#i doubt he even bothered patching up the shirt...

[nenoname]

[leyavo]

| I am my father's daughter | 2 |

💖 Dad!Price & Daughter!reader

PART TWO: Agreeing to let Toff check you over, you make the decision of whether not you want to stay with your dad or just take off, which would be so much easier.

[18+] MDNI | TW: Hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/comfort/ complicated father-daughter relationship/some TF141 too.

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

[Part one] [Series masterlist] 3026words

Toff lived up to her nickname, no letters dropped at the end of her words like the team your dad had around him. No she was posh, well spoken and had the accent of someone that came from old money.

The gold designer watch on her wrist and the rock of an engagement ring, also telling enough. Her fingers prodded the yellowing bruise on your rib cage, the rock dazzling under the light, blinding you each time she moved.

She doesn't fit in, too put together compared to the likes of your father. He's still wearing some sort of hat, whether its the ridiculous army bucket hat or a snug knitted fisherman one, if he's not it's stuffed in his back pocket. You're convinced he's still got the same Levi jeans, a few added scrapes and as he says, they wear well. There's an array of plaid and flannel shirts in varying colours hanging in his wardrobe, like another uniform he wears on his downtime instead of his camo gear.

Your dad had slipped that she went to some prestigious medical school before working in the military. Not that it mattered it to you, you'd see a vet if it meant they wouldn't talk to your dad.

Thankfully she made your dad wait in the hall, her office door shut as she assessed you. If you got this over with, you could leave and not have to speak of it ever again. You could just imagine him pacing the hallway, halting to greet the soldiers calling him captain and then resuming his pacing.

Being the Captain’s daughter also meant you had a shared family health plan with him. One you’d never heard of before. He did use to remind you to go for dental and medical check ups, but moving around when you were younger made it difficult. Your mother reluctant to fill out forms to sign you up to a new doctor’s surgery because she wasn’t sure if the new home was long term. Shocker, they never were.

"You won't, uh tell my dad?" You asked as you rolled the layers of clothing back down.

Toff tipped your chin up with her finger, "all patient records are confidential, even if your dad's Captain Price." She pushed her chair back wheeling it to the desk and picking up a pair of tweezers, sliding back to you.

She peered over her thick framed glasses at you, turning your face side to side inspecting the gash above your brow. The metal of the tweezer cool against your skin, she prodded the tape drawing back with a nod of satisfaction.

"Soap patched you up well," Toff said handing you a plastic cup of water and some painkillers.

"Sorry, what," you blurted out, choking on the water.

Humming Toff nodded, "he's good with light touch, probably why your dad got him to fix you up whilst you were out cold." She managed to get hold of some of your medical records, which she requested last night. No doubt your dad had called as soon as you fell asleep in the car and asked her for a favour.

You muttered a string of curse words under your breath, did the whole bloody army base know what happened last night? Toff was too busy reading your record, brows scrunching as she double clicked the mouse.

"You broke your wrist six years ago, but never had surgery," she said, turning the computer screen for you to see the x-ray. "The follow up on here, shows your bone moved during it was in a cast, but your guardian refused surgery." Her pen circling the area of the screen for you.

"We were moving and it felt fine," you shrugged, looking down at your wrist. You wondered if your dad knew about that one.

"Does it bother you now?" Toff said, returning to you and picking up your right wrist, pushing your sleeve up. "Huh, there's a lump there, does that hurt? Any regular pain? Does it restrict you from doing certain things, this is your dominant hand?" Her hazel eyes snapped up to yours as you snatched your wrist back and shoved the sleeve back down.

All of her questions spun around in your head, you hadn't even thought about the pain when there was other things to worry about.

Toff stood from her chair, palms raised as if you were going to bolt out of the room, you wanted to.

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry. Is that all you need me to take a look at?"

"Yes, thanks,” you snapped, flinging your hoody back on and zipping it up.

