I told you,” she chuckles.

“Are you going to tell me anything?”

“Nope.”

You huff out in annoyance and leave the living room. Instead of entertaining your sister or being Amara’s puppet, you decide to go outside and cut some flowers to make a beautiful bouquet. Dean’s house lacks severe color, and this will give rooms some life. After grabbing shears from the shed, you go outside and start cutting them off their stems. After about an hour of gathering a bunch of flowers, you head back inside the kitchen to cut off the thorns.

You set the flowers down on the kitchen island and pull the trashcan toward you. You’re careful not to prick yourself with the thorns until you’re not. You grab a long-stemmed rose and move too quickly where one of the thorns rip into your hand. You curse and drop the rose onto the counter before assessing your bleeding hand.

Amara has been reading the magazines Dean keeps around when a sweet substance fills her nose. She drops the magazine just as her fangs come out. This isn’t like normal blood. This is something… different. She’s never smelled this kind of blood before, and she’s been around a long time. She knows what all kinds of blood smells like. Dean says not to touch you or your sister but lets the bloodlust take over her logical thinking.

You wash your hands to clean the blood off your hands when Amara rushes into the kitchen with her vampire speed. She pins you to the wall causing you to yelp out in surprise.

“Amara, wha--”

“What is that delicious smell?” She leans in and runs the tip of her nose along your pulse point which is throbbing like crazy. Her nose touches the marks Dean left behind and she growls. You’ve been marked by another vampire. That other vampire being one of her good friends. “You have special blood. I’ve never smelled this before. I just want one tiny sip.”

“Get off me!” you yell.

Amber hears your distress signals and comes rushing into the kitchen. She grabs Amara’s dress and yanks her off you in one swift motion.

“Get the fuck off her!”

Amara looks at Amber with deadly red eyes, and you quickly step in between them so she doesn’t hurt her.

“Back off, Amara, before Dean hears about this.”

She looks down at your bleeding finger with a glare before stalking off.

“What the fuck just happened?” Amber asks.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? She was about to attack you! Something weird is going on here.” She looks around the kitchen in thought. “Why would you be with a man you just met, and are now living with him?”

“Please, just drop it, Amber.”

You put your bloody finger in your mouth and lick the blood off before wiping your finger on your jeans. You grab the flowers you already cut and fix them into two bouquets.

“No, this isn’t like you. You’re the good girl. You once refused to move in with Jeremy even though you two had been dating for an entire year. You said you didn’t want to ruin anything. Now, you’re living with a man you met a few weeks ago?”

“Amber, drop it. I’m serious.” She doesn’t. She keeps rambling about how this is so out of character for you and if she continues, she’s going to figure out that Dean isn’t human. “Amber! My God! Stay out of my fucking business! You don’t know anything about this, and you’re just getting in the way!”

Her entire face drops at your words. You hate it but you can’t let her know about the supernatural. Her face hardens into something cold a minute later.

“You want me gone? Fine. I’m gone.”

She storms out of the kitchen and you sigh sadly. This is all becoming too much and it’s all Dean’s fault. If he hadn’t left Amara in charge, none of this would have ever happened. When Dean comes back later that night, you push him angrily into the wall behind him.

“What the fuck?”

“Tell your so-called ‘friend’ to keep her fucking hands to herself.”

“What happened?”

“She almost bit me, that’s what happened!”

Dean growls angrily and storms into the living room where Amara has been since she left you alone. He slams the door behind him, letting you know that he wants to talk to her in private. You can hear him yelling at her but you can’t make out exactly what he’s saying. Eventually, she leaves the room and heads to the front door. She notices you lingering about and gives you a smirk.

“See you later, Little Flower.”

Dean leaves the living room but you’re far from done with this conversation.

“What did you tell her?”

“None of your business.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

Dean pauses by the stairs and chuckles.

“What if she is? What’s it to you?” You open your mouth to answer but Dean immediately cuts you off. “Don’t forget that I’m not your boyfriend. You’re here for one purpose and one purpose only. I want your blood, nothing more.”

Dean leaves you standing in the hallway with a frown on your face. It’s true. You’re only here to give him your blood but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You’re falling for him fast with no chance of slowing down.

x

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[stevesnightmares]

I have to be honest and say that I personally very dislike the way Nora handles addiction in her books just because, to me, it always just feels a little too flimsy and not researched at all.

The most difficult part of being an addict isn't simply being able to go through the detox process, that's hard in itself of course and can be very painful and mentally straining, but the hardest part of being an addict is that you'll always be an addict. Being clean doesn't mean that you are not an addict anymore.

Aaron is an addict, one that got clean very recently at that, and yet they bring him to bars, the make him drink alchol, they make him thake cracker dust. Not only is Aaron not clean and sober but he's also in an extremely tempting environment that would make it so easy for him to start using other drugs again.

To me, it just looks like it was written by someone that has no idea of what being an addict is, of how much being an addict takes from you, how much being an addict is who you are. You could be 50 with 3 children and a wife, 35 years clean with a perfect job and still you might one morning wake up and run a to an NA or AA meeting because the sink broke, your child wouldn't stop crying and your wife is upset with you and you need to take a hit or your veins will explode. And yet Aaron, olny sober for around 3 years, gets drunk and even gets high every weekend. That's a sure recipe for relapse.

I know everyone deals with their sobriety differently, I know there are people, for example, who are California sober (no alcohol, no drugs, yes marijuan or some other drugs). We could debate about our thoughts on the topic if you see it differently but to me it seems like being californiana sober is just a first step towards the right direction, it's a way to reduce the dangers and the most prominent side effect of being an addict without actually having to abstain from drugs. We all take different paths in a life, there is not just one way to do something and everyone must do what it's right for them and what works for them, so if cali sober works for u that'sgreat. But being californiano sober (which is not even what Aaron is doing cause he does consume alchol very regularly) could easly lead him to becoming an alcoholic or make him addicted to craker dust because when you substitute one substantial for another is very very easy to just get addicted to the new one.

Again, I know everyone deals with sobriety differently, but I just feel like Aaron sobriety is just very badly handled and most importantly not very well thought out, probably because he's just a side character so maybe there wasn't really much thought put into it.