#The gun is leaky tighten it up

[baby-tini]

M4S

It was quiet… too quiet. The leaky pipe making puddles on the floor. The cold, damp air causes goosebumps to perk up on your arms and the hairs to stand up. Trying to move slightly, you hiss at the sharp cuffs as they bite at your raw wrists, the chair groans as you wriggle around in discomfort. Your thighs numb from not moving around, cracking your neck, you whine at the release of tension. The tight ropes giving you some relief when you inhale but cause you to choke up from the smell of bleach. Your ass is sore from the hard, wooden chair as you attempt to wiggle again, get some of the blood flow back into your legs, stretching them feels to hard as the lack of flow makes them feel heavier.

There's a bang upstairs… like a gun shot, then a harsh, bloody cry. One of pain and agony, it feels close but.. far? You're tired, hungry.. dazed maybe? Were you drugged? No, maybe it's just the lack of oxygen from the stuffy room, cold enough to be a basement.. but not quiet enough to be soundproof. Screaming might work, then again, alerting your.. kidnappers, won't benefit you, not even a little, but it's all you got. Although before you can even inhale the air there's a door that slams open not too far away from where you're tied up. It sounds broken from the sickening crack you hear reverberate off the walls. The stampede of steps sound angry, aggressive, the harsh groan of the steps and ear-splitting squeak of shoes tells you that much.

There's loud yelling in Japanese, then a sharp slap to your face, your head flies left so hard your neck cramps up, causing a dull pain to shoot through you. The whimper in pain is laughed off by the men… men? Maybe two, possibly three but you can't tell for sure. It hurts though, everything hurts, and everything hurts even more when a rough hand grabs a fist-full of your hair and yanks back at the root, causing a scream to rip from your throat, only for a bigger, colder hand to clamp around your throat and squeeze tight. A hand, soft and warm wipes away the sweat from your brow, sliding from your cheek to the fat of your lips and running a thumb? over it, tapping the bottom twice, your jaw dropping for entry, the loose feeling of your jaw is nice, until you feel a cold, hard piece slip between them… a gun. The tip of your tongue meets the trigger and you freeze up, attempting to pull away, only for the hand gripping your hair to pull you forward, making you gag on it. There's bile attacking the back of your throat, trying to force it back with a swallow only makes the gun slide deeper, the metal cutting the corners of your lips as your blindfold is pulled off.

"There's no use in pulling back, angel." A man, more on the shorter side, no taller than 5'5, with black hair speaks to you. His voice sound's deep and alluring, you'd go as far as to say sexy if it weren't for the circumstances. He looks similar to his counterpart, the one with white hair, just, not the blonde. The blonde looks the same.. but different? He looked meaner, more provokable, the one with his hand around your throat. The blondes hand tightened when you continued to force yourself away from the gun in the hand of the man with white hair.

There's little strength used to push you back onto the gun, your throat spasming around the intrusive piece of metal. The gag that comes from your throat is loud but muffled at the same time. The hand used to push you further onto the Dessert Eagle -that also has his hand in your hair- is connected to that of a black-haired man, the cut and color really fitting his skin tone and face. He's attractive.. they all are, but, you're still tied up in their basement, the ropes still tight around your abdomen. The prickly fibers on the rope, passing through your thin clothes and leaving an itchy and raw feeling on your skin. The ropes rubbing against the inevitable cuts on your stomach and chest.

The black-haired man leans down, as he pulls your head further back, the quirk of his lips obvious but not genuine. His eyes are the worst, big, black, soulless pits. There's something.. dark, maybe sinister even. Eyes that belong to a killer, not a human being. The eyes of tragedy and sin, not of praise and prayer. He's.. too close, his big black, bottomless eyes, they're scary. Like they can see through you, like theres nothing in them. You can't see a pupil, does he have pupils? He must, but then again, he's not the most… normal looking man you've ever met.

You're lost in a daze, the mans dark eyes like a never-ending abyss, that, you don't realize the calling of your name by the three men, that is, until you feel the hand wrapped around your throat -by the long-haired blonde- slap your cheek. Not as hard as you would've guessed but hard enough to snap you out of your daze. The cloudiness of your eyes leaving and the limp state goes away. The redirect of your mind leads you to look at the man with white hair. He has the same dead, black eyes but.. he looks more tired, more exhausted. He looks like skin and bones, the clothes he's wearing hanging off him noticeably.

The man with white hair speaks up, "When one of us asks a question, you answer, not a moment before and certainly not a moment after. Do you understand.. I said, Do. You. Understand?" You give a nod after a moment of hesitance, the pupil of your eyes dilate at the gun. Your whole body is trembling, "are you gonna kill me..?" It comes out as a muffled whimper, around the gun, less of what you planned but suitable nonetheless, given the situation. You wish they didn't hold so much power but.. these men looked dangerous, it would be best to play as submissive as possible.. be their little angel, so to speak.

The white-haired man stares at you for a second, "I won't kill you if… you give me what I want, deal?" There's an automatic nod to your head. The glow in your eyes speaks for you, as you try to lean forward ready to give them everything… only to freeze at the sadistic grin he -the white-haired man- gives you. The man, slides the gun out of your mouth and uses it to lift your chin, "You eager.. huh, pretty doll?" The fat of your cheeks flush at his words but you don't pull away, not like you were ables to anyway. He -the white-haired man- leans down in-front of your face, "You don't know what I want.. do you babydoll.. huh?" There's an automatic shake of your head, the back down, courtesy of the fear you're feeling. Then comes the tears, the salty water pouring down your cheeks as your throat starts to close up and you start to panic.

There's a quick swap of position, the blonde now stands behind you, with a loose hand around your throat. The black-haired man still has a fist in your hair, but his other hand starts wiping away the tears from your cheeks and rubbing his thumb under your brow to coarse you into a false sense of vulnerability. The white-haired man stays put, the gun still pointed in your face and those dark eyes still glued on you as his hands stay eerily steady.He doesn't seem bothered and you'd bet millions that he's not, this seems to be an everyday occurence for him.

"W- what did you want..?" your voice leaves in a stutter, the sound of a pained whimper, is apparent to the men, that you're terrified. Then again, they could tell by your eyes, the eyes of a scared fawn, just what they like. The blonde speaks up, "We want our money back… the same money you and your little boyfriend owe us." There's a confused gargle at the back of your throat as you look up at him. The black-haired man starts chuckling, "C'mon now, princess. I really hope you don't pull the confusion bullshit like everyone else.." You shake your head at them, "I truly don't know what you're talking about, I didn't steal money."

The blondes hand tightened around your throat, the red imprints already stinging, "lying will only make us angry, maybe you should try telling us the truth. You'll get out of here a lot quicker if you do." You shake your head, only for it to be yanked back by the hand in your hair. The hand in your hair starts moving your head in a 'yes' motion and he laughs in your face, leaning closer. "You'll tell us what we want to know, angel?" The man guides your head again, moving it against your will, causing more tears to slip down your cheeks as your cries come out in pained whines because of the hand necklace you were so kindly given, against your will, of course.

The blonde speaks up, "we know you know what money we're talk- what's this, huh?" He pulls out a dime bag of coke from your bra. The reaction is immediate, to start thrashing in the chair again. Causing the black-haired man to lose his grip on your hair and get pushed away. The slap to your thighs are an immediate aftermath, the stinging causes your thighs to twitch open involuntarily. The gunman steps between them, he's close, too close, his breath smells of red bean paste, dorayaki.. maybe? The man slips the gun down from your jugular to your collarbone, leaving a angry red line.

"Please, that's not mine, I'm just… holding it for a friend. I- It- please, sir listen." There's a look between the men then a laugh. The black- haired man speaks up, getting close to your ear. "Sir, huh? That a lil'.. kink of yours sweetheart?" There's an immediate look of embarrassment, the dark blush climbing up your neck. The blonde leans down on your right, "oh, she likes that… you like this don't you? You like being tied up and having a gun pointed at your head, huh? You're a sick little bitch, you know that?" His hand glides down your clavicle to your stomach, then trailing down to your thighs then gliding his hand back up. The blonde takes out a knife and cuts the restraints on your wrists and ankles, then sheathes it back into his pocket.

"Please… it wasn't on me, it was Akamai, I swear, I didn't know, those fucking drugs aren't mine." There's a whine to the plead in your voice, just noticeable for the three… men, in front of you. "But, that's not entirely true… is it, pretty girl? You knew what your little… what? Boyfriend? Was doing, you came with him, is he.. your little..?"He gestures to your clothes. His two brothers behind him also give you curious eyes. Giving you a full once over, staring at your breasts, a little longer then necessary.

There's a look of disgust on your face, "are you calling me a whore??" There's a harsh lash in your tone. There's a chuckle from all three men. "No princess, well.. maybe, I mean look at you, you're dressed like a little slut. I wouldn't be surprised to find that he'd pimp you out?" It's quick- but not quick enough, your attempt to wrangle the throat of the man in front of you is quickly shut down by his twin? Brother? You're still not sure, but they're too similar to just be brothers. Then again, you doubt they'll tell you, if the gun pointed at your head right now tells you anything. BANG.

The bullet speeds past your face, cutting your cheek in the process. There's a slight sting but nothing serious. The bullet hits the drywall behind you, leaving a small hole. The sickly looking man leans down in-front of you and laughs in your face. His breath reeks of sugary treats.

You're yanked out of the chair by your hair, you trip and fall to your knees but the white-haired man continues to drag you to a door, it leads to a smaller room with a bed. The room is bland and cold, there's only a bed, with no sheets or covers.. no pillow and comforter either. The bed itself is small and looks to be covered in.. blood. The fluids on the bed are dried and old, browning in spots and dark red in others.

"Is this where you keep your sex slaves?" There's a chuckle from the blonde and black-haired man but a scoff from the man dragging you by your hair, "we don't keep "sex slaves".. we don't need to. Women pay to have sex with us, angel.. but there's a first for everything. Maybe you're the golden girl, hm?" The man lays you down on the bed and the black-haired man stands next to him. "Yeah, I like her, we'll keep her." The men make the agreement together, disregarding you completely.

"Who are you guys anyway?" There's a silence then a scoff from each men, "you seriously don't know who we are?" You hesitate for a moment, "I know who you guys are, kinda, The Sano brothers… that's it, I don't even.. know your names." They all step towards you simultaneously, the white-haired man speaks first.

"I'm Manjiro Sano, the one with black-hair is Jiro Sano and the blonde is Mikey Sano." The white-haired man clarifies. You look between the men. "So, are you guys- Manjiro and Jiro twins?" They nod. Then Mikey walks around his brothers and pushes you down on to the bed.

"We're willing to cut you a deal, sweetheart, sex in exchange for your freedom, we'll have your.. boyfriends head instead, sound good?" He states, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. You look at Mikey then his brothers, nodding your head as you kiss at Mikeys finger-tips. All three men grin and the other two get on the bed as well.

Jiro, pushes you down to climb on top of you. As he starts to kiss up your neck, Manjiro kisses you, pushing his tongue into your mouth as he runs his hand down your stomach, to your thighs and pulls them open. Mikey climbs in-between them, pulling at your pants. He throws them to the side, he takes his thumb and runs it over your clit, through your panties. He slips his index down you clothed slit. There's a wet patch under his fingers and he pats your cunt a couple times.

You whine into the mouth enclosing yours, running your left hand through Jiros hair. Tugging at the black strands, he groans into your neck, biting down a little harder. He pulls back to see the fresh teeth imprints, then he goes back down, he starts to mark other parts of your neck. Mikey licks you through your panties, nipping at the fabric and nuzzles his nose into your clit, causing you to try and jerk away. Mikey grabs you by the thighs and pulls you back down, towards his mouth.

He finally pulls your panties off and swipes the tip of his tongue over your clit, twirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves. Then sucking harshly on it. You pull yourself away from Manjiros mouth, to throw your head back and cry out in ecstasy. The cry is pretty to them, they want- they need more, they're hungry for it. Mikey pulls back from the cunt, there's a quick whine from you but it's cut short when Manjiro kisses you again. Mikey spits on your slit, then uses his index and middle to smear it on your pussy. Making sure to deliver slow, tight circles around your clit. He leans back down to assault your clit again, giving it wet kisses as he slips two fingers inside and scissoring them apart.

There's a hiss of pleasure that escapes through your lips but Manjiro is there to shush you. Jiro pulls back, "we have to make this quick, I have a meeting with Toman in thirty." He states, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down, as he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. Mikey pulls back and also slips his pants and boxers off, as he does that, Manjiro places another kiss on your lips and pulls back. He doesn't undress, he just slips the undergarments below his cock. Then pushes into your mouth, your tongue wrapping around his tip without order.

Mikey leans back to spread your thighs a little wider, he takes his cock in his hand and rubs the tip along your slit, pressing the tip to your clit to circle the nerve before he slides in. The spit providing extra lubrication, as he slips in easily. You look over and make eye-contact with Jiro, the does of your eyes only feeding into your lust as grabs your left hand to wrap it around his cock. Smearing his pre-cum to help jerk him easier.

You're full, so fucking full. You've had sex before but it's never felt this good and you doubt it ever will again. You've never met a man that fills you quite like Mikey and you highly doubt his brothers would disappoint you as well. Judging from how your mouth has to stretch beyond capacity, and how your hand barely fits half-way around Jiros cock. The drugs were worth it, stealing the drugs from Akamai were more worth it then you first thought. You've always wanted to fuck the Sano brothers and if that means framing your money-hungry limp dick boyfriend then so be it.

Jiro moves closer to you and squeezes your hand tighter around his cock, he groans from the pressure and you move your hand faster, twisting your wrist and rubbing your thumb up and down the slit, it causes him to keen over you as he catches himself with his right hand above your head moving his left down to rub at your clit. The added pleasure causes you to squeal around his brothers cock. Your throat spasming around Manjros cock as you attempt to bob your head quicker on his dick. Mikey pulls you closer and pulls both your thighs onto his left shoulder as he fucks you harder, his right hand pressing down on your stomach, as his dick leaves a physical imprint inside you. He gives your left ankle a kiss as he leans his head on your calves, watching as you take his brother down your throat.

Manjiro wraps your hair around his fist as he starts to throat-fuck you. He uses his left hand to wipe away your tears as he rubs his thumb under your right eye. "You're doing so good for us, sweetheart?" You try to nod for him as best you can. He chuckles as you choke from your nodding and gives your right cheek a couple pats before he leans his head back and lowly groans. The sound reverberates around the small, bare room and so does the sound of the bed creaking, occasionally hitting the wall, every now and again.

The body bounces in rapid jerks from the thrusts as all three men fuck you pliant. The gags of your throat sending vibrations through Manjiros cock and he whines. The man looks at you through lidded black eyes. "Tell me now before I finish down your tight throat." There's a rapid nod from your end, you need to feel it slip down your throat, you need to taste him. He nods, letting his head fall back as he cums down your throat. His twin is next, Jiro cumming all over your chest, some getting on your stomach. He breathes heavily as he lazily grins at you, still rubbing tight circles around your clit.

You cum, harder then ever before, harder then you thought possible. Mikey tries to pull out but you shake your head and whine at him, he chuckles at that and pushes all the way to the brim, his balls taut against your ass as he cums inside. He's warm and fills you full, your stomach having a little bump from it, that he so gleefully pushes down on when he pulls out of you, causing the cum the slide out of you. Only for him to use his fingers to slide it back into, with a kiss to the cheek gets up. All three of the men stand up and redress themselves, giving you a smirk as they do so.

Manjiro walks back over to you and pecks your lips and with a peck to the cheeks from Jiro and Mikey, they grant you with the words you've longed to hear, since you saw them that day.

"We're gonna keep you princess.. I hope you don't mind."

[aelinschild]

Dropping this and running away.

Regular evenings seemed to come less frequently these days.

Aelin remembered when the drip of some leaky floorboard was the sole pace of her shifts. The dripdripdrip a marker of seconds passed. Ticking in the back of her skull like a pulse she'd long forgotten. A beating heart settled - put down. It's gentle sounding no different than a petulant child. Itching underneath her skin like the uncomfortable scratch of wool gone too long without washing.

She had grown fond of the noise, though. Like the hand of a clock steadily raced forward, so did that godsdamned floorboard. Racing against time, or the composition of the building in it's entirety. She didn't know. Didn't care.

Much of what she did here was just for the wad of cash slipped under worn tables. Hands cracked and peeling - slivers near her nail beds. The blood lasted on the money, so long as it stayed with her longer than a night.

It was why she was still here. Still watching the same game of poker begin for its thousandth consecutive time. Roucous chatter drowning out the drip. The sound of heavy coins denting the rotted wood.

Funny, how it was strong enough to pierce her skin and simultaneously bend to the weight of a piece of silver.

She didn't take well to the irony.

Her shifts had for so long been the same routine. Serve the regulars. Pocket a coin from the gaggle of grannies, crammed into the recess in the wall. A little alcove. Made great shadows to conceal the trick of fast hands and faster tongues. Wipe down the tacky residue that accumulated faster than she could keep track of. Argue with the old man from across the street - he didn't like the (outrageous) fractured neon lights. Pity for him, because when he was knee deep in his points, face red from exasperation, pulling out a chair had the most similar movements as a sly hand into a pocket. Cool cash crawling up her sleeve. He'd leave in a huff and Aelin would be a little lighter when she missed back behind the bar. Then the night would roll in on itself. Drunkenness a curse of this corner of the Earth, she was only powerful enough to keep her head above water and do her job. Close the bar. Count the cash. Wire it away and consider mourning the loss. Until she wouldn't and was back behind the counter.

That was her normal.

And so when her flagging gaze swept across the floor, the appearance of a new piece on the board made her falter. She wished there would be more reaction than the stuttering of her eyes, wished that she felt something deeper, drawn from newness, but there was nothing.

Nothing walked closer to her. She had the thought to smile, make herself pleasant, but the action didn't follow. Nothing laid large hands upon her bartop, the one to her right (nothing's left), crawling with whorls and scribbles. Like a child had gotten a hold of a tattoo gun. How unfortunate. Those hands - large, uncomfortably so - were attached to arms. Shocking, she supposed, as her eyes crawled up along the weaving tattoo. Golden skin and visible definition could have heated something in her. Maybe it did, maybe it had been so long she no longer knew what heated her core.

"...neat,"

Hm?

The dripdripdrip was gone. And with it took the clarity borne from acute annoyance. Hands, arms, shoulders... Was she warm? Or was she losing it?

"Love."

Like a fog had descended over her minds eye, snapped away as quickly as it had formed at the call of that petname. Love. What?

She balked. "Pardon?"

He - nothing, nothing of nothing who is nothing and of no effect to her - pursed his lips. Rolling the flesh between teeth, tightening the hinge of his jaw. Gods, there was definition there too. The angle of that jaw raised to high chedckbones, a tinge of red, pulsed with life. An overwhelming urge to follow that rise and fall, trace the hollows and contours. Feel along the strong brow that framed pine green eyes. Eye that sparkled. Eyes that tightened. Eyes lined with mirth...

"You work here?" He gruffed. The smirk in his eyes didn't reach his voice. But that voice... She'd love to compare it to crashing waves, smoothing over jagged rock. Endlessly leaving a print on what was considered impenetrable. But it instead stroke along a frayed edge in her. Breaking, rather than soothing.

A pause. Where were her words? "Yes."

"Right," he murmured. Muscles flexing as he rapped his knuckles along the worn bartop. She wanted to tell him to not. Grab his fist in her own and hold tight above the shitty wooden slab. Cover it with her own. "Then I'll get a whiskey. Neat."

Crawl over the tanned skin. "Of course." Trace the inked designs. "Just give me moment." Litter a marking somewhere.

Something tangible.

-

"Yes!"

She didn't know how it had really happened.

Well, she did. She had played her part, and now was enjoying the outcome. Somewhere along the lines of him ordering the whiskey, leaning only lightly against the barstool, delicately draped like he was ready to spring up at a moment notice. She had wandered around. Who knew that dust collected so quickly on tables that were just cleaned? Repetitive movements only let her drift into the sensation of green eyes pinned to her back. Lower, even.

She needed extra cleaner from the back. And it was only an accident that her hand grazed his upper thigh. She had practice in the deft movements that could steal a pretty coin, but her fingers didn't dig in, clasping around valuables. Rather, she had grazed the worn jean. Lighting a blaze, trailing the fire down to his knee.

It had pulsed in her core as she walked to the back room. The bar quieter, different to the usual rowdiness of a Saturday. She had swayed her hips a little more. Sensual machinations coming back like the flip of a switch. She felt a buzz in her head, unlike a dripdripdrip of a leaky floorboard.

It was stuffy. Her face so close to his, the height difference didn't serve them well at first, until he had hoisted her up around his waist. Her legs locking her tight. She had felt the heat of his body. Felt the heat through the clothes - get them off - felt the heat from her body, emanating out in a pulsing rhythm.

She had been panting. Breath coming out faster and faster as she wiggled her hips to tuck deeper into the hardness she felt pressing into her core. Writhing would get her nowhere when he was holding her in his arms. Her mouth found the underside of his jaw, and she sucked hard.

His groan was music to her ears.

Her apron fell. Ripped apart by those large hands. How much could they hold? He was surprisingly deft with unbuttoning the front of her dirty blouse. Button after button, down until he could rip it from her waistband, and shuck it off her shoulders.

Her bra was nothing special. Some department store sale piece, but it didn't matter, because it was off just as quickly and she was bare from the waist up.

"Off." She tugged at his shirt, taking a break from marking up his neck. She wanted to feel him against her. Skin to skin. She needed the contact more than anything. She was burning.

He had leaned her back, still in his hold. A little rough, her head nearly crashing into the wall they were pressed up agaisnt. She'd forgive him though, when he snaked one arm behind his head and expertly peeled the shirt from his torso.

Gods. Gods above, was this her lucky night. The tattoo wound all the way from his wrisr to his neck, matching like a puzzle along his chest. Corded with muscle, Built from genuine use, she could tell. This man was not built of aesthetics.

Her fingers found the hardened planes of his stomach, pressing lightly along the muscles. It tightened under her hand. Palms pushing agains the tautness of his abdomen, she didn't know whether to trail back up to his mouth, or push lower.

"Hold on," he bit out. Breathless just as she was.

She dug her nails into the shoulder she was tracing, his hand snaked to the button on his jeans. Her breaths came more rapidly now. Blood rushing through her ears. It was hands and tongues and teeth and no other thoughts. Nothing but what would come next. Nothing at all.

The zipper was so loud amongst their panting. But it was pulled down, and Aelin made a effort to shuck off her pants as well. But where her thighs were stretched around his waist kept her from making any further moves. She wanted nothing between them.

"Hurry up," she hissed, pressing herself back against him.

He shuddered when she pulled him tight, nails digging deeper. She hoped they would mark him. Stay with him longer then this moment. "Gods." It's not soft the way he shoves them closer into the wall. The way his hand is under her nondescript panties in seconds. Burning a trail along the most intimate skin. He stalls there for a second. Aelin is pulsing; in her head, in her blood, in her cunt.

His eyes find hers. Green and vibrant and swirling and dark. All blown wide with lust. He keeps her trapped there, pinned by his gaze while his fingers swipe along her folds. Through them, deeper until they wetten with the arousal she surely though was dripping down her leg by this point. He traces along for a moment, and she has half a mind to snap at him to hurry it up when his thumb is pressing into her clit so hard she sees stars.

She squeaks out a breathless yelp.

"You're soaking," he drawls, mouth coming down to the skin at the coloumn of her neck. He breaths into her, breathes her in. "Just waitin' for me, weren't you? All pretty behind your bar top."

She would roll her eyes if they weren't already at the back of her skull from the pleasure. He kept a steady hand on her clit while rough fingers slipped back through her folds, down to where she needed him most. Yes. The roar in her head heightened.

"Please..."

He hummed. "Please what?" A smirk, in voice or against her skin, she could not tell "Please who?"

Fuck. She hadn't gotten his name either. They had tumbled into the closet so quickly, bodies pressed so close, that introductions had been skipped. She thought she could make it throigh without his name. But this bastard was going to hold it over her head.

Fingers traced around her entrance; probing, waiting.

"Please... Sir. Fuck me."

He laughed. She jostled with the movement and his fingers pushed against her just right. "I'll let it slide," and with little pause, he pushed in. Slicking in quick, easy, the slide only assisted with the way she was falling apart in waiting for him. Two - two - fingers stretching her wide and pushing that rising wave higher. She keened a breathy whine when he curled those rough fingers. Pressing hard into that spot inside of her she could never reach herself.

His breath curled around her ear. He bit the shell of it before murmuring "But you better call me Rowan. No Gods or Sir. I want to hear my name from those pretty lips."

She nodded, feverish for more. He bared his teeth in a satisfied smile, increasing the pace of his fingers inside of her. She had hardly noticed when he swapped his thumb for the heel of his palm against her clit. But she felt it now. Pushing against her whole he slicked up her panties. The wave rose higher and higher.

"Rowan!" She cried. "Ah! Don't stop... Please."

"Wasn't even thinking of it, love." He kept her trapped under his gaze. And she wanted to look away when her jaw dropped in white-hot pleasure but something in his eyes promised to hurt if she did. "There you go, pretty girl." She moaned at his comment, riding high after the crashing of the orgasm. She could feel every press of his fingers inside her as he stilled them, still sensitive even after the rush of pleasure.

And oh, was she riding a fine line. Legs a little shaky and breath hurried. But when Rowan pulled out - to her displeasure - and brought those hands to his face, to his mouth, and licked her clean off of them.

She whined. A pitchy sound that worked its way out of her as he stared into her eyes, licking along the crevices between fingers. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he quickly shoved those same fingers against her tongue and pressed down. Freezing her there.

"Taste like heaven, love. But that was only the first course"

Jeans ripped off and pants pulled down. She swapped the wall against her back for cold air. Stiffening nipples to an even harder peak than what they had come to in post-orgadmic bliss. More more more, she changed in her head. She was so sensitive and so ready and so-

She squeaked. He had pulled himself from the confines of his underwear. She has missed it. Blissed out with the feel of him against his chest, but he was there, notching against her entrance in hasty movements.

He eyes met hers, "Condom?"

Fuck her. "I'm on the pill."

His grin was feral. His grip tightened to a near bruising hold. She felt his cock prod at her entrance, and he pushed it around, catching on the arousal she had spilled. At least he had prepped her. She hadn't seen his size, had felt it, yes, but this man seemed like he was blessed, if only judging by what she had already seen.

The moment spans, and her what desire jumped thrpigh her at a rushing pace came to a near stall. The dripdripdrip threatening to return, when the air was punched from her lungs as he pushed up, up and into her in one stoke.

"Ah! Rowan!" She choked. Stretched so full she felt him in her stomach. Tears brimmed her eyes as the stretch ached. Gods, the prep wasn't enough, and the tight grip on him must have let him know, as he held still, caressing her back and down to her ass, before his hand snaked back around to her clit.

She moaned, sharp little breaths as he circled his finger with enough pressure to relax the tightness in her body. She hadn't noticed, but when she looked up to his eyes, wanting to see him fully, his jaw was tensed so tight that the muscles of his neck pulled. Was he in pain?

"Ah... Rowan, wh-whats wrong?" Her tears brimmed and fell over. A loosening in her core and a rushing through her mind. Every sensation was a fire lit inside of her, so much so that she didn't notice as the pain morphed into pleasure, and how she could feel every ridge, every vein, of his cock inside of her. Inside of her, gods, he needs to move.

"Nothing," he gave a shallow thrust, Aelin keened. "Jus' squeezing me so fuckin' tight I can barely breath."

"Y-yeah?" She laughed, salty lines tracing down her face. "Gonna come?"

The words were out of her mouth before she had really considered the implication of them. She was no sadist, liked the high better then the route there, but something in her tingled (beside his cock, nudging deeper and deeper with every breath) at the fire that lit in his eyes.

He laughed, a deep rumble from within, and moved. Soon, they were back up against the wall. Aelin squeezed him so tight, wanting some pleasure and wanting it now. And maybe she was egging him on more. But when Rowan tossed her legs up above the crook of his elbows - rendering her immobile - and pulled out, she almost came again there.

He pushed back in with so much force that her hands came up to cover her mouth. He set a relentless pace, hair falling over his brow and beads of sweat beginning to form at his brow. He leaned over her, pushing closer and closer and testing the limits of her flexibility. Aelin was still moaning, but it was punched out in a yelp every time his cock shoved deeper inside. The slick noises only added to the lewdness. "You gonna come? Huh, love? Gonna come for me now or do I need to fuck you harder?"

He was teasing her.

He leaned down, she dropped her hand, expecting his mouth to close over hers. But he just smirked. When his tongue traced the lines of her tears, licking all the way up her face, she closed her eyes and let go. Falling deeper into the sensation.

It wasn't long before he bored of licking her face. His mouth did finally come to her, and she let him into her mouth so fast that her head was spinning. He still thrusted in, a relentless thwap at every entrance inside of her, and she felt the wave rising again. She traced up his abs, winding around his shoulders to grip onto his hair and pull, just as he pushed in so deep she saw stars.

"Come," he growled. Tiny little movements only to plant himself deeper inside. The roaring came back to her head and she nearly screamed when it hit her. Harder than anything she felt before. Harder than she knew how to handle. Rowan groaned above her, and that was it.

He came inside her. Flooded her cunt so thoroughly it was actually uncomfortable. And it dripped down when he pulled out with little celebration. She whined at the loss of him. Whined more when he set her on her feet and stepped away.

"Thanks, love." He said, breathless and reverent. She felt lost in the aftermath. Head empty and body shocked.

"Yeah. Yeah, no problem...?" It came out as a question and she didn't know what to think. He grabbed a tissue from someplace and offered it to her. Well, at least he did something. Strange and beautiful man. Rowan, oh Rowan.

"Fucked you so hard you forget how to think, huh?" He smiled. Less feral than before, but still the edge of a knifes blade inside of those green eyes. She just nodded, reaching for her clothes that had been scattered on the floor.

She guessed that he was giving her space to come down, giving her a moment. But it crashed into the dirt when he gripped her chin between his forefinger and thumb and searched so deep into her eyes. He held her in his grip, both naked and reeling, and said, "don't shut me out, love." Before he pressed his lips to hers again. Kissing the roaring in her head to a stop and breathing something into her. Something she'd like to hold onto.

"I'll be back. Proper date and all soon, alright love?" He said as he stepped into his pants. Dressing with all the grace he had exhibited while fucking her a moment ago. What? He just moved for the door, shucking his shirt back over those beautiful shoulders and hiding the length of his tattoo. "Don't wander too far away anytime. I don't want to waste my time chasing."

The door opened, just a crack, "I'll see you soon, Aelin."

When Aelin was clothed and less in mental limbo, she pulled on the conversation (one-sided). Some deep, darker part of her was satisfied to see the nails marks she had driven into his back. Some tangible sore he'd no doubt have to clean up, if he wanted the blood off. She smiled to herself.

It wasn't until she was stepping out of the backroom that she realized Rowan had called her Aelin. Had said goodbye to Aelin.

She had never told him her name.

[haakaan00502]

Ghost's Ten Steps to Survival

Longer post than usual, also posting in no particular order. Halfway writing this I realized it wasn't really that much of a Ghost x Soap post and just ended up being the two of them in a recon mission. Basically its not romantic as I thought it would be.

Already wrote it, be a waste if I don't use it. Thanks for reading, enjoy : D

And yes, it says ten steps so expect nine more.

Approximately 2k words.

TW: Gun Violence

Masterlist

Step 3: Self Defense

One… two… five… seven… twelve, In his boot, three in his belt line, some in his sleeve, one on the side of his knee. Ghost was decorated with knives.

Being over prepared will always be better ten times and over than being not, Ghost faces a battle with something constantly changing, with new variables popping up in the least expected times and places.

He’s prepared for something unpreparable, life.

This wasn’t the first time he was overgeared, he had plenty of MOLLEs, and he’d make sure each and everyone of them are used. He has rules, plans in his mind for very specific scenarios, even back ups for events he wouldn’t know what’s going to happen.

His eyes instinctively scanning the nearest exit, his hands always near the most probable environment weapon, he stands no further than six feet away from the door. His age is enough credibility for his experience, he lives in a job that works for death.

It had always been like that, or he now, will always be like that. 

Life wanted him dead, now he lives knowing he’ll die. 

…

The faint sounds of an engine dying gives brief life in the empty urban streets. Ghost shifted slightly, the dust on the floor flying into the air, the sun shining on them, making it look like winter’s first snow. 

“We’ve been compromised Johnny,” Ghost says rather calmly, gathering his belongings he could carry on his body. Doing a quick inventory before looking at Soap who’s slightly hurrying in collecting his own.

“This operation’s been nothin’ but a bust,” Soap sighs as he stands next to Ghost, rifle equipped.

“We confirmed hostile movement in the area, half the job is done.” 

A sound of glass breaking from the distance didn’t startle the two. Soap checks the area outside by the window, as Ghost contemplates their next move. The floorboards he stands on make the slightest squeak with the tiniest movement, he looks around and weighs his choices. 

 “It’ll take them two minutes to reach our floor,” Ghost says to Soap as they both walk towards the door.

Succumbing to old habits, beforehand he memorized the layout of the building. One he found annoying due to its quirkiness. Six floors with two entrances on either side. With there only being a set of stairs on the east side going up to the fifth floor, then the next flight would be on the far west, going up to the sixth. 

He nods at Soap to which he nods back. Ghost opens the door abruptly, they run towards the stairs, jumping off the rails and skipping half the flight.

Not wasting a single second, they start to run again. Going through dust stained floors with chipped paint walls, their boots creating a loud thump with each step. They near the next staircase, stopping when they hear heavy footsteps going up at an alarming pace. 

Quickly they run back, going inside one of the rooms, leaving the doorway wide open. Ghost hid behind the door while Soap is at the side of a cabinet.

Ghost slows his breathing down in an attempt to mask the sound, his rifle pointed directly at the door. The smell of damp wood flooding his nose, his heart rate rising by the drop of a leaky plumbing. 

Trained footsteps walk past their room, hitching Ghost and Soap’s breath. They hear the door adjacent to them open, causing Ghost to tighten his grip on the rifle.

Everything went silent aside from the mental swears he is having. 

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of a squeaking floorboard alerted Ghost, using the door’s eyehole as a guide, he shot through it. The sound of a body dropping.

Swiftly, he grabbed the dead man’s arm and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut. Soap takes the queue and starts pushing the cabinet, blocking the entrance. 

“Insane bastard,” Soap says between breaths as they both listen to more footsteps and chatters outside the door, barely audible.

The two look around for possible reinforcements to give them ample time to think of a plan. Ghost starts looting the body, checking for I.D.s or any sort of identification for evidence. He found only ammo and standard knives. He takes the enemy’s rifle, disassembling it. 

The thumping on the doors gives Ghost and Soap a sense of urgency, they start to speed up their search. Ghost goes through the cabinets and lockers installed through the walls. Soap inspects the walls, checking if there’s parts made out of hollow material and seeing if breaching is possible. 

He checks the desk, going through the drawers to find anything useful. He tries pushing it to provide an extra barricade only to realize it's drilled to the floor. 

Another sound of glass breaking alerts the two, they both look towards the door and see smoke coming out of its gaps. Slowly, the wooden cabinets they used turn against them as they start to catch on fire.

“Can’t this day get any worse,” Soap grunts, unlocking windows to prevent the smoke from filling the entire room. 

“It’s your lucky day Johnny,” Ghost says, pulling out a rope out of one of the lockers.

…

“It’s ye lucky day Johnny,” Soap mumbles to himself annoyed.

“Shite,” Soap says fifty feet above the ground.

Barely half his foot on the ledge, he treads carefully looking for an angle to safely jump down from. He looks down at the ground littered with broken debris and overgrown grass, not necessarily afraid of heights but still enough to break a sweat.

With the rope passing through his legs and over his head, Soap carefully rappels down the building, the rope offering just enough length for a single floor. 

Soon as he secures his footing over the fourth floor’s ledge, he surveys the room. Seeing if anyone is inside before attempting to open it. 

“Ghost!”

“Soap?” Ghost yells from over the fire, looking down from the edge.

“You better get down and fast, I’m breaking the window.” Soap says, holding onto the rope tighter before grabbing his rifle and pointing its buttstock on the window edge.

Ghost makes sure the rope is tied tightly on the desk, tugging it multiple times to check its sturdiness. He grunts as he braces himself before wrapping the rope over his body. Groaning after imagining the rope burns he’ll be getting. 

Soap looks up, making sure Ghost is ready before he smashes the window. Quickly he jumped inside, putting the rifle up to his sights as he began clearing the room. 

Ghost slides down the rope until he is by the fourth level, he reaches by the edge with his foot, jumping over the window sill and firmly lands, crunching the broken pieces of glass. He cuts the rope as high as he could reach and throws it at the corner of the room. 

Soap nears the door, back hunched, each step calculated. He leans back on a nearby wall, placing the back of his hand on the door. Next he touches the doorknob, checking if it is warm. 

He signals Ghost before he starts walking backwards, eyes never leaving the door. They meet halfway through the room.

“Fire hasn’t reached this level yet.” Soap informs over his shoulder. 

Ghost looks at the door, making multiple decisions in a split second before deciding on the obvious two.

“Up or down.” He turns to Soap.

“Up?” 

“Want a party down there? Be my guest Johnny,” Ghost says, starting his move.

“Shot alive, or burned alive, great,” Soap sighs, following.

Ghost goes towards the door, opening it before taking a step back, looking through each angle he could see outside. He steps out, his gun pointed opposite to the door, checking for anyone down the halls. Soap follows, doing exactly the same in a delayed manner, constantly sticking behind Ghost. 

They move down the hall, towards the end while minding their footsteps, avoiding loose boards. Ghost treads forward as Soap walks backwards.

They reach the staircase, hesitating for a moment. 

Ghost takes a breath as if he is about to dive, he slowly creeps towards the staircase, his gun pointed. He sticks to the wall, his eyes directly in front, looking for anything that stands out. Listening for any movement, even checking for the slightest hint of someone else’s smell.

He takes the first step up, pointing his gun up to the middle, turning his body to check the upper floor’s railings. Clear. He takes another step, checks, clear, and another, and yet another, repeating the same movements. Most silent footsteps, the faintest breathing, and a heart so calm so he won’t hear it beating. The only positive thing in this scenario was having someone to cover his six, Soap’s a bonus too, Ghost thinks. 

They reached the floor they were in before, the sound of fire cackling dampening one of their senses. Every second they move and every second they stay is a constant risk, something the both of them cannot wait to get out of.

The two move moderately fast but in a constant manner, keeping momentum. They walk past the room they locked themselves in, the fire seemingly walking on the walls. Soap wraps ripped clothing around his mouth to help with the smoke, but still occasionally coughs.

Ghost shoots the broken bottle a quick glance, seeing the shatter-patterns point toward the direction they are heading towards, confirming that he made the right decision. 

He starts a small sprint, signaling Soap to do the same as the ceilings of this abandoned office building, finally serving its time and starts to give out. Ghost starts running towards the window at the end of the hall, smashing it before jumping out.

He lands at the fire escape, shooting down, quickly killing one enemy camping by the fourth floor fire emergency exit.

Ghost starts going down the stairs, looking behind briefly only to see a fierce looking sergeant on high alert. Giving him a warm and proud feeling in his chest with a strange comfort of safety.

The shots from earlier and clanging of metal surely alerted everyone in the building, they descended as fast as they could without tripping. 

They hear foreign shouts from the windows as they receive gun shots. Hiding below the fire escape, they have to get out as soon as they can before more hostiles show up. He signs Soap to make a run for it, which Soap follows.

Soon as Soap sprints, the gunner from the window follows suit with shots. Ghost aims up, using Soap as a distraction to give him enough time to zero in directly at the enemy’s head before shooting, killing the man instantly.

“Perfect shot L.T.”

“You called it Sergeant-“ Ghost hears gravel move just right behind him, his hand quickly moving to the gun strapped on his chest like it was a magnet.

But before he could even look behind him, he hears a loud thud fall to the ground. 

“Though I think mine’s better.”

Ghost turns his entire body around, seeing a dead man on the ground with a bullet between its eyes. He releases the breath he hitched earlier, releasing some tension from his back. 

“Doubt it,” Ghost said, a smirk concealed by his balaclava, though Soap already knew that look in Ghost’s eyes.

The two jog towards their armored truck parked behind the trees hastily, Soap reaching by the driver’s door first than Ghost. 

“No way, I’m driving this time,” he says as he hopped on the seat before Ghost could protest.

Ghost was about to speak until rounds of fire hit the truck’s rear, making dents on the bullet proof glass, some ricochet to barks of wood. 

“Get in!” Soap yells as he covers fire as Ghost enter the passenger’s seat, grunting.

“Good ol’ boy.” Soap smirks, stepping on the gas as Ghost groans.

[painonthebrain]

JuneofDoom Day 1 - On the run / fetal position

@juneofdoom

Reverb wakes up after a game of Buckshot and crashing at a hotel.

Content: Guns/gun use, blood, standard buckshot roulette things, demon whumper, demon-turned-human whumpee, emeto/vomit, drug mention, alcohol mention

Reverb woke with a start, breathing hard. He was laying on the covers of a hotel bed, curled into the fetal position, tense — he held fistfuls of the blanket’s material and the covers were dirty from his shoes, mud tracked into the fabric.

The room was dark and musty, coated in a film of grime and filth. The scent of cigarette smoke lingered in its very walls, the curtains, the blankets, everything.

Still taking in shallow breaths, he sat up, clutching his forehead. His head was fuzzy, filled with cotton — cotton soaked in acid, stinging everywhere and sending stabbing pains through his skull.

For a moment, he was disoriented, forgetting how the hell he ended up here.

Roulette. The pain in his skull and jaw.

The money. The gore.

… Of course.

He groaned.

His head throbbed, and he was sure it was from more than just being shot. How many beers had he had? It had to be… god, he couldn’t remember. He’d smoked and drank and… and he faintly remembered using drugs. After all, he had to have taken something in that demon cesspit.

Reverb felt his insides churn. A nasty feeling pressed at the back of his throat.

Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he clutched his stomach, waiting for it to pass.

His mouth watered and he swallowed.

The feeling wouldn’t leave.

Reverb slowly got out of bed, his legs shaking as he made his way to the bathroom, stumbling to the toilet.

He dropped to his knees and bent over it, emptying his guts until there was nothing left but tears in his eyes, saliva and vomit sticking to his chin. Some of it was caught in his hair.

He moaned, leaning back against the wall of the bathroom, sitting on the floor.

Never had he felt so lowly — or imagined things could be any worse than they were before. His throat was on fire and there was a sickly, wet feeling like a leaky pipe inside of his chest, drip drip dripping, slimy and cold and he was sure it was some human emotion he couldn’t identify. A weakness, a flaw he shouldn’t have.

Lilith liked that. She liked seeing the fear in his eyes when she realized he wasn’t really human.

That he used to be one of her kind.

A former demon playing a demon’s game of stakes was the finest form of entertainment there was for her and Reverb knew it.

He forced himself to his feet and wiped away the vomit on his mouth, then flushed the toilet, feeling disgusting.

He really needed a shower.

---

Once he’d returned to the bed, he laid back down on it, still not feeling well. Instinctively, he curled back into the fetal position.

The briefcase of money sat next to him. Laid out on the bed and wrinkling the covers, it was a reminder of who he was and what he’d done.

He stared at it, dread creeping up his spine. Something tightened in his abdomen.

With his heart beating faster, he unlatched the clasps and opened it, checking. The bills sat in there, pristine, save for splatters of blood here and there. They’d dried and begun to flake, dark and brown. Some of it was his own, dripped onto the case from gunshot wounds that should have been fatal.

The memory was fresh.

Lilith’s body had gone limp when he shot it. She’d crumpled to the ground, lifeless, empty looking.

He knew she wasn’t dead. Demons don’t die that easily.

But for a moment, he’d felt something dark claw at him, deep in his chest as he gazed into their eyes, foreboding and cold; he was coated in both of their blood and he still felt the recoil of the gunshot —

He slammed the thing closed, locking the clasps again. His hands trembled as he pulled them away.

If anyone knew— knew about buckshot, knew about the money—

Reverb’s brows furrowed, and he let out a breath through his teeth. It shook.

He stumbled out of bed and grabbed the briefcase with both hands, gripping the handle so tightly his knuckles were white.

He couldn’t stay here.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝑬𝑿𝑰𝑳𝑬 𝑬𝑷𝑰𝑺𝑶𝑫𝑬 𝑭𝑶𝑼𝑹

A few things to keep in mind; after the fallout with Tommy instead of heading to Boston Joel heads to the woods to escape it all, and the 20-year time jump doesn't happen. Which means, for now, no Tess, no Ellie. Joel is 32-33 here (since in the prologue he's around that age) and reader is in her mid-twenties

**for full series summary please check masterlist

chapter summary: joel is on the hunt to find more supplies, and he runs into the domestic he met a couple months ago. A threat of a clicker lurks nearby.

pairing: joel miller x ofc!june | written in reader format, no body descriptions but does have a personality

word count: 1.1k

genre: dark cottagecore, horror, angst, explicit smut, hybrid au, minors dni

warnings: horror imagery

SERIES MLIST || PREV CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

Joel makes his way through the abandoned cabin, his eyes scanning the cluttered room for any supplies that might still be of use. The air is heavy and still, the only sound being the soft dripping of water from the leaky roof. The shadows seem to dance and shift around him, and he can't shake the sensation of being observed. 

He still has food, luckily, but there was no harm in searching for more. Once a week, he scanned the forest from dawn to dusk, looking over every inch of the crowded forest. Most often than not, he came back empty-handed. 

Joel ventures further into the cabin, his heart racing as he searches through the abandoned rooms. In the bedroom, he finds a torn and moldy mattress that he can use as a makeshift bed. In the bathroom, he discovers a sink and bathtub that are caked with grime and rust, but still functional.

As he gathers the supplies he needs from the kitchen, Joel thinks about the Domestic he’d met months ago. He saw her once more after that, camera dangling from her neck, a gun strapped to her back. He has an inkling that maybe it was her clearing out the abandoned cabins before he could. 

Just as he’s emptying the cupboards, his blood freezes. He hears the creaking of the old steps and the familiar sound of staccato clicks. Beads of sweat flare across his dusty forehead and his lips tighten into a grim line. He slowly unwraps his fingers from around the can, crouching down slowly. His hand moves to his gun, which he pulls up to his chest.

He takes a deep breath and edges backward. He tries to stay hidden as he figures out the exact location the noise is coming from. Joel watches as the twisted, fungal body stalks down the stairs; it trips but is unbothered by it. 

It moves around with a silent, deadly grace.

Its face is completely engulfed in the thick, black fungus that covered its entire being, its eyes long since rotted away. Swallowing, Joel crawls forward, wanting to reach the door before the Clicker finds him lurking about in the kitchen. He breathes out from his nose, as silently as he can. The Clicker turns to the living room, leaving the exit wide open. Joel’s skin tingles when he moves, like little needles poking into his skin. 

Joel’s eyes frantically dart around, taking in every tiny detail just in case something goes wrong. He spots the wide windows, the coat rack, the couch— 

His body shuts down entirely when he sees it. He stops breathing, moving, even the twitching of his right eye subsides within the minute. 

Joel sees her. Antlers and all, crouched behind the couch, teeth deep into her bottom lip while breathing heavily from her nose. 

And in that brief moment, their gazes meet. 

Joel’s mouth is dry as sandpaper. He holds his gaze, eyebrows raise with shock, her confusion is quickly replaced with hope— A look he despises, yet can’t help but be drawn to. 

The Clicker moves around the sofa, its head tilting from side to side as the horrid clicking sounds spurt from its open mouth. Without even thinking Joel motions with his head for her to sprint forward. He sees the still in her steps, strained and fearful but despite it all, she manages to reach him. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, her gaze glued to the floor. 

“It’s too early to give me thanks. We’ll talk when we’re out.” 

He feels the way she breathes, hears the way her heart hammers in her chest. It reminds him of a caged baby bird. She inches closer to him. A movement driven by pure instinct. Joel thinks she trusts too quickly. 

The Clicker stands by the door, head turned in their direction, taunting them. 

It must have heard the two of them whispering. Joel feels his entire body tensing, his breathing nonexistent—

Without thought, Joel senses her nearly jumping with fear and his hand reaches for her. His fingers curl tightly around her neck, pushing her head down without his eyes ever leaving the creatures’ gruesome silhouette. It doesn't have eyes, but it sure looks like it's staring them down, its head tilting to the side as it listens for any sign of movement. 

The Clicker turns its head, cracking its neck before heading deeper into the house.

He grinds his molars together and feels the sting of it in his gums. She lets out a breath of relief, it feels loud— Too loud. He squeezes her nape once more before letting go, and without a word, he heads for the door, not bothering to close it as he finally leaves the cursed cabin.

Her footsteps follow. 

You follow the man deeper in to the woods as the two of you rush to put a reasonable distance between you and the cabin. He keeps looking over his shoulder. Every time he does, he looks more and more rageful. You’re sure that he wants you to leave. 

Honestly, that is probably the more sensible thing to do. 

But the skin of the back of your neck still stings from his grip and you can’t bring yourself to leave without at least learning his name. This forest is your home, and it’s his home as well. In a twisted way, you two are neighbors. 

You hadn’t expected to come across an Infected when you went inside. The heavy rain made you walk inside with little care. It was terrifying, waiting for the threat to pass by yourself. But then there he was, a rugged angel, offering a way to salvation, and bringing you to safety. 

You’ve seen him around; you even took a picture of him. To you, he was a perfect specimen to document someone who was both free and trapped. It was also nice to actually photograph a living, moving thing. 

“When are you gonna quit chasing me around?” he suddenly snarls, turning on his heel with force. “How many times do I have to tell you— Scram.” 

“You’re really rude,” you answer, crossing your arms in defiance. “And you said we would talk after we got out. Well…we got out, now it’s time to talk,” 

“Fine. Thank me and leave,” 

The wind blows warm. The sound of leaves rustling scratches your ears. You try to make yourself seem bigger by straightening your back. It’s been so long since you wanted to talk to him—To get to know the other person who was in the same situation as you. Afraid, confused, hurt, lonely. 

You just want to know his name. That’s all. 

“My name is June,” you say with the exhale of your breath. “And thank you.” 

He considers your not-so-subtle peace offering. His eyes are narrowed, lips tight. Briefly you fear he’s just going to turn and leave. But the fire crackling in his eyes dies down, his shoulders drop and the wind ruffles his hair. 

“Joel.” he answers, “and you’re welcome.” 

[thebehindpost]

Season previews: Adelaide Crows (5th)

Last season: 10th (11 wins, 12 losses, 116.8%) Notable ins: Daniel Curtin (no. 8 draft pick) Notable outs: Tom Doedee (Brisbane), Shane McAdam (Melbourne)

Melbourne in 2021. Collingwood in 2022. Port Adelaide in 2023 (plus, after finals, Carlton and GWS). Each year there is usually at least one side that rockets from outside the eight and into the top four. Have stopped just short of that for Adelaide in 2024 but expect them to take another step forward after finishing 14th two seasons ago to then being cruelly denied a finals spot last season. Many will point to the goal umpiring debacle in round 23 against Sydney as costing them (the AFL should be grateful their score review system doesn't also get a pre-season write up). That view wouldn't be wrong but including that game, the Crows played in six matches decided by a goal or less and went 1-5. If they go 3-3, they're in September. Flip it to 5-1 and they're looking at a potential double chance.

Adelaide are not quite yet the complete package - their midfield can lack unpredictability, they are leaky defensively and there is a question mark on the coach. But they have more going for them than not, playing an exciting brand of footy that moves the ball up the ground with risk and dare, and they can kick a winning score. Look for that to continue to be an indicator of success in 2024. The AFL want the game to open up and they tend to get what they want. Adelaide don't play boring football and were no. 1 in the competition for scoring last season.

The downside of playing electric football on offence is that the defence can suffer. Under Matthew Nicks' four seasons in charge, Adelaide have gone 18th, 16th, 15th and 10th for points against. Steady improvement, yes, and they were a very ordinary side when he arrived but the evidence says he is yet to instill an all-of-team defensive mindset. Sides in the premiership window tend to be as good at stopping goals as they are kicking them and Adelaide have have only unlocked one piece of the puzzle. That side of their game will be something to watch for, particularly as the board make a decision on Nicks' contract which expires at the end of the year. They should wait and at least see how a majority of the season plays out and not buy in to the myth of re-signing the coach early to avoid distraction. It may be harsh on Nicks but it is difficult to imagine a rival club falling over themselves to sign him if Adelaide dither a little.

The positive is that as opposed to their cross-town rivals, Port Adelaide, the Crows' veterans look a little fresher and better placed to complement their young guns. Rory Laird, Brad Crouch, Taylor Walker and even Rory Sloane are still playing good football. Walker especially has defied the odds to, at age 33, be playing close to the best football of his career. And they will need him to keep it going a little longer as the next generation of key forward at Adelaide is not so well advanced - neither Riley Thilthorpe nor Darcy Fogarty have yet proven capable of being the main man. There has been some commentary that it is time for Walker to play a reduced role and allow that to happen but you would rather see Thilthorpe and/or Fogarty go and take the mantle from him themselves. There is no such concern over the Crows' small forward stocks with Izak Rankine and Josh Rachele nipping at the heels of Walker and co.

Nicks has been afforded a considerable grace period up to this point given where the club was at when he arrived in 2020. He has done a commendable job to lift them out of the mess left behind by their infamous pre-season camp but that was six years ago now and it's time for them to return to playing in September. The Crows will be a headache for many clubs to contend with in 2024 if they can tighten up across the ground defensively (particularly coming out of the middle), shave a goal or two from the opposition each week and maintain their own high scoring output.

[bestlocalbusinesse]

Plumbing Service Group in Overland Park KS

When your home plumbing starts acting up, you need a plumber who is licensed and trained to deal with the issue promptly. Clogged drains, leaking faucets and other unexpected household issues can throw your daily routine out of sync. It is important to balance work quality and cost when choosing a plumber.

Clogged Drains

Nothing puts a damper on a night of cooking or turns your morning shower into a tepid affair like a clogged drain. It’s one of the most common plumbing problems in houses, and it can lead to serious damage if not addressed promptly.

When soap scum, hair, sand and other debris settle inside the long drain pipe and become thick, it can be difficult to unclog the line. If a plunger is ineffective, it’s often time to bring in the big guns: a wire drain snake.

Find one at a local hardware store and crank away until you see the clog dissolving. You can also use a combination of baking soda and vinegar, or boiling water. If these methods don’t work, call in a plumber to remove the clog manually using a power auger. A plumber with experience in your area will be familiar with the water supply and sewer system, so they’ll know how to approach the job more quickly and efficiently.

Leaking Faucets

Leaving leaky faucets unattended can waste gallons of water and lead to corroded piping connections. It also creates an environment where mold can grow and cause health issues for you and your family. Leaky faucets should be repaired as soon as possible to minimize damage and reduce water bills.

Start by shutting off the water supply to the faucet. You’ll need to do this for all types of faucets unless you are replacing an outdoor fixture that does not use a valve. Next, remove the handle and look for an Allen screw underneath to loosen it. You may need to use a spanner tool that is typically included in the repair kit to tighten the adjusting ring.

Before you begin removing the faucet parts, duct tape the jaws of your slip-joint pliers to prevent damage to them. It is also a good idea to label or take pictures of the parts you’re taking apart so that you can put them back together in the correct order.

Water Heater Repairs

When your home's water heater is leaking, you need to hire a plumber as soon as possible. If you wait too long, the damage can become worse. Professional plumbers are trained to identify the source of leaks and fix them before they become more serious. They are also familiar with local plumbing codes and regulations, which can save you from future problems and fines.

A professional plumbing service group Overland Park KS are made of Grade A PEX or another material that won't develop leaks or get clogged with lime deposits. They can also install a pressure relief valve to protect your pipes from high water pressure that could damage them.

A professional plumber can also help you with your plumbing inspections, which are recommended annually to prevent leaks, clogs, and other problems. They will also repair any fixtures that are worn or damaged. They can also help you choose the right type of water filter for your home's water supply.

Toilet Repairs

When your toilets are acting up, you’ll want a plumber that can provide prompt repairs. Plumbers are trained to find the source of clogs and stop them before they cause serious damage or flood your home. Toilet problems can include leaks, gurgling sounds, or water constantly running from the tank. Licensed plumbers can also perform a full inspection of your plumbing system and find any issues that need to be addressed.

Local plumbers will be familiar with the area and can respond to your needs more quickly than a plumber from out of town. They’ll also know the local codes and regulations and will ensure that all work is up to code.

You can help keep your plumbing working properly by being careful about what you put down the drains. Avoid flushing things like paper towels, wet wipes, kitty litter, or cooking oil down your toilets. Regularly cleaning your drains can also help prevent clogs.

[ayanna-wild]

Devil Don't Go

Word Count: 1679

Pairings: Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

Warnings: angst, violence, sad fluff, fluff, mentions of drowning, near death experiences

A/N: Request from Wattpad

Summary: This case should have been open and shut, it wasn’t supposed to go this way.

..................................................................................

Your world was spinning, well more accurately you were spinning, in a chair at the LAPD. To be even more accurate Lucifer was spinning you. The case you had agreed to help Chloe with had hit a snag, and every lead you thought you had was coming up a dead end. Which is why you were sitting in a chair, letting your devilish companion lazily twirl you around.

"I still say the manager of the victim's store seemed rather suspicious, are you sure we can't question him again?"

You hung your head back staring at the ceiling, thankful he wasn't spinning you fast enough to make you dizzy.

"He lawyered up, besides he had an alibi."

Lucifer huffed, clearly bored with how slow this case was moving.

"Oh yes, he was with his lover, was it? People lie darling."

You shrugged, placing your feet on the ground to stop yourself from spinning as you turned to look at him. Lucifer smiled when your eyes landed on him, and the corners of your mouth twitched up.

You and Lucifer had grown close since your transfer to the LAPD, and you found yourself helping Chloe on cases she could have solved easily herself. If she noticed she hadn't said a thing, you suspected it was Lucifer who convinced her to ask for your assistance.

This case however, they really did need help on.

"Why do you think they're lying?"

"He barely remembered their name, and his so called significant other, took far to long to recall him." Lucifer reasoned.

You frowned a little, unable to refute his logic, you leaned back in the chair.

"Well...you're right..."

"Of course I am, now put your feet back up, unfortunately this is the most interesting thing I've done today."

Before the two of you could continue your pointless entertainment, Chloe rushed over to her desk, grabbing her car keys. Both you and Lucifer perked up.

"What's got you in such a rush Detective?"

"Ella found us a lead, it might not pan out, but we should still check into it."

You jumped to your feet, grabbing your own keys from Lucifer's hand, who'd been carelessly tossing them back and forth with you earlier.

"I'll follow you."

"Allow me to accompany you." Lucifer beamed.

You raised an eyebrow as you headed for the exit.

"I don't let him press the buttons." Chloe explained.

After the fourth or fifth time of him turning on the siren to frighten unsuspecting civilians you forbade him touching anything as well. He muttered under his breath the rest of the drive.

~

You'd never understood the appeal decrepit buildings had in the criminal world of LA, but here you were.

"Couldn't they ever choose a nice little café, or someplace not run by rats?" You mumbled to yourself, stepping over what you hoped was an oil stain.

Leaky pipes and moldy smells filled the air as you careful walked along the walls, gun ready and senses on high alert. Your suspect, who had in fact turned out to be the manager, had opened fire as soon as the three of you walked through the door. It forced you away from Chloe and Lucifer, who you were now trying to find.

The platform you were walking on creaked behind you, and you whirled around, gun raised. Chloe froze, raising her hands, and you let out a sigh.

"Find anything?"

She shook her head, and you placed your gun back in its holster.

"Where's Lucifer?"

Her question chilled you to the core, and you stared at her in confusion. Your voice caught as you spoke.

"I thought he was with you..."

~

You refused to leave your desk, or even take any breaks as you searched through file after file. Called anyone even remotely related to your suspect. Lucifer had been with Chloe, he'd been vulnerable, he could be hurt, or worse.

You shook your head, that line of thinking wasn't going to do anything but make you panic.

A heavy, frustrated sigh left your lips, and you leaned forward, resting your head in your hands on the desk in front of you. Your eyes strained from hours of reading.

"I found something!"

You whipped your head around so fast it almost hurt your neck. Ella ran in, waving a paper around wildly. You and Chloe quickly crowded her and Ella explained everything.

"Okay, so I called around, you know places he frequents, old jobs things like that. There's an old swim center he used to run, a few workers there say he still comes by after hours to do laps."

"What does this have to do with finding Lucifer?" Chloe asked.

"Well I just off the phone with an employee who works there. Mr. Manager man is there now."

~

You couldn't drive fast enough, flying through red lights and recklessly taking turns. Chloe held onto the dash, shouting out warnings now and then, but she never told you to slow down. She was just as eager as you to find the king of hell.

"Y/N! We need a plan!"

You almost forgot to put the car into park before you got out. Chloe followed after you, calling for you to slow down, but you ignored her. The doors to the pool slammed open when you kicked them, smacking the wall just in time to see the murderous manager shove Lucifer, who was unconscious and tied to a chair, into the pool.

You screamed his name, dropping your gun as you dived into the pool without a second thought. You spotted Chloe running after the suspect just seconds before you hit the water.

The pool was so deep, and the chlorine burned your eyes as you swam towards Lucifer. You didn't know how you were holding your breath this long, but you weren’t really focusing on that. You struggled to untie the ropes around him, but your lungs were beginning to burn.

He's been down there for too long already, you were down there too long, your head growing light.

With no other choice but to surface, you took a large breath before diving under the water again. It wasn't enough time to really catch your breath and your chest tightened, but you finally loosened the ropes. You thanked the adrenaline rushing through your veins that you were able to pull him to the surface and out of the pool.

Violent coughs shook your body as you struggled to breathe again. You were light-headed, but you needed to focus, you had to check on him. Turning your attention to Lucifer you rolled him onto his back checking the injury to his bloody temple, it was sallow nothing to serious, and then you checked his pulse.

Only... there was no pulse.

"No no no...."

You got to your knees, placing your hands in the center of his chest as you began to push fast. You went back and forth between pressing on his chest to blowing breath into his lungs. You weren’t sure how long you kept this up, but you really didn't care to keep track of time right now.

"Come on...Lucifer, please..."

Tears clouded your vision and your arms gave out, you collapsed against his chest, checking his pulse once more, but there was nothing.

"Damn it wake up!" You slammed your fists down on his chest. Your tears ran down your face mixing with the pool water still clinging to your skin, but he didn’t move.

"You promised we'd go out for lunch tomorrow, and you always keep your promises, right?"

You brushed his wet hair from his face as your hands shook.

"So you have to wake up." Your voice broke, and you pressed your forehead against his, crying freely.

"Please don't go."

You almost slammed your head against his when his body suddenly jerked, and he sat up. You jumped back staring at him with wide eyes as he coughed out water from his lungs. He wheezed a moment clutching his chest, before looking around until his eyes landed on you. He gave you a tired smile and a weak chuckle.

"Well that was a wonderfully terrible visit to Hell."

With that joke your worry evaporated, and you fell back against the wall behind you. You ran a hair through your damp hair, and you laughed through your tears.

"You're alive..."

Lucifer looked at you curiously, and he moved closer to you.

"Darling are you alright? Why are you crying?"

He let out a surprised grunt when you wrapped your arms around his neck.

"You were dead you idiot, of course I'm crying."

"But I'm not dead now..."

You huffed, shaking your head as you tightened your hold around him.

"You're missing the point." You spoke lightly.

Lucifer carefully held you, frowning a little when he felt your body trembling.

"You're shaking." He pointed out softly.

"Just cold from the water." You lied.

You smiled, nestling closer to him, you needed to feel his heartbeat his breath on your skin. You pulled back to hold his face in your hands, eyeing the cut on his temple.

"You're bleeding a little still..." You muttered.

He grabbed your hand as your fingers ghosted over the wound. He smiled squeezing your hand a little.

"I imagine my situation would be much worse if not for you."

He smiled, and you slowly realized you were sitting in his lap. You cleared your throat, shifting to move off him, and he sent you a wink.

"Anyway, I'm really happy you're okay."

Lucifer's expression softened, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Well I couldn't very well stay dead now could I? A promise is a promise."

You looked at him surprised.

"You heard that?"

He chuckled, moving a wet strand of hair away from your eyes.

"It was hard not to, you were practically praying to me."

You rolled your eyes, but you still couldn't help the smile that stretched across your face.

"Just promise you won't go dying on me again."

"I'll try my very best darling." He chuckled.

..................................................................................

Tag List: @sallyp-53 @mizzezm @adira-secrets @we-are-all-alittle-strange-here @gingernarwal @im-just-along-for-the-ride @lifeshortbro @measure-in-pain @emiwrites3reads @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @kelly-n-russell @aiofheavenandhell @beththedemonhunter

[newstfionline]

Sunday, April 18, 2021

Biden’s Afghanistan plan a plus to some vets (AP) Patrick Proctor Brown says the war in Afghanistan was lost within a year of its start. The suburban Milwaukee lawyer, who was an infantry captain in Iraq, said the trillions of dollars spent and the thousands of lives lost, including a lieutenant he trained with, make it “a tragedy.” “And the Taliban will be back in power in a year,” said Brown, 35, who also studied diplomacy at Norwich, a military university in Vermont. “It’s insane.” Brown supports President Joe Biden’s decision to withdraw all troops from Afghanistan by Sept. 11, and by voting for the Democrat, he represents a subtle but potent shift in the voting behavior of some in the military. Voters who served in the military have long leaned toward Republicans. But there are signs that Biden may have cut into that advantage. “This president has got to end these wars,” said Jon Soltz, a former Army tank captain who formed the Democratic-leaning VoteVets.org in 2006. “He’s got to fulfill some of these promises. There’s a war-weariness in the military.”

Riot declared after windows smashed in Portland protests (AP) Police in Portland, Oregon, declared a riot Friday night after authorities said protesters smashed windows and burglarized businesses during demonstrations that started earlier in the day after police fatally shot a man while responding to reports of a person with a gun. The vandalism downtown came after the Friday morning police shooting but also was part of vigils and demonstrations already planned for the night in the name of people killed in other police shootings nationwide. They include 13-year-old Adam Toledo of Chicago and Daunte Wright, a Black man in a Minneapolis suburb. Deputy Police Chief Chris Davis told reporters earlier in the day that a white man in his 30s was shot and killed by police, who opened fire with a gun and weapons that fire non-lethal projectiles. A witness who spoke to reporters at the scene said the man, who had removed his shirt and was blocking an intersection, appeared to be in a mental health crisis.

Castro era in Cuba to end as Raul confirms he’s retiring (Reuters) Raul Castro confirmed he was handing over the leadership of the Cuban Communist Party to a younger generation at its congress that kicked off on Friday, ending six decades of rule by himself and older brother Fidel. In a speech opening the four-day event, Castro, 89, said the new leadership would be party loyalists with decades of experience working their way up the ranks and were “full of passion and anti-imperialist spirit.” The new generation of leaders, which did not forge itself through rebellion, has no easy task. The transition comes as Cuba faces the worst economic crisis since the collapse of former benefactor the Soviet Union, while there are signs of growing frustration, especially among younger Cubans. A tightening of the decades-old U.S. trade embargo and the coronavirus pandemic have exacerbated a liquidity crisis in Cuba’s ailing centrally planned economy. Shortages of even basic goods mean Cubans spend hours lining up to buy groceries.

Argentina closes schools, imposes curfew in Buenos Aires as COVID-19 cases spike (Reuters) Argentina’s government will tighten pandemic restrictions in and around the capital Buenos Aires to rein in a sharp spike in COVID-19 cases, including shutting schools and imposing a curfew from 8pm to limit social activity. President Alberto Fernández, 62, given his all-clear earlier in the day after he was infected with the virus, said the South American country needed to “gain time” in the fight against COVID-19 after daily cases hit a record this week. The measures will see schools closed in Greater Buenos Aires from Monday, and the suspension of indoor sports, recreational, religious and cultural activities until April 30.

The queen says goodbye to Philip, continues her reign alone (AP) Sitting by herself at the funeral of Prince Philip on Saturday, Queen Elizabeth cut a regal, but solitary figure: still the monarch, but now alone. The queen sat apart from family members at the simple but somber ceremony in accordance with strict social distancing rules during the coronavirus pandemic. But if the ceremony had been for anyone else, at her side would have been her husband of 73 years, who gave a lifetime of service to the crown. The monarch’s four children and eight grandchildren sat in small groups nearby, during a stripped-back service at Windsor Castle that made their loss somehow more personal for people who often live their lives in public. The service was quiet and without excessive pageantry. Philip was deeply involved in planning the ceremony. At his request, there was no sermon. There were also no eulogies or readings, in keeping with royal tradition. Former Bishop of London Richard Chartres, who knew Philip well, said the 50-minute service reflected the preferences of the prince, who was a man of faith but liked things to be succinct. “He was at home with broad church, high church and low church, but what he really liked was short church,” Chartres told the BBC.

Philip’s legacy lives in chef who traded prison for kitchen LONDON (AP)—Jon Watts was 18 years old when he woke up in a prison cell and decided he had to change. He enrolled in every course he could find, from mathematics to business. But he says it was a program founded by Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, that gave him a “passion for food” and a career as a chef when he got out of prison 3 1/2 years later. “I was a young boy in prison,” Watts, now 32, told The Associated Press. “It helped mold me to be what I like to think is a good person, and it set me up to believe in myself, to believe that I can achieve things.” After Philip’s death last week at age 99, politicians and world leaders rushed to eulogize his lifetime of service to his wife, Queen Elizabeth II, and to the British nation. For many people across the country, though, his greatest contribution was the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award, a program which seeks to give young people the skills and confidence they need to succeed. Participants in the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award must complete volunteer work, improve their physical fitness, learn new skills, and go on expeditions to earn each of three progressively more difficult levels of achievement—bronze, silver and gold. More than 6.7 million people between the ages of 14 and 24 have taken part in the U.K., and the program has expanded to 130 countries since Philip founded it in 1956.

A Bitter Family Feud Dominates the Race to Replace Merkel (NYT) With less than six months to go before Germans cast their ballots for a new chancellor, the political vacuum Angela Merkel leaves behind after 16 years of consensus-oriented leadership is coming more sharply into focus. A rare and rancorous power struggle has gripped Germany’s conservatives this week as two rivals vie to replace her, threatening to further hobble her Christian Democratic Union, which is already sliding in the polls. Normally, Armin Laschet, 60, who was elected in January to lead the party, would almost assuredly be the heir apparent to Ms. Merkel. Instead, he finds himself unexpectedly pitted against his biggest rival, Markus Söder, the more popular head of a smaller, Bavaria-only party, the Christian Social Union, in a kind of conservative family feud. Experts and party members alike are calling for the dispute to be resolved within the coming days, as it risks damaging the reputation of the two conservative parties, jointly referred to as the Union. Because the two parties operate as one on the national stage, they must choose one candidate for chancellor.

Russia to expel 10 US diplomats in response to Biden actions (AP) On Thursday, the Biden administration announced sanctions on Russia for interfering in the 2020 U.S. presidential election and involvement in the SolarWind hack of federal agencies—activities Moscow has denied. The U.S. ordered 10 Russian diplomats expelled, targeted dozens of companies and people, and imposed new curbs on Russia’s ability to borrow money. Russia responded by saying it would expel 10 U.S. diplomats and take other retaliatory moves in a tense showdown with Washington. Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov also said Moscow will move to shut down those U.S. nongovernment organizations that remain in Russia to end what he described as their meddling in Russia’s politics. The top Russian diplomat said the Kremlin suggested that U.S. Ambassador John Sullivan follow the example of his Russian counterpart and head home for consultations. Russia will also deny the U.S. Embassy the possibility of hiring personnel from Russia and third countries as support staff, limit visits by U.S. diplomats serving short-term stints at the embassy, and tighten requirements for U.S. diplomats’ travel in the country.

Russia’s surveillance state (Washington Post) Russian authorities are ramping up the use of facial recognition technology to track opposition protesters to their homes and arrest them—a powerful new Kremlin tool to crush opposition. But when state security agents are suspected of murders or attacks on journalists and opposition activists, surveillance cameras have at times been switched off or “malfunction.” And the system is so leaky that surveillance data on individuals can be bought for a small sum on Russia’s notorious black market in data, along with all kinds of other personal information. There is even a name for the clandestine cyber-bazaar: probiv. China leads the world in rolling out a vast network of facial recognition technology, including a system to track and repress its Uyghur minority. But Putin’s Russia is racing to catch up. Russian firms such as NtechLab produce some of the world’s most sophisticated facial recognition software as authorities grapple with counterpunches by the opposition, including using social media to expose Russia’s kleptocracy such as extravagances by Russian President Vladimir Putin’s political allies. Moscow Mayor Sergei Sobyanin said the facial recognition system—rolled out in Moscow en masse in January 2020 and expanded to at least 10 other Russian cities—is now used in 70 percent of crime investigations. Moscow has more than 189,000 cameras with facial recognition capabilities, as well as more than 12,300 on subway cars in Moscow’s Metro.

Health care: The medical cost crisis will outlast COVID (The Week) Few would disagree that “much-reviled Big Pharma pulled off one of the great achievements in medical history,” said Geoff Colvin at Fortune—quickly developing multiple effective COVID-19 vaccines. Hospital workers, too, “have been heroes in the truest sense” in the fight against the pandemic. These are not groups America “wants to punish” right now. But something has to give. A system of “perverse incentives,” from drug distribution to insurance rebates, has made health-care costs “maddeningly untamable.” In the six years since the Affordable Care Act was passed, health-care spending per capita has increased faster than it did in the six years prior. Three-quarters of Americans say that the quality of the health care they get isn’t worth what they are paying for it. Big Hospitals and Big Pharma are “at each other’s throats” over who is to blame, but the trend in costs “isn’t about to reverse.” Poorer hospitals have “limped through the year,” straining under the costs of COVID, said Jordan Rau and Christine Spolar at Kaiser Health News, but many wealthier ones have done just fine. The U.S. has budgeted $178 billion in aid for health-care providers, and even profitable hospitals have gotten help. After receiving $454 million in federal aid, Baylor, the biggest nonprofit hospital system in Texas, “accumulated an $815 million surplus, $20 million more than it had in 2019.” Despite this, hospitals have devised ways to pass on costs, said Sarah Kliff at The New York Times. Lenox Hill, one of the oldest and best-known hospitals in New York City, has “repeatedly billed patients more than $3,000 for the routine nasal swab test” for COVID, “about 30 times the test’s typical cost.” The hospital “advertised its COVID-19 testing on a large blue-and-white banner,” then charged each visit as an emergency room procedure. Federal legislation mandated that coronavirus testing be free for patients. “But eventually, American patients bear the costs in the form of higher insurance premiums.”

[fayotto]

My eyes are sore and my throat is burning and at any second a tear will fall and turn into an avalanche of sobs.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

And my head is throbbing, in this cage I call my skull, and it pounds nails into my temples while whispering words that amplify to yells.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

Where tight smiles spill false promises and false promises create tight smiles.

My cheeks are burning from all of these tight smiles. As if, when I bare my teeth like a dog, all of the problems doing construction in my head will fade away.

As if my head is not following suit with my heartbeat as my heartbeat follows suit with my head. As the thoughts race my heart ricochets. As my thoughts ricochet my heart races.

Like they’re trying to outdo each other in a game of ping pong or tennis or basketball. Where foots stomp and the ball slams against the, once polished, now scuffed flooring.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

I’m tapping my fork against my untouched plate because I fear if I eat a bite it will come up in mere seconds. My stomach is woozy, like a boat on the ocean, fighting against this epic hurricane of thoughts. But this boat is the kind in a bottle.

My bottle of emotions I continue to bottle up because no one wants to open my bottle.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

I need to not be sitting at my family dinner table where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

But I can’t speak.

I need to speak.

My mouth is molded shut into this statue of a person I’ve become. People see the angelic carving while I’m stuck with the demonic insides. The parts people neglect.

The parts people don’t see.

“May I be excused?” I ask, in the kindest of ways, as my voice struggles against the whimper ready to escape my caged throat.

Every head turns toward me, for no one leaves the family dinner table where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

No one will own up to the fact that their emotions are a firework, the kind that sprinkles hot ashes across every part of your naked limbs as you lay there, unable to move. No one will talk about the fire, burning around us, as we all inhale the smoke from our minds into our lungs blackening them in a way that leaves us breathless.

No one will talk about the bleeding of our wounds we choose not to acknowledge, as they seep into our food, our lives, our writing, our talking. No- not our talking. Never our talking.

We never speak of such things.

For they would burn our tongues, scorch our social interactions, like a darkened match.

“You may be excused,” they answer in unison, each nodding the same way at the same time.

We are perfected soldiers preparing for war, readying to battle in a bloody war inside of our minds.

I nod, as well, slightly off beat to their own and they eye me suspiciously. Like I’m the ticking time bomb that would turn this gun powder, we call family, into oblivion.

I stand as my blood soaks the floor and my head throbs to the point it may detach itself from my neck.

What sweet release that would be.

And I walk in steps that twist my ankle, but I ignore the sting. As my legs snap in half and my arms twist and crack, I continue to walk.

For I just left my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

And every head it turned toward me.

So I must keep walking.

I trudge along with my broken cracked damaged limbs until I reach the bathroom.

The room where unspoken breakdowns happen. Where we stitch our wounds and hide the scars with a bit of concealer and mascara.

Where we flush our tears and sorrows down the drain. And we sink back into our tight smiles, tightening them each turn of the faucet.

I close the door, lightly behind me, careful not to let my desperation float into the hallway, where my family dinner table sits.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

Where, if they knew of my actions, they would drag me from this room, nails scratching against this polished wood, and set me up back at my family dinner table.

Where they wouldn’t mend me, but tighten my loose seams and cut them off with the blade of their tight smiles. Their sharp tight smiles.

I am a ragdoll, unravelling and unravelling until eventually I'll be nothing but a knotted pile of yarn.

With the door closed, the avalanche comes.

Hot, sticky tears stream down my red cheeks and a singular sob chokes my burning throat. Like the strings of my ragdoll self are tightening around my neck, suffocating me and I can’t breathe. I’m holding the strings, clutching them in my fist, yet I can’t let go.

Thoughts are still smashing against the cage that is my skull, cracking it as the sound echoes through my body, pumping my veins along. I feel like a smoggy factory, my lungs filled with smoke, my mind coated in tar.

I kneel to the floor, giving in to the all mighty power that is my mind and my thoughts and the intrusive words and phrases that are chanted.

I’m bangind on my skull, as if I’m knocking on the door of my brain, begging it to let me in. Let me know the damage, point out the leaky faucet and the creaky doors and the splintery floors. I will bring my construction team that seem to have no problem tearing apart my skull and we and they together will fix the damage.

We’ll shine the windows that are my eyes, clear them of their blurry, foggy mess.

We’ll mend the key, that is my mouth, paste back all of the skin that’s been shredded.

We’ll tape back all of the limbs that are falling off, maybe superglue if that’ll be more powerful.

We’ll sling caution tape over the darkest and dirtiest parts of my mind, the parts that make me scream inside of my body. The screams that no one seems to hear.

I smush my knuckles into my eyes, the sludgy tears smearing their inky stain against my skin, reminding me of my sin that is my emotions.

I swallow back the aches and cries that are threatening to escape my mouth, for right outside the door is my family at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

I fight against my lungs for breath, until they are filled to the brim, then release it once more, like the sinking of a balloon.

I tell myself to quiet down and not be such a child. For only children cry when they know, their mommy doesn’t want them.

When their daddy doesn’t care.

And their siblings are full of despair.

Then I stand back up, my knees wobbly, and wipe away the ink filled tears.

Smear on some concealer and touch up my mascara.

And then the work is done, my sobs are all worn out.

Leaving me with nothing but a dull aching consumed by doubt.

I wash the ink, the evidence, from my hands, and wipe them across the bright white towel, leaving not a trace of blood behind.

I tighten my seams, and along with it my smile.

I walk back out the door, my limbs attached, only barely.

And then I sit back down.

I am back at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

[sshardassanderson]

Tremble Little Lion Man || Rescue-Para

WHEN: January 18th, 2019

WHERE: Clarington Casino

WHAT: Franco gets rescued. Finally.

WHO: Franco Del Rio, Charlie Rose, Darius Anderson

WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of violence, depictions of torture, gun violence, abuse, kidnapping

WORD COUNT: 2,313

Perhaps if he’d been thinking more clearly, Darius would’ve considered getting more backup/support for this kind of rescue mission outside of Charlie Rose. But what appeared to be the smartest course of action in this case was stealth, especially considering the type of place they were breaking into and the very limited window of opportunity in order to execute a rescue without it becoming a public spectacle. Clarington Casino only closed for about an hour, and that’s the time that they were broaching upon. Charlie was not the right person for this task, despite her level of usefulness. Given everything that she’d gone through, Darius would’ve rather she’d stayed behind someplace safe. But there was no reasoning with her…she had a lot of his tenacity and it’s probably why they’d worked so well while they were dating. But regardless, she was the distraction. It should be safest for the time being. All that mattered was getting Franco the hell out of there. Dare wouldn’t consider any other possible outcome.

When it finally appeared as though most of the people had cleared from the casino, it was time for Charlie to make her grand entrance. Dare felt a sick knotting in the pit of his stomach – if anything happened to her as a result of her being the “distraction”, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. But the damn girl didn’t take no for an answer. Before he could even second guess himself she’d already made her way inside. Dare waited a beat before following, pressing himself into the main doorway where he could see Charlie playing her role very well. He’d obtained directions and a generic blueprint of the facility from a fellow Serpent and knew his route like the back of his hand. There was only one true “undisclosed location” within the facility that stuck out like a sore thumb. To anyone who may have constructed it, it probably would’ve seemed like a normal basement. For Dare, it was his best guess at where they might be keeping Franco.

 He pressed along the hallway as quickly as possible and finally found the door behind an overhanging sign labeled “STAIRS”. He let himself into the stairwell and shut the door quietly behind him, the concrete stairwell somehow preferable to the incredibly obnoxious sound of slots and other various gambling machinery. The door immediately to his right had a large sign “STAFF ONLY – KEEP OUT” with smaller font beneath it that read “THIS DOOR MUST BE LOCKED AT ALL TIMES”. He tried the door handle anyways before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his lock picking accessories. For such a heavy door, the lock gave way with next to no effort, and Dare was able to slink inside within a matter of moments. He slid the tools back into his back pocket, fingers brushing along the loaded gun he’d thought to bring with him. If it came down to it…it would be used. He wouldn’t hesitate when it came to one of his brothers. Not with Franco having been gone for such a long damn time. He descended the staircase, skin crawling as the stairwell only proceeded to get darker with only one or two wall lamps to keep it illuminated.

 Dare and Franco hadn’t ever been particularly close – the Serpent kept other company that he was rather fond of and Dare respected it as he had his own sort of clique of people. At least before he began leading. Now with responsibility weighing on his shoulders, he tried to divide attention equally, give each Serpent what they needed. And maybe that’s where he’d fucked up; neglecting Franco’s needs entirely and never truly knowing what was going on with his history. For fucks sake, he didn’t even know Franco was a runaway. He didn’t know…a lot. Didn’t know that Franco was in some kind of danger. It reflected on his ability to lead, and he’d be remiss to think that it wasn’t eating away at him. But he made a promise. From this point forward, he was never going to let anything happen to Franco again… would never let some of these fucking creeps get their hands on him or any other Serpent. The why didn’t matter. All that mattered was his brother was safe.

 The basement door was locked as well, but it was once again only a minute or two of fiddling with the handle before he was able to let himself in. He opened the door with incredible caution, one hand gripping his pistol while the other felt along in the darkness while his eyes adjusted to the limited lighting. The room reeked of bleach, to the degree that it almost masked the smell of blood, but only almost. Something wasn’t fucking right here, and the knot of worry that’d been building since he’d first approached the casino only tightened in his stomach. Fear wouldn’t get to him. His hands were steady as always. He appeared to be alone, however, if the leaky pipes he could hear like gunshots were any indicator that the room was positively deserted. He strained to focus on any other sounds – breathing, wheezing, mumbling, but…nothing.

 “Franco?” Dare hissed into the silence, desperate for some kind of feedback. “Franco??”

 His hand had been propped along the wall to use as a guide while his eyes still adjusted, and it helped when he felt a change from concrete to something harder and colder…metal of sorts. A door! He grasped blindly until his fingers felt – oh for fucks sake­ – yet another lock, this time a padlock. It’d be more difficult to break into this one, especially in the dark. Grumbling under his breath, Dare switched the safety back on and tucked the gun back into the back of his pants, grabbing his phone and switching on the light, propping it under his chin so he could see. With his hands free he once more retrieved his tool kit and began to fiddle with the lock. Minutes passed…the phone slipping around beneath his chin, fingers feeling fucking numb from how fucking cold the basement felt, but finally he heard the successful click and shoved his things back into his pockets, not knowing what to expect on the other side of the door.

 Pulling it shut most of the way behind him, he wedged a shoe into the door so it couldn’t be slammed shut on him, nor could he be snuck up on if the situation arose. Holding the gun in one hand and his phone-light in the other, it was only once he’d actually faced in the room that the smell hit him. Sweat, blood, piss…the very walls of the room were plastered with the stench of five days of absolute misery. It was barely large enough for a shitty twin mattress slapped on the floor beside a toilet, and the blood-soaked bruised body of his friend…his brother. Dare rushed to Franco’s side and clasped his face in both hands, panic ebbing away into a rage he hadn’t experienced since Blaine’s last bullying incident in high school. Franco was hardly recognizable at this point. There was hardly an inch of him that wasn’t covered in bruises or cuts or blood, his arms tightly compressed behind his back and pinned in place with handcuffs. His face had taken some recent damage, a huge lump over one of his eyes and a swollen spot on the back of his head. Broken ribs jutting out every which way, a crooked, broken nose, and most insulting of all, a fucking ball gag in his mouth. Dare grasped at Franco’s arms with the intent to try and rouse him, only then to notice the litany of fucking bruised puncture wounds on bulging veins.

 Son of a bitch!

 “Franco!” Dare called out in an urgent, hushed whisper, lightly shaking his friend. “C’mon, man. Fuck. Don’t do this. FRANCO!”

 He’s not dead. He’s not fucking dead. I’m not too late.

 He shook Franco’s shoulder harder. “HEY! YOU DON’T GET TO QUIT! OPEN YOUR EYES!”

 He reached around his friend’s head to unfasten the gag in his mouth, whipping it across the room in a fit. There was no telling how much he’d been dosed, or with what. And Dare was about ready to slap him in a fit of desperation until he heard it. The ever so faint rattle of a ragged breath from between his parted lips now that the gag was no longer hindering it. Dare could’ve cried with relief, but he kept his composure by the skin of his teeth. Fucking focus, Anderson. You need to get him out of here. He gingerly turned Franco onto his side and took a moment to free his hands from the handcuffs. Now wasn’t the time to be gentle, no matter how much it pained him to pushing and prodding Franco around like a ragdoll. He turned Franco back onto his back, counting the broken ribs and muttering profanities under his breath. His jeans were loaded with piss but Dare could give a fuck less about that. The beautifully toned body looked like something out of a horror film, stomped and broken and bruised with absolutely no reserve from the party that’d inflicted it upon him. He’d been left down here to die.

 Franco’s chest barely rose with each broken breath, his lungs likely about to be shredded from the broken rib-cage. He’d have to move him carefully and quickly, he hadn’t thought ahead enough to bring a fucking car. Fuck. He’d started to lift Franco up into his arms when he heard it…the sound of a door lightly creaking. He stopped and straightened up, going to the opposite side of the room and pressing himself against the wall. He heard the footsteps falter with caution, the safety switch on his pistol going off at the same time a hairy hand pulled the door even further open into Franco’s cell. The man stepped inside and only managed to catch Darius out of the corner of his eye, a split second too late from where he pressed his weapon between the man’s eyes.

 The man’s lips curled into a sneer. “You little sh—”

 The weapon discharged before the man could even finish, his head ricocheting backwards with enough force that it bounced violently off the metal door and he collapsed face-forward on the ground, blood splatter and brain matter all along the walls and ceiling. The rage ringing in Darius’ ears was far more deafening than the sound of the man’s death gurgle, but the weapon going off certainly almost took out his hearing entirely. Someone would’ve heard the shot from below…at least anyone who may have also been coming down the stairs. He moved quickly back over to Franco and tucked the gun back into his back pocket, an arm going under Franco’s neck and the other beneath his knees.

 “Sorry about this, dude.” Dare muttered, lifting him quickly and bridal style in his arms before hefting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. This couldn’t be the position long, otherwise Dare ran the risk of forcing one of those shattered ribs up into Franco’s lungs. But he moved as quickly as possible out of the room and began to ascend the staircase without once glancing around. Perhaps he should have. Maybe there were other victims being held hostage in that basement. Maybe there was something far more sinister happening down there. But right now…all that mattered was Franco. Dare apologized to the unconscious Serpent the entire way up the stairwell and back to the main floor, where it was going to be next to impossible to just sneak right on out while he was carrying a bloody, tanned-skinned lump that smelled of sweat and piss over his shoulder. But thankfully it was still empty of customers, and the only person he needed to meet up with should’ve been done “distracting” and waiting outside.

 Footsteps nearly made him freeze but Dare quickly rounded a corner and out of sight as five or six men in suits rushed past him and made a beeline right for the stairwell he’d emerged from only moments before. With them gone, Dare was able to make a quick exit from the casino and back outside into the bitter winter air, sliding Franco gingerly down into his arms in a bridal carry as he walked to their rendezvous point just beyond the clearing. Stupid. Fucking stupid. Why didn’t you bring a car? He couldn’t look at his friend. Couldn’t take in the days-worth of damage that’d been done to him because Dare just didn’t fucking try hard enough to look for him. Couldn’t bear the weight of knowing that this, what passed for a barely living young man in his arms, this was his fucking fault. Charlie would offer to carry Franco, would offer to help support his weight, but Dare insisted the entire way to the hospital, some four or five miles from the casino that they hadn’t brought a fucking car to. They’d wanted to be stealthy, but he hadn’t considered that…this would be the condition he’d find his brother in.

 Along the way, Dare alternated between apologies and profanity, his jacket making its way around Franco to help keep him warm, never once pausing to break or to even consider calling an Uber. Nothing on the NorthSide could be trusted right now. Not with his friend like this. It wasn’t until they finally reached the hospital that the doctors and staff were able to forcibly pry Dare’s arms off of Franco’s dying form, that he collapsed on the floor and watched as they wheeled him away. There was nothing else he could do…nothing more he could say or try to do to make it better. He could only hope he wasn’t too fucking late.

[jessischipmunk]

It’s Okay to Have Those Feelings

Dean Winchester x Reader 

Summary: Reader decides to take on a demon despite Dean telling her not to. When she’s caught, tied, and tortured, the demon brings out the feelings she has for Dean that she had been trying to suppress for so long. 

Warnings: mentions of injury/blood 

 YOUR POV 

The room was dark and damp. I could hear water dripping down from a leaky drain pipe. The taste of blood was stale on my tongue. The cut on my lip has dried over, but it keeps reopening every time I try to talk. All I could see were steel walls as I felt the zip ties digging into my wrists. 

I should have listened to Dean. I never should have taken on this demon by myself. If I came out of this alive, I was in for an earful of a lecture. 

Footsteps came down the hall. The door to my cell opened. The demon showed his face. 

“Still alive, I see,” the demon stated, his voice laced with evil. 

“Still an ugly sack of dicks, I see,” I snapped back. 

That remark earned me a slap across the face which resulted in the cut on my lip opening again. 

“You have a smart mouth on you,” he said. 

“You have no idea.” 

“You’ll be dead long before your precious boyfriends get here. And then I’ll kill them too.” 

“They’re not my boyfriends,” I growled defensively. 

“Ah, that’s right. You’re like a baby sister to them. They don’t see you as anything else. As much as you would like them to; or at least one of them,” he grinned devilishly, his eyes darkening. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped. But I did. I had been in love with one of the brothers for a couple years now. I’ve known them since I was ten and I never wanted to admit the feelings to myself because I knew what I really wanted wouldn’t happen. 

“Oh, but you do. You’re in love with your precious Dean Winchester. And little brother Sam knows too. But he’s too loyal to both you and his brother that he wouldn’t dare let that slip off his tongue.” 

“Shut. Up.” 

The demon ignored me and continued. “Too bad. You and Dean would have been the ultimate power couple,” he commented, looking at the table of torture devices he had been using on me for the past six hours. 

“Go to hell,” I snapped. 

“Been there, done that. Maybe you could give it a try this time,” he said and dug a blade into my forearm. I screamed at the top of my lungs. It wasn’t long before I blacked out again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

NORMAL POV 

“I told her, Sam. I fucking told her not to go without us. She never listens!” Dean shouted. 

“Relax, Dean. We know where she is. We’ll get her back,” Sam comforted. 

“What if we’re too late. What if-” 

“We’re not. Stop thinking like that. She’s smart. We trained her, remember? She can hold her own until we get to her.” 

Dean looked at his brother, worry filling his eyes. “I can’t lose her, Sammy. I just can’t. She’s the entire world to me,” he confessed. 

“I know. We’ll get her back. Now let’s go. We’re wasting time.” 

Dean shut the trunk. Both he and Sam got into the Impala and drove off. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

YOUR POV 

I had been slipping in and out of consciousness for the past hour. I was trying to recollect myself because I heard footsteps again. I braced myself for what the demon was going to do next, but something followed the footsteps. It was a voice - no - voices. And I recognized them too. 

I could hear the lock on the cell door being picked and then a “Got it.” The door creaked open. “(y/n)!” 

“Dean? Sam? What. . . How did you-” 

“You can thank Bobby,” Sam said. “The guy is a pro at tracking demons.” 

Dean knelt in front of me as Sam cut me loose of the zip ties. Dean cupped my face and looked at me. I knew I had a few cuts and bruises on my face. I was weak and every part of my body ached and burned. It was getting hard to keep my eyes open. 

“I’m going to kill that evil son of a bitch,” Dean muttered after he took one look at me. “You don’t look good at all.” 

“Oh, and you look like a million bucks?” I retorted weakly. Dean had a busted lip as well and a bruise forming just under his hairline, probably from one of the demon’s goons. 

“Seriously? Now is not the time for your snarky comments. We need to get you out of here.” Dean stood, and then helped me up. My legs felt like noodles. I fell forward into Dean. He caught me. I clutched his shirt, afraid to let go. 

Suddenly, all three of us turned our heads toward the door. There were heavy footsteps coming and I clutched onto Dean’s shirt tighter. 

Sam had his gun at the ready, Dean doing the same while holding me tightly. 

“Sam, take (y/n) and get her to the car. I’ll take care of  this bastard.” 

“What? No, Dean. I want to stay and help! You can’t-”

“Can’t do it alone? Gee, where have I heard that before,” he scoffed. 

“Dean, I-” 

No, (y/n)! Dammit, for once just listen to me and go! I’ll be fine,” he said looking at me. His eyes, green with anger, bore into me. 

I nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. Without thinking, I kissed his cheek. I didn’t realize what I did until after. I didn’t look at him and just turned away, thinking to myself I probably shouldn’t have done that. Sam wrapped an arm around my waist to help hold me up, and we walked out leaving Dean behind. 

I could tell just by stepping out of that awful building that it was going to be a bit of a hike back to the car. I didn’t want to be too far from Dean in case he needed our help. But I knew Sam would take a lot of convincing if we were to stop and wait. 

“Can we stop for a minute,” I asked. 

“Sure,” Sam said. “Are you alright?” 

“Do I look alright? I lost at least two pints of blood while I was in there.” I sat down on the ground. 

“And yet you wanted to stay and lose more? (y/n), you’re confusing, you know that?” 

“Just because I lost blood doesn’t mean I don’t want to help, Sam.” 

“You’re right. I’m sorry. But you know Dean is fine on his own.” 

“I know,” I said looking down and picking at the grass. “But I can’t help it. I. . . I-” 

“You love him. I know.” I looked up at him, slightly shocked. “Oh, come on, (y/n).” He took a seat next to me. “You don’t think I’ve noticed? It’s obvious. The way you look at him. How you enjoy his presence in the same room even when you’re both doing something completely different. How you hate that he’s so over protective, yet secretly love it at the same time. You two have a bond. Just like I did with Jessica.” 

I didn’t respond. 

“It’s okay to have those feelings, (y/n).” 

“I know. But it’s not like it’s gonna go anywhere, so what’s the point?” 

“You’d be surprised what could be.” 

I just looked at him and didn’t say anything more. I didn’t feel like staying on the topic. 

“Sam?” 

“Yeah?”

“Is it alright if we stay here until we know he’s okay? I mean, I know,” I paused, catching my breath as my chest felt like it was tightening. “I know it’s not the safest place, but in case he needs us? And I’m not feeling up for walking right now. I don’t feel so great.” 

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “I hope he gets done soon. We need to get you taken care of. Maybe even a hospital,” he said, brushing a piece of hair from my face. 

“No. No hospitals. Those places give me such bad anxiety. Besides, what are we going to tell them? The truth?” 

“Valid point. No hospital.” 

“I stopped bleeding a while ago. I’ll be fine for a little while longer.” 

I laid back on the grass, too tired to stay sitting up. We stayed there in silence for about twenty minutes. There were trees all around us. Aspens, pines, even some oak trees. You could hardly see the sky through all the foliage. But you didn’t need to see the sky to know the moon was full. 

We heard a howling in the distance. I sat up quickly and moved closer to Sam. A couple minutes later we heard a twig snap in front of us. Sam pulled his gun out, ready to shoot whatever might be threatening us. 

“I thought I told you to get to the car?” It was Dean. 

“Dean!” I stood up and ran to him completely unaware of any pain from earlier. I jumped, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding onto him. He wrapped his arms around my waist. I was not one to be clingy, and I wasn’t really. But Sam was right. I always wanted - and enjoyed - being in Dean’s presence. 

I buried my face into his neck and took in his scent. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said. 

“You too, baby girl,” he said. He let go of me first. My heart sank a little, but I just let it go. 

“She wasn’t feeling too good, so we stopped,” Sam announced. 

I sat back down on the ground, all the pain and weakness suddenly flooding back into my body. 

“Did you kill it,” I asked.

“That sucker is beyond dead.” 

I just nodded my head, quietly letting out a sigh of relief. I felt a chill run down my spine. And then another. Next thing I knew I was shivering continuously. It wasn’t big, but noticeable. That burning that ran through my body earlier had turned into what felt like ice in my veins. I brought my knees to my chest hoping that sitting in fetal position would help. 

“(y/n), sweetheart? What’s wrong,” Dean asked kneeling in front of me. I was about to say I was fine, but he must have known. “Nah, don’t pull that crap with me, baby girl. Tell me.” 

“Cold,” I said. It was all I could mutter out. Then a couple seconds later, “tired.” 

Dean took off his jacket and helped me put it on. “Better?” 

“A little. I just don’t feel well. Weak and dizzy.” My words were coming out slightly slurred. 

“Listen to how she’s talking,” Sam said. “Those are signs of hypothermia, Dean. We need to get her home. Now.” 

Dean carefully picked me up and carried me back to the car. Once he got me into the back seat, he handed Sam the keys so that he could sit with me while Sam drove. 

Dean got in the back with me. Once he sat down next to me, he immediately put his arm around me, pulling me into his body and doing his best to keep me warm. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

I was bundled under more blankets than I cared to count. Sam had cleaned me up. Thankfully nothing was too serious. The wound on my arm needed a couple of stitches but that was about it. Other than the hypothermia, obviously. 

Once Sam had tended to my wounds, Dean helped me change out of my blood stained clothes and into one of his t-shirts because it was softer than any that I owned and my favorite pair of fuzzy pajama pants. 

Dean hadn’t left my side since we got back. Which I was very thankful for. His body was like a heater and a pillow all in one. Not to mention just having him there made me feel better. 

I rested there with my head on his chest. He was running his fingers through my hair gently. It was soothing. 

“Dean,” I said after a few moments of silence. 

“Yes, darling?” 

“Thank you for always being there. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone. I should have listened to you. . .” 

“Damn right you should have listened,” he said softly. “Why did you go?” 

“I don’t know. I guess I thought I had something to prove. But all I had to prove was just how expendable I really I am. I’m sorry.” 

“You scared the living shit out of me, you know that? I don’t think I ever feared something more in my life than I did today. And I’ve literally been to hell and back. I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you.”

“I know. I promise I won’t do it again. And to be honest, I thought I was going to get more of a lecture than that,” I said with a small giggle. 

“Oh, you will. I just want to make sure you’re fully aware when I rip you a new one,” he said. He chuckled, but I could also tell he was serious about what he said. He pulled me closer, planting a kiss to my forehead. 

I sighed. I knew I had to say it. “Okay, I may regret this later, but I can just blame it on the blood loss and hypothermia,” I said mostly to myself but I knew he heard me. “I love you, Dean. Like I am totally head over heels in love you. And I just wanted you to know that. Whether you feel the same way or not, I just felt like you should know that.” 

He was silent for a moment. My breathing stopped for a slight second as I looked up at his face. He was smiling - grinning, actually. Like a little school boy. He looked down at me, his eyes flashing between mine and my lips. He leaned down and captured my mouth with his. It was like everything I ever imagined. His lips were warm and soft and he tasted so good. 

We pulled apart and he looked down at me and said, “I love you, too.” He kissed me lips again softly. “Get some rest, sweetheart. I need you fully awake for your lecture tomorrow,” he chuckled. 

I just rolled my eyes and settle into his side, my body molding with his perfectly. 

I drifted off to sleep in his arms, listening to the soothing sound of his heart beating.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Azula Ship Challenge

Week 2; Partners in crime.

Ship: Azula/Toph

Song Recs (idea from @feedingthewrongwolf): Eric Whitacre’s Lux   Aurumque, Atmozfears' This Is The Time and Helalyn Flower's I'm Human Detective.

Ngl this one is my favorite of them. Toph/Azula (which I am calling rockzula) is just such an underused ship and I wanted to give it  go. This is a cyber goth/solarpunk(ish) AU.

They were just two beat down kids in a beat up world.

No wonder it was so easy.

So easy to run away.

So easy to fall in love.

So easy to make such a mess, to have such a thrill.

 Days in the city of breathing in smog and staring at distant smoke stakes were taking their toll on Azula. Listening to the noisy clatter of industrial trains constantly on the move transporting mountains of coal, iron, and metal to the factories. Azula knew it wasn’t much better for the neighbor kid, Toph in an apartment with a leaky ceiling, dented walls infested with rats, and a tattered matters stock full of mites. She sighed and took a drag from her cigarette. She supposed she should be grateful; at least she lived in a house, however trashed it was. And it was decently trashed, your typical decaying yet somehow overgrown lawn littered with heaps of trash; a few rusty car parts here and over there, a weather abused swing set that hasn’t been used in year. Broken pieces of their house that had landed in their yard, a beater car that was on its last breath of exhaust fumes. Shards of a flower pot that called back to a time when flowers could still grow. A cracked birdbath reminiscing of when their mom was still with them.

That was what did their family in. They were never well off; nobody was these days. No one but the oil tycoons, unbreakable cooperations, and the industrial fanatics. Azula had reason to believe that even they had it bad now that there were so few people left to buy their products. They probably realized that they fucked up. But they keep up their poison, because what else did they have left to do? No one stopped them. It was too late to do so anyhow, everyone was just waiting for the world to die off in one last polluted cough. Her own family didn’t feel the effects until after Ursa had fallen ill just like everyone else who couldn’t adapt to the new toxic air. The Airbenders dropped like flies. Balance was thrown off and soon bending was a thing of the past.

 Azula peered over at Toph’s sorry excuse for an apartment and counted her blessings again. Zuko was a nervous wreck and Ozai was a hopeless drunk who had the biggest hand in letting their house go. He also couldn’t be assed to go to work—not that she blamed him. He used to work for Tak-Dom’s Rail Co., ‘proud’ owner of the smokestacks in the distance. One of four major companies that violated the world. At least her father had the decency to feel like shit for playing his part. Her family was a disaster, they didn’t even talk anymore, content to be alone with their own demons. But at least she had a family. Toph was living alone and was able. Azula couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen any form of security or authority, much less someone to check on the kid. Azula speculated that no one even knew that anyone lived in the apartment. But Toph seemed okay with that.

But Azula knew it, she decided to make an adventure of exploring the broken world she lived in. That’s how she met Toph. Toph with that spunky bandana she had tied over her mouth and that quirky pair of goggles that sat on her head. Toph who took her by surprised and bashed her a good one with a baseball bat. Toph who tied her up and held a gun to her head and told her that she’d used one before. Toph who held her captive for a good two days.

 Azula liked Toph. The kid knew how to survive. She also knew where to go if you wanted to forget the world for a while. And if all else failed she knew how to make a good time. Azula taught her how to skateboard and Toph taught her the best spots to breach the closest factories. She said that she needed to get food somehow and wasn’t a good cook. Eventually though, they began breaking in not for to steal the food—it was pumped full of radiation anyways—but for the thrill. Azula would pick up her board, adjust her studded gasmask that she was lucky to have received (back before things got wildly out of hand, at the time it was more or less a trend to have), and venture with Toph into the warehouse.

 On their first endeavor—one that happened only after the pair had felt each other out, Toph handed Azula a bat adorned with rusty nails and drawings that were both cute and crass all at once. “I thought I’d give it to you as a token of our friendship.” Toph had said.

“This is the one you hit me with, isn’t it?”

Toph just smirked.

And they were off. Since Toph didn’t have a board of her own, Azula let her wrap her arms around her waist and told her to hold on. Over the wind rushing passed and the sound or kicking up pebbles Toph would shout things like, “make a left, now a right, keep going straight.” Finally, they had arrived. Azula called with vivid detail how putrid the place smelled. Toph forgot to mention that the secret entrance was positioned smack in between a compost that hadn’t been emptied in months and a waste discharge pipe that spouted colors all over the nasty green and gaudy brown spectrum. Azula recalled nearly retching on the spot, only managing to keep it down so not to make herself look like a wimp. She watched Toph scope the ground. Azula had figured that the girl was looking for something to help them force the warehouse door open. Intent on proving that she was a useful partner, she rummaged through a pile of scrap metal and rusty iron beams. Wedged between two, she had found a crowbar. “That’ll work.” Toph declared. And in minutes they were sneaking around the building. Not that they had to. The place was both trashed and empty. Though Azula was certain it was still in use on occasions.

That night they stole a considerably sized crate of food and a wrench. And that night, in light of their first success, she kissed Toph, if for no other reason than just to try it. But she liked how it felt to do so, both of them did…

 From then on they moved on to wilder adventures that included skateboarding in the ‘stay out’ sections of the industrial park, looting stores—nothing major, just to see if they could—and smashing car widows just for the hell of it. And on the nights when they were to wiped to do anything else, they’d share a smoke.

  Before the world began to decay, Toph was someone Azula would have never talked to. Toph had moved in from the east side. The part of the city that was known for being less civilized, if she was putting it gently. The BeiFong family started out in poverty—it showed in the way Toph talked and in her posture among other things—and had finally gotten out, just in time for the world to go poor. Azula had been raised to, “stay away from that lot.” Perhaps she should mind her father’s words, before Toph the worst that she would do was swipe a light from Lo and Li. She snickered to herself, it’s not like there were laws anymore.  She took another drag and watched the smoke puff into the sky. It reminded her of the smoke stacks that never ceased to stop puffing, and for a fleeting moment she felt guilty. The skyline already had smog on top of smog, what did it matter if she added a breath more of it? She yawned, deciding that a trip to Toph’s place was long overdue. She stood up and stretched, pulled her ratty sneakers on, and headed across the cracked street. She noticed that some vines had finally pushed through some of those grass and made a note to take a quick picture before they shriveled up and died. At the thought, she tightened the gas over her nose and lips.

 Tonight, Azula just wanted to relax—relatively speaking—so she was going to suggest a trip to BioBlaze. A secret rave nestled in the hidden tunnel of the abandoned Laogai water works that played somewhat disconcerting machine sounds and electric vocals over techno beats. A place for teens like them. People who still somehow managed to be misfits in a world full of underdogs.

Toph has never been there and would surely get a kick out of it. It would be the best birthday present Azula could muster up. She gave the door a sturdy knock. Apparently too sturdy, for her hand went through the rotting wood.

 Toph inspected her newly decorated door. “Surprise.” Azula grinned.

 “Gee, thanks.” Toph muttered.

 “Have you ever heard of BioBlaze.” Azula asked.

 Toph tapped her chin, “nope, don’t recall.”

 “Wonderful.” Azula replied, taking Toph’s hand. “It’s my turn to show you a hidden part of the city.”

[worldsentwined]

The Key To Your Heart

For this week’s @synchronisedscreaming flash fiction challenge.  Prompt:  Aksel/Sigrun L - why did you lock the door?  (Note: This is a 5 + 1 times story of a sort, and the fifth time involves a minor character death)

I.

The latch clicked behind him, and Aksel nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“S-sigrun? What are you doing?”

He generally tried to avoid being alone with her. Not because she liked to make fun of him--she did that anyway, no matter who was around to hear--but because he’d been harboring a massive crush on her for months. It had been hard enough before this Rash business forced them all into close quarters. With winter closing in and no one able to set foot outside the walls, it felt as though the two of them were constantly flung together.

Part of Aksel was all right with that. But the rest of him worried that one of these days he’d blurt out something stupid, and Sigrun would know. She’d never stop teasing him then.

So finding himself locked in the storage room where he’d been sorting supplies, and locked in with Sigrun, was a source of both joy and terror. 

Did she find out somehow? Is she going to call me out on it? Is she...is she going to kiss me? Aksel had to shake his head at that last thought--Sigrun’s scowl didn’t invite kissing.

“I’m locking the door, stupid,” she said, answering the question he’d nearly forgotten. “If I have to listen to Ingrid and Gøran have one more argument about newspapers, I’m going to stab someone. At least in here I can get a little peace.”

“Oh.” Relief washed over Aksel, though he had to admit to a certain amount of disappointment.

“Why, what did you think?” Sigrun asked. She settled on the floor and leaned back against a box. “Worried I was locking you in here for a makeout session?”

“Shut up,” Aksel grumbled. Lucky for him the room was dimly lit. She couldn’t see his blush.

II.

“Did you just lock that?”

She propped herself against the door in question and met his gaze with a satisfied smirk. “Yeah, I did. So?”

“But...” Never mind that it left the two of them alone again--Aksel had faced plenty of fears in recent days, but he still couldn’t overcome this one. So instead he said, “Aren’t Gøran and Ingrid still out there? They were on guard duty tonight.” Which was poor planning, really. The two of them couldn’t stop bickering long enough to even notice a charging troll, let alone shoot one. Hopefully the foul weather would keep trouble at bay.

“Sure. And when they get back, they won’t be coming in. I swiped Ingrid’s key.”

“Umm...” He knew it was probably a stupid question, but he couldn’t help asking. “Why?”

Sigrun tossed the key into the air and caught it. “Because when they can’t get in here, they’ll have to find somewhere else to argue. Like Gøran ‘s room. Where Ingrid will have to stay all night.” She tossed the key up one more time, then hung it on a hook by the door. “Hopefully they’ll finally jump each other’s bones and sort out all that tension.”

“Oh my god.” Aksel hid his face in his hands. Then something occurred to him. “Wait. Sigrun, I live with Gøran. I don’t want to be there if they’re--if you think they’ll really--” he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Don’t worry, I planned for that,” Sigrun said. She waved him toward the bedroom. “Ingrid’s bed is free. We’ll say you stayed here late talking, and didn’t want to go home in the awful weather. The storm was so loud we didn’t hear Ingrid knocking.”

Aksel swallowed hard. “Oh. Okay, yeah. Sure.” He allowed her to push him toward Ingrid’s bed, and managed to return her “good night” after she extinguished the candle. But it was a long time before he managed to sleep.

III.

“Sigrun! Why are you locking--”

“Shut up Aksel!” She hissed the words out through clenched teeth and gestured for silence. Aksel shut up and listened hard, heart hammering.

On the other side of the wall, something moved. The door shuddered; Sigrun backed away slowly, careful not to make a sound. Aksel tightened his grip on his gun. 

They couldn’t go back the way they’d come in; a leaky roof had rotted a section of the floorboards, and Aksel would have landed in the basement if Sigrun hadn’t caught him just in time. And now their way forward was blocked, too.

“What do we do?” he breathed. 

Sigrun didn’t bother to answer, still focused on the locked door. It shook again; the hinges creaked. Thump. Thump. Thump-CRACK-- 

“RUN!” Sigrun shouted. She darted sideways just as the door flew off its hinges. Aksel’s bullet missed her--it missed the troll too, but he hadn’t really expected to hit it--and then she grabbed his arm and shoved him through the window.

They hit the ground in a shower of broken glass, dazed but unharmed. Sigrun didn’t let go of him until they’d gotten far, far away.

IV.

Sigrun sank onto the bed across from Aksel’s.

“Everything locked up?” He asked. It was hardly a question. The people in charge of quarantine would make sure they couldn’t get out until it was safe.

“Yeah.” For once, Sigrun didn’t have a snarky comment. She looked tired, and she was still a little pale from blood loss. The medic said her wound would heal fine, as long as there weren’t any...complications.

Aksel’s own scratch was hardly noticeable by comparison, but they both knew it could kill him just as easily. Or it might not. There was only one way to find out.

“I think the waiting is gonna be worse than the pain,” Sigrun said. She ran her fingers along her bandaged arm, then winced. “Or maybe they’ll both suck.”

“Well don’t touch it,” Aksel said, rolling his eyes at her. His grandmother had always told him that messing around with injuries just made it harder for them to heal.

Evidently Sigrun had heard the same lecture. “God, you sound just like Berit. If you’re going to go all grandma on me, at least come make yourself useful.”

At her direction, Aksel sat down beside her and settled against the headboard. The bed was short: his feet stuck off the end. It would be a long two weeks.

Sigrun leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder, propping her arm on a spare pillow. “There. At least now I can get comfortable. Don’t move, I’m going to take a nap.”

Aksel had no intention of moving, possibly ever again. Maybe the two weeks would go faster than he’d thought.

V.

“That’s the last of them. I’m locking the door now.”

Aksel only nodded. There were words he should say, some phrase to express his appreciation for all Sigrun’s help over the last few miserable days. He tried to say them, once, twice, but even on the third try he couldn’t get them past the lump in his throat. 

In truth, no words could encompass what he was feeling, just like there were no words to soothe him. The constant stream of visitors had said them all:

“She went out the way she would have wanted. She was a fighter to the end.”

“We never would have lasted this long without her. Your grandma left a legacy to be proud of.”

“She was so proud of you, you know.”

“Saved my life. Saved all our lives. Here’s to Berit!”

“Here’s to Berit Eide!”

None of it helped. The words were a wave crashing against the wall of his grief, and there was no escaping. Just when he’d thought the pressure would undo him, Sigrun had sent the last of the visitors away. Now it was just the two of them.

Aksel didn’t look up, but he marked her progress across the room by the sound of her steps. She settled beside him. Any moment, she might break the silence, and then Aksel would break.

But Sigrun didn’t offer any words of comfort. “I suck at this,” she said. “Even if I wasn’t sad too, I would still suck at it. So get over here.” She pulled him down--it wasn’t as far to go as usual, not with the way he hunched over--and tucked him against her chest. And she didn’t say another word, just let Aksel cry all over her.

+1

“Sigrun?” He hardly dared to ask the question. “Why are you locking the door?”

She settled the bolt into place and turned to face him. “Because I don’t want to be interrupted.” Two steps brought her close enough to kiss--two steps, and tiptoes, and a hand on his jaw to bring his mouth to meet hers. “That okay with you?” she murmured, sinking back on her heels.

“More than okay,” Aksel agreed. It seemed like his turn to kiss her, so he caught her around the waist and lifted her up to reach. She laughed against his mouth, and brought her arms up behind his head. 

“You planning to put me down?” Sigrun asked, when he paused for breath but made no sign of letting go. “Not saying you have to. This is nice.” She pressed another kiss to the tip of his nose.

“It didn’t seem fair to make you stretch,” he said. “I’m too tall.” Plus he didn’t really want to put her down. Holding her close was much nicer. Just like kissing her was better than not kissing her, and also better than he’d ever imagined kissing Sigrun Larsen would be in the early days of his silly crush on her. Then, thoughts of kissing had been all fluttery nerves and wistful hoping. Now, years later and with countless adventures shared together, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Sigrun smirked. “Well, there is a reason I locked us in your bedroom.” She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Height won’t matter much if we’re lying down.”

Aksel laughed, and kissed her again before carrying her to the bed.

[thesoulpatch-blog1]

Contentment (Sorry, It’s Been A While)

Are you content where you are? Are you on a path to eventual contentment? Or do you just go to work every day, then come home and fall into your default evening routine, just to go to bed early and do it again and again without ever really thinking if there’s any other way? I don’t mean to be presumptive. I would really like to know how people answer these questions in their head. People just seem so miserable to me everywhere I go, but it’s like they aren’t aware that they don’t have to be.

Contentment is ultimately a choice, though it’s a choice that gets harder to make as your circumstances get shittier. There are some living deeply in poverty, perhaps with violent battles being waged right outside their homes, who must still find a way to rejoice. Some of us scream and shout and almost bust a vein over spilled milk. It just seems to me that we have something messed up here.

I was struck in a particular way by our new White House Communications Director’s recent interview with the New Yorker. The basic details of this scenario are that unknown members of the White House staff keep leaking information to the press and then reports come out to criticize Trump and his administration with info from the inside, and we know Trump and his administration don’t take kindly to criticism. Enter Anthony Scaramucci, a former Goldman Sachs employee and hedge fund manager, as the new communication’s director brought in to tighten the bolts on the White House machine and locate all the faulty, “leaky” parts that need removed.

The premise of this hiring makes sense, as this guy has blindly and aggressively defended Donald Trump since the election (prior to which he said he hoped Hillary Clinton would be the next president), and The Donald gets along best with his blind defenders. But take into account that Sean Spicer – and we’ve all seen some of the ridiculous falsehoods Spicer was okay with promoting as truth and obvious truths he promoted as lies – had a moral dilemma with the addition of Scaramucci and chose to resign as a result. Everyone in America should’ve raised an eyebrow at that point.

I’ll just get to the quotes from the interview with Scaramucci, and all of these came out of his mouth:

“Reince Priebus — if you want to leak something — he’ll be asked to resign very shortly. … Reince is a fucking paranoid schizophrenic, a paranoiac.”

“I’m not Steve Bannon, I’m not trying to suck my own cock. I’m not trying to build my own brand off the fucking strength of the president. I’m here to serve the country.”

“What I want to do is I want to fucking kill all the leakers and I want to get the president’s agenda on track so we can succeed for the American people.”

The interview happened July 27th, and Donald Trump praised Scaramucci’s handling of it, saying he ‘loved’ it.

I don’t feel I need to explain how disgusting it is to have a senior White House official speaking this way to a reporter, about his coworkers, in a public setting, and having the president himself respond with approval. Especially when these leakers are only leaking information that the American people are usually pretty upset to hear about. Trump’s administration blatantly wants to be able to operate shadily behind closed doors with only people who can be trusted to keep quiet. If that is achieved, the next three and a half years are even more frightening than the last six months.

But the alternative, barring some sort of social awakening for which we missed the opportunity long before November of 2016, was Hillary Clinton. And in that case I imagine shady dealings behind closed doors with only people who would keep quiet would’ve hit the ground running on Inauguration Day. So I have no ideas to offer for a political solution here. It’s all fucked. They’re all fucked and those of us still adhering to the ideology of these fucked people are also all fucked.

The ideas I have are social. Economical. Maybe spiritual. And they start at the place that I began this rant: Are you content where you are? And not just content in the sense of feeling fine with where you are in life, but I mean if you die in ten minutes, and there’s no time to do anything but call your parents (you probably won’t even do that), can you accept what your life was? Can you rest easy leaving behind whatever it is you’ve created and destroyed in your time here? Have you even made an impact, or are all those ideas to do so just thoughts that will never come to fruition? Did you even try to make something of this life? Or are you right where you’re supposed to be? Do you feel that your choices have led you here, or your submission to authority? Now my questions are getting more presumptive. I believe it is usually the case that we do not choose our paths according to our free will. We follow the guidelines of society. We fear stepping outside of them into alternative lifestyles because then our peers shame us. Because everyone is a drone and the divinity of our emotions is managed and manipulated to make it emotionally difficult to chase whatever outside the box plans we want to have for ourselves.

My point to connect the politics with the hippie shit is this: why the fuck are we powerless individuals doing anything we’re “supposed” to do under the guidelines of a society led by gross, vulgar people like Trump, Clinton, and Scaramucci? The NRA had a recent controversial ad criticizing liberals for violent protest, making protestors out to be the horrifying members of society that we need guns to protect ourselves from. I’m not a supporter of violence. I believe we have these supercomputer brains so we can logically determine solutions, and not to develop better ways to hurt people. But when I read an Anthony Scaramucci interview and then hear about someone throwing a few bricks through windows, I think, “Well… Yeah.” If there’s an argument for more guns, it’s more likely to be that we need protection from the people to whom the NRA makes multimillion dollar campaign contributions. *Cough* Donald Trump *Cough* *Cough*

We’re broken. People, society, institutions, the planet. It’s easy to see that whatever we’re doing with this place is not natural, but by our own design. Look at how much forest floor is now covered with buildings instead of trees. What I expect people to do is keep doing the same shit. Go to work, buy Chipotle for dinner, and watch Lip Sync Battle and whatever else you have on your DVR until it’s time to fall asleep. But it’s these actions, the “normal” actions we’re “supposed” to be taking, that allow for such gross people to be in charge and continue breaking their own rules with little to no consequence. Go publicly call your boss a ‘fucking paranoid Schizophrenic’ and see if your other boss ‘loves’ it.

What I want people to do is nothing that’s expected of them. I do not condone violence, but it will happen as more and more people realize that their entire life has been defrauded. Better reactions than violence are to seize the means of production, create something that will outlive you in others’ memories, unify people to love and trust each other, and live in ways that others must rely on you as you rely on them. Your freedom, this value that the constitution vows to protect, has been taken by the very power structure pledging to preserve it. So take it back and break the rules as much as you can. That’s the only way we’re ever getting anywhere worthy of contentment.

[mythologygirlfanfic]

The Art of Lying: Chapter Two

Story Summary:

I was reborn as a coward and a liar, yet I was alright with that because that is what I had been.

Rating: T

                                                                   Chapter One: The Art of Baby Life

Being a baby again was more than a little traumatizing and I was extremely thankful I didn’t remember my initial test run. I had the soul of an old woman, old enough to be my new caretakers grandmother, so having them change my soiled diapers and the breastfeeding was all sorts of uncomfortable.

The biggest nightmare however was delivered messily wrapped to me by whom I assumed was my new father. The man meant well, that was easy to see. (And wasn’t that the fiasco when my vision developed enough to see, the first thing greeting me was a monstrous seeming man, thanks to my own miniscule height, hanging over my crib and making horrific faces. He was certainly startled when I started screaming like a banshee.) He was apparently very excited to have a progeny as he loved to tot me everywhere to brag to anyone who would listen and even those who really didn’t want to. At least, that is what I was assuming he was doing as he had a huge small his face and constantly gestured towards me where I hung helplessly in the sling across his narrow chest. I still didn’t really have a grasp on the language to be one hundred percent sure.

Heck, sometimes he would even boast to me about himself. Taking me out to the backyard and propping me up against a mountain of fluff, slightly musty pillows as he shoot down can after can from a rather great distance. I was duly impressed, though I had never really been one for guns. My gurgles of awe and happy shrieks never failed to make my father’s grin grow even wider as he preened. The man lived for praise and it was even better if that praise was coming from his wife or daughter.

Yet, those were the good times. The times were I didn’t have to contain my sobs of absolute terror and wish that eye-bleach was an actual thing or that my faulty memory would kick in and just erase it from my mind. Oh, how I wish I were just being dramatic here.

One of the things I failed to consider when I first realized I had been reincarnated was any and all possible cultural differences. It was something I rarely thought about in my past life and not something that I thought would be important in this new one. I had been proven wrong. Many times over, in fact.

My skin crawled just thinking about it.

“Usopp-chan,” my father practically crowed as he all but danced into my view. “It’s bath time!”

I swore.

It was a shame everything just came out in babbles, drool dripping down my chin like a leaky faucet. I doubt my father would have understood English anyway. As it was he was simply cooing over how adorable I was, as he gently picked me up from the blanket I was set upon earlier.

‘Bath time’ were some of the only words I had picked up so far in this world, mainly because I dreaded it so much that I didn’t want to be surprised anymore when it was going to happen. The first few times had been enough, I craved the extra seconds needed to get my mental preparations set.

Plus, I would know when to close my eyes.

In my previous life I had been born in America to a family that was pretty much ‘no touch.’ We didn’t ever really hug or give congratulatory pats on the back and we certainly didn’t bathe naked together with our parents, which was what was going on right now. My original upbringing in no way prepared me for this. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry.

I could still recall the first time this had occurred. I was unsuspecting and naive, not to mention totally unprepared. I wailed like a broken alarm clock with not only no off button, but with a full-charged battery to boot. That had actually almost put a stop to this ‘bonding event’ as my father dubbed it entirely. I would have happily let it end to, if I had not noticed how upset and off put he was about me apparently hating him. Honestly, I was rather easy to guilt trip, even if I could lie better than the world’s greatest con man.

So, as my father jabbered happily to me in a language I was nowhere near fluent, I let myself drift off, just waiting for it to be over. All the while praying this wouldn’t turn out like it had for Kazuma in KonoSuba , I certainly didn’t remember making any deals with a stuck up goddess, but I didn’t want to count anything out.

I could only take so much misfortune.

My mother, while wonderful, had a nose longer than Pinocchio's after he lied once or twice. It was that facial feature that brought light to not only who I was reborn as, but to where exactly I had been reborn. Well, that and my name.

I was in the quiet, uneventful  place known as Syrup Village. As well as the sole child of Yasopp, a future pirate sailing under ‘Red-Hair’ Shanks, and Banchina, a woman fated to die, her one wish to see her husband again remaining unfulfilled. It was a punch to the gut when I realized both parents would eventually leave me. I had been becoming very attached to them and their easy expressions of love.

Truthfully, it made a small ball of resentment towards my father to start to roll in my gut. I made every effort to suppress it. He hadn’t left yet and I shouldn’t hate someone for something they have yet to do, this wasn’t Psycho Pass, it was One Piece. Perhaps, now that he had a daughter instead of a son, he wouldn’t leave at all. It was wishful thinking, yet I let myself hope.

It was a fragile hope, especially when on rare occasions my father would cradle me in his arms, taking me to the outskirts of the village, just to sit on the shore for hours. The waves lapping at his feet and a longing in eyes that almost hurt to see. Still, it was a hope I desperately clung to.

I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind, getting back to the more pressing ‘here and now’ problem - my nose.

I was roughly five or so months old now, just having learned to sit up on my own. Which was a humongous chore in itself with the amount of strain I had to put on my weak muscles to do so. Of course, the first thing I did was check my appearance and, let me tell you, getting yourself placed in front of a mirror was not easy.

I had hoped that now that I was a girl version of Usopp, I wouldn’t have inherited my mother’s nose. Truth was, while in the show, his nose never bothered me, in fact, I found it kind of endearing, I had a lot of insecurities about my appearance that jumped lives with me. Before I had been on the chubby side with acne that refused to leave me, even well out of my teens. It didn’t really do much for my self-confidence, especially when in middle school boy’s started to ask me on fake dates, never showing up, while their supposed girlfriends’ would sometimes come by to mock me instead. I couldn’t really remember any of their faces or names, just that it had hurt  - a lot. Scars had been left behind and I’m not just talking about the ones caused by the pimples, but people held more power to harm others then I think most teenagers knew.

It was during this time, appearance became a huge deal to me. I felt inadequate compared to other girls, causing me to not only stress eat, gaining even more weight, but to throw myself into my hobbies, subjecting myself to self imposed solitary confinement. I didn’t dig myself out of that dark cell for a long time after, never truly escaping.

It made me feel like some sort of dastardly villain now, especially since I knew looks didn’t mean everything. Yet, knowing and accepting  were two completely different things. It didn’t help the twistedly grotesque feelings I had that Banchina was the sweetest mother anyone could ask to be reborn to. I truly, deeply loved her and her calm, affectionate manner. It was easy to comprehend way exactly Yasopp was so smitten with the gentle woman.

Still, I couldn’t help how I felt, often finding myself wishing I took more after my father in the facial features department. While, he had nothing distinctive about him, there was more of an appeal to being a ‘Plain Jane’ than a girl version of a living puppet.

Mother seemed to pick up on my agitation as she swiftly swooped me up into her arms, rubbing the tip of her nose against mine. I withheld a cringe. “Why such a frown, my little seashell?”

Seashell. Mother loved to call that, a cute nickname she had dubbed me with long ago. She had told me the story why, and, while my understanding of the language still wasn’t supreme, I got the gist of it. Father had proposed to her with the prettiest seashell he could find, combing the small beach encasing our island for weeks, before settling on one. It was a conch shell, a mix of blue and pink, and when the sun hit it just right it glittered so much one could easily mistake it for a precious jewel. It was beautiful.

Mother said it reminded her of me. At first I had been confused because there was no way I believed I was that pretty. The confusion most have shown on my face as she explained how, like the shell, I represented the love between father and her. Pure and unconditional.

It was the most mushy thing I have ever heard, but mother told it with such stars in her dark eyes, that I couldn’t help but to believe her if only for a second.

Leaning back slightly in her arms, ignoring the way her hold tightened in fear of dropping me, I reached up and carefully gripped her nose. A gummy grin splitting across my face. Mother gave me a smile brighter than the sun in return, a finger gently looping around my own nose.

It was at that moment I vowed, for this woman, I would try to get over my inferiority issues.