You're ready to bid your dad goodbye and never look back, but as you swung the door open you crashed into the back of someone else.

Soap's light touch kept you upright, you're trying not to think of him patching you up whilst you slept. The thought alone making you feel pathetic, small in his presence. Like you can't even look after yourself.

“Captain got called in,” Soap said, as if that’s supposed to mean anything to you. You’re used to him coming and going, more focused on his job than you.

More interested in his team, how he so easily referred to Soap as son. You haven’t even been there for a day and he’s found another family, leaving you to feel like a spare part. You want to hate Soap, but you don’t know him. Don’t know your dad the way they do.

The walls began to press in and you took off down the narrow corridor, your sight on the world outside. You needed fresh air, needed to catch your breath and not fall apart in front of Soap.

"Hey, woah," Soap called after you, his boots stomping as he tried to catch up. "dammit slow down would ya, like a fuckin’ greyhound."

You forced the door open with a bit too much force and they slammed against the stairs railing as you rushed down the steps.

"I am not a dog!" You spun around, jabbing his chest with your finger. The cool air swept your hair across your face, drawing a deep breath from you. You watched Soap's chest rise and fall as if he was coaching your breathing.

He tucked the curtain of hair shielding your eyes behind your ear, "feel better now?"

“I’d feel a whole lot better if you signed me out right now.” You raised your brow, wincing at the tape pulling it tight.

Soap shook his head, falling into step beside you. He waved, signalling for the guard to let you both through the gate back into the residential area “Your dad’s a good man, why don’t you give him a chance?”

“Because I’m not a soldier, he had his chance six years ago.” The three years he didn’t reach out, didn’t bother checking in on you. Only to find out he had another kid, another family.

You didn’t miss the tic of his jaw or the gulp he took. All the little signs you looked for when you said the wrong thing, you were good at noticing the change in people. Knew how even the nicest ones could change like a flick of a switch.

Soap leant down, face close to yours that you could feel his hot breath fanning the curve of your nose. “Look, if you’re only here to piss off your dad, I’ll sign you out right now. Hell I’ll even take the blame for you leaving, just don’t go asking him about six years ago.”

“Got it,” you said, voice low but good enough for him to hear. The tension in your body kept you in place, breath trembling as he backed off and started walking ahead.

You trailed after him, keeping your distance incase he turned around again. The beating of your heart drummed against your chest, palms sweating as you balled them up inside your pockets.

Why were you so pathetic when confronted? You could just hear your dad’s voice in the back of your head telling you to knee him in the groin. Take up some space so they can’t take all of yours.

Space, exactly what you needed after being stuck in house with a team of men. You slipped through the front door, not glancing at Soap as you rushed to the safety of your dad’s room.

Shutting the door, you pressed your back against the wood panel. The lock sliding into place, your body slumping to the floor and arms wrapping around your legs as you brought them into your chest.

Your small area of safety calming you. After a moment of silence, you picked yourself up and climbed under the duvet. The memory foam mattress too hard on your back that you flipped over on your stomach, closing your eyes.

-

The constant buzzing of your phone drew you out of your sleep, your eyes heavy as you squinted at the window. You don't know why your dad opened the blinds, the sun making it harder for you to focus. His half of the bed smooth and tucked underneath the mattress, not a crease in sight till you tugged the duvet.

Numb tingles danced across your upper back, you groaned into your pillow and attempted to roll your shoulder. Searing pain stopping you before you could rise from the bed.

Eying the alarm clock, you stumbled out of the room and down the hallway to the bathroom. You're glad the others are training this afternoon and you can sort this out yourself. It can't be that bad.

You pulled your hoody over your head, wincing at the pull of your arm stretching the skin across your shoulder blade.

Peering over your shoulder, you looked at your reflection in the mirror and your fingers pressing into the red skin. A weeping wound oozed yellow pus just right of your back below your neck. You'd forgotten about the graze, too distracted by Toff questioning your broken wrist.

You added a little more pressure and clutched the edge of the sink, black dots lining your vision. You heard the thud before you felt your body fall to the floor.

Sweat ran down your forehead, the cool tiles beneath you a welcome addition against the heat of your skin. Since when were you so hot? your breaths quickened as you tried to focus on your phone across the bathroom. Your hand aching to reach for it.

Maybe if you just rested for a little.

John couldn't wait to sit outside and have a cigar. The day had knocked him, your call in the early hours of the morning throwing him off track and his duties as a captain, a father. He hated how he got called away whilst he waited for Toff to check you over, hoping to catch you before you went on another stroll around the base to get away from his questioning.

He pulled his boots off and added them to the shoes lined up by the door, the living room and kitchen were clear. The mumbled tones of his teammates drew his attention to the hallway. He dragged a hand down his face, hoping he wouldn't have to readjust yet another bathroom schedule.

John joined the guys huddled by the closed bathroom door, looking around Soap for a clue of what the hell they were doing. "I mean we could shimmy the door open, pop it out of the frame with a bit of force," Ghost said, his calloused hand tracing the wood.

They’re all covered in sweat from their training session. Thinking they’d revert back to their bathroom schedules like normal, but they’re locked out. Only the new recruits use the communal showers.

"I don't think kickin’ the door in, is gonna make the lass feel safe." Soap said, arm shooting across the guys before they could move. The warped door's been wreaking havoc since they were assigned the house, but they haven't been bothered about taking it off and shaving it down or replacing the temperamental lock. That or wait on the long list of maintenance services.

“What the hell are you boneheads going on about?” John grumbled, their heads snapping towards him as they finally realised he was there. He glanced to the lock picking device in Ghost’s hand and the dagger wedged into the crack of the door.

“The doors locked, she was talking a second ago…” Gaz winced as the captain’s fist banged against the door shaking the whole wall.

John held his hand over his shoulder silencing them all behind him, his head titling as he tried to listen for any movement. Another knock on the door, "hey kiddo, you alright in there? If you can hear me give me something, anything."

A light tap bounced back, the tension in the captains shoulders easing at the sound.

"Can't kick the door in, there ain’t enough room in there for it to fall. Could hurt her," Gaz said, he yanked the dagger out of the door and shoved it back into Soap's hand.

"Could take the window out and go in that way." Ghost added, as if they were planning to scale a building and ambush a rogue team.

Their mumbled voices merged together in the cramped hallway.

"Window it is."

Gaz volunteered to climb through the second floor window and break the lock from the inside. John holding his breath as he waited on the other side, his chest stung at the sight of you in Gaz's arms. The ringing in his ear and the hands pushing him forwards kept him in tow behind Gaz. You were so pale, words slurred and hand dropping over his arm like a dead weight.

John was no stranger to the infirmary, he'd been sat either at someone's bedside or the unconscious one receiving aid. What he wasn't used to though, was his daughter strung up with an IV and sleeping off the medication Toff had given her.

Nurses flitted back and forth from the bed, herding John to the side as they assessed you. Gaz and Soap had gone back to the house to sleep, Ghost fixed the door and the lock and stopped by to give the captain a strong flask of coffee leaving straight after.

The constant questions, ones he didn't know since he'd never been asked before. How could he not know if you were allergic to anything or if there were any underlying health issues? It hadn't even been two days since you'd come back into his life and he didn't know you at all.

Hours had passed since Gaz had carried you through the house and to the infirmary. Your skin pale and clammy, hair sticking to your forehead. He'd never seen you like that, lost for words as he trailed after them.

The marks of another man's grasp circled your bicep, green bruise fading, but visible as you laid in the bed. John thought the split lip and gashes on your head and brow were bad, the wound on your back much worse. Couldn't understand how you carried the pain so well, as if you'd mastered putting up with it. That scared him.

He nodded to the nurse as she finished her shift, the clipboard at the end of your bed falling to the floor. He picked it up flicking through the pages and shuffling them back into the file. His hands hesitating as he read your name, Marston not Price. Was he that detached from your life that you'd dropped his last name? He'd even put his surname for you when he'd signed you into the base and you hadn't said anything when you looked at the visitor pass.

A hand smoothed across his back, chair scraping along the floor beside him. “Lucky girl, Cap. Mild case of sepsis, good that you caught on to it early and brought her in," Toff said, she leant her elbows on her knees and ducked her head to catch John's gaze.

He couldn't glance at her though, his gaze on his hand on top of yours. "You were supposed to check her over," he snarled, more angry at himself for not paying enough attention than at Toff.

"She didn't show me the wound on her back, just some bruising and the marks on her face that were visible. If I'd have known John..." Her words cut off by John's hand patting her knee.

"How she looking?"

"You caught it in the early stages, could be a few days or a week or more. She'll need to be monitored here and make sure the infection has gone. A wound like that though with the placement, would have made it difficult for her to tend to herself." Toff flicked through the medical chart, eyes flitting to the heart monitor as she walked around the bed.

John didn't want to think about you alone, isolated from people that could help and care for you. How you lacked a family and friends to lean on during those times. His mind consumed with finding whoever did this to you. Ghost had already asked him if he wanted him to look into it.

Toff hooked up another bag of IV, silently bidding him goodbye and returning to her office over the other side of the infirmary. Door ajar incase she was needed.

A twitch of your finger tapped against John's, followed by the hurried beat of the heart monitor. You whimpered in to the pillow, rapid movement fluttering under your eyelids.

“You’re okay, kid. Just relax, your old man’s right here,” he said, adjusting your pillow and smoothing your hair out of the way.

“Captain,” you slurred, lazy smile tugging your lips. You struggled to keep your eyes open, but you clutched his pointer finger like you used to as a kid.

You’d called him Captain as a kid, your mother’s doing as she used to tell you stories about daddy becoming one, one day. Playing soldiers whenever he came home and he’d always let you be the captain, your little voice commanding him to play.

"I've got you kid, you're safe."

[PART THREE]

- thank you for all your lovely comments on the first part!! :) more parts to come soon! Hope you liked it - Leya

[kabr0ztrousers]

Ok hear me out…fem!reader X male werewolf alpha and leader of the pack. The others in the pack have been getting a little too comfortable with reader as they all live together in one giant pack house (it’s just innocent friendship, but alpha doesn’t like the idea that reader might want to leave him for someone else someday, let alone a member of his pack).

So, when he catches reader casually hanging out with one of his pack members again, jealousy and anger over take him and he essentially reminds her and everyone else who she really belongs to by fucking reader in front of them all (free use, cnc, voyeurism, exhibitionism, public sex, whatever works).

He puts her face right up to each of his pack members while he’s fucking her and asks her who she belongs to each time. Maybe at the end she collapses into one of the other werewolf’s laps and they refuse to touch their alpha’s mate after that big show.

In my head its hot and possessive and even more so when everyone else is forced to watch their alpha take on their now good friend.

Thanks!💕

Kabr0z Writes episode 66: Housemates

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: freeuse; exhibitionism; knotting; Dom/sub; enthusiastic consent;

A/N: I'll admit I've been looking forward to this one, hopefully I can do it justice!

As always if you have anything you want to see, be it a new idea or a something completely different please do drop an ask!

#########################################

Your parents weren't keen on you moving out with your boyfriend straight out of sixth form. You doubt very much they'd have let you at all if they knew the reality of your living situation. There were six of you in the tiny flat, cramped together sharing two bedrooms and a pokey living room kitchenette. Tom already lived with his brothers in the hopelessly overcrowded digs. Even so they were his pack, and you weren't going to separate them on your account. Your job was keeping the home of 5 lupines at an acceptable level of organised chaos. Nobody cared about the piles of clothes or the dishes in the sink really, as long as the piles of rubbish didn't get too high and mugs weren't allowed to generate their own ecosystems you were off the hook for rent and bills. Was it the feminist ideal? No. But it meant you had to do maybe two or three hours of gentle tidying a week and got to live for free. Of course, this life of leisure meant you got damn good at your hobbies, mainly video games.

In fact, that's what you were doing when it all kicked off. Tyler, one of Tom's brothers, had made the mistake of challenging you to a best of 3 at your preferred fighting game. That, of course, became a best of 5, then 7, then you stopped counting as you played on through the afternoon. One by one the brothers came home. Tyler was the lanky one, Sam had the white patches on his ears, Ben had the bushy tail, Shaun always smelled of hairgel. The four were lounging on the couch either side of you, hooting and howling as you demolished them each in turn, getting giddy and excited. The room filled with the familiar musk of four young wolves as you stayed on game after game, the stuffy room giving you a sheen of perspiration.

The front door opened to reveal your favourite of the brothers. Tom was home at last, carrying the group's takeaway in both arms. Chinese this week, the smell of sweet and sour battling valiantly against the teenage funk.

You all looked over to him, sweating gently through your clothes, the shirtless wolves panting, your hair pulled back, nipples prominent in your thin shirt.

Tom roared. You saw the look in his eyes as he bounded over to you and swept you off the couch into his arms. You returned his bear hug as he swung you around, and saw his brothers over his shoulder. Lupines don't generally bother with clothes unless they go out, relying on fur for what modesty they cared about, and an innate tendancy to not really care who sees their balls.

The other wolves had definitely been excited, Tyler and Shaun both had the tips of their cocks poking out of their sheaths, while all four of them were grinning and panting.

"You assholes been hitting on my girl?" Tom snarled his challenge to the others "She's my mate! I'll prove it!" He pulled off his jeans before tearing you out of your shorts and clinging top. He was already rock hard, pressing hmself against you.

"I'm all yours, Tom, nobody else's" you buried your face in his fur, holding your lover to you. You know he's just being hormonal, and you'll bet you can get a good fucking out of this "Why don't we go to our room and we can work out some of this worry"

Tom wasn't going anywhere. He hefted you, catching you with one hand on your waist, one supporting your crotch. "We're not going anywhere. I'm laying my claim" One of his fingers slipped between the folds of your pussy. You were already wet from being manhandled in front of his brothers, and there's no way he couldn't feel it.

You whispered into his ear "Claim me then, or someone might decide to take a share"

His cock throbbed when you said that. The finger slipped into you as he ground his palm on your clit. You rubbed back against him, silently egging him on as his brothers watched, conscious of the huffing and howling coming from them as their brother worked them into a frenzy. You already felt close, showering Tom's muzzle in kisses and grabbing fistfuls of the fur covering his strong neck. The faster you rubbed yourself on his hand, the harder he got, twitching into your belly, covering your skin with strong-smelling precum as you got yourself off on his finger. He curled his hand, just a little, but enough. The fingertip drove into the top wall of your vagina. Every little move you made caused a needy whine to leak from your mouth even as strands of your sticky-sweet arousal leaked down from you.

He pulled his hand out of you just before you came. You barely noticed, transitioning from rubbing your cunt on his finger to trying to get the thick, leaking, canine cock inside you.

Tom had other ideas. He leant you on the back of the sofa and rolled you, exposing your tits to his brothers before plunging that delicious rod into your pussy. One hand groping your tits, the other rubbing at your clit, he let you come to a wailing climax. Your hands gripped his as you spasmed on the cock holding you up, keeping them at your most sensitive places, guiding him to grope at you as his jaws settled gently on the meat of your neck. He bit down ever so gently, he wouldn't break the skin, but you'd have a beautiful bruise there tomorrow.

Your vision was still blurry from cumming so recently, but you could see the motion of the other brothers, their cocks in their hands as they jacked off,

"Wank if you want, boys" you groaned, reaching your foot out to the nearest one, brushing the end of his cock with your toes "this cunt's got an owner already"

You shouldn't have said that. Or maybe you should.

Tom's thrusts got more insistent, the hand on your tit sliding down to your hip as he pushed you down onto him. The knot was already inflated, knocking at the door of your pussy, too thick to go in without help. You lifted your legs, holding them as far apart as you could while both hands went to either side of your cunt, trying desperately to open just a little more, a little more, a little-

It slid in. You'd never let him rawdog you like this before. It felt so different without a condom around his knot, the precum thickened immediately, spraying harder and faster as you whined and moaned, twisting your body this way and that around the bulbous intrusion in your pussy formatting your brain.

Your clit throbbed, your belly tightened, your legs spasmed. You couldn't help but to tug on your nipples as Tom rolled your clit between his fingers. You moaned between gasps, the potent cum sure to knock you up - god you hoped so

Shaun howled into the air, his cock spasming in his hands, squirting out cum.

Tom wheeled you to him, pushing your face into his "Whose mate is this?"

"Yours" Shaun didn't meet your eyes, crossed and glazed as they were "She's yours, Tommy"

Tyler was next on the sofa "Whose is she?"

Tyler gulped "She's yours, all yours"

Ben was next, slowly squeezing his cock in one hand, "She's yours, Tom, no sweat"

Sam came last, his hands already slick with his own cum, lying back on the sofa. He just waved his hand and hummed his submission to the alpha wolf filling you with seed.

Tom seemed satisfied with this. "Whose are you?" He whispered to you as you felt like your brain was leaking out of your ears "Who owns your cunt?"

"You do, I'm yours" you could only just groan out the words as he filled you with bliss

He sat down on the middle of the sofa, grabbing the forgotten meal as he moved, still stuck in you "Right, who wanted the spare ribs?"

You later learned that what happened that afternoon was something akin to a marriage proposal. Of course, now you're formally owned, there's no competition for you, so if he wanted to share you with the pack...

You're pretty sure you'd be down for that

######################################

If I run out of requests, I'm definitely going to make a part 2 to this where the reader gets passed around the pack and fucked senseless again. Freeuse, werewolves, submission and industrial quantities of cum? Yes please.

[catcze-hiatus20250524]

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

“Stop moving your fucking head,” you growl. Wriothesley sits on a bench, black compression shirt drenched in sweat after his spar in the fighting ring. There’s a cut on his head, just underneath his hairline, that you dab at with some antiseptic and a cotton pad. 

You still think that he should have called Sigewinne, just in case, but he was adamant that she didn’t need to bother over ‘something as small as this.’ Granted, he wasn’t hurt too bad— it was just the aftermath of a small accident between him and his opponent in the ring, after all. No broken bones or the like, just some bruises and scuffs. You were just worried over him.

“I’m fine, you know,” he tries to tell you again, trying to duck away from the cotton pad to look you in the eye. You scowl again, grabbing him with a hand on his collarbones, dangerously close to the base of his neck. Wriothesley immediately stills, and you resume. 

“I know.” You keep dabbing until the last of the blood is gone, and there’s just the cut left. It’s not even that deep. You doubt it’ll even scar. “Just… just let me worry for you for a little bit, would you?”

He swallows. You can almost feel the movement of it against your hand. You know of his history— of how he’s barely had anyone give a shit about him his entire life. You wonder if he’s ever had anyone patch him up or worry about him like this.

You think of a much younger, much more baby-faced Wriothesley having to bandage his own bloodied knuckles in some dark corner of the fortress of Meropide, and your heart aches. 

“Okay,” your Wriothesley finally says, voice quiet. He stares at you in a way that you cannot decipher. In a way that is softer than you’ve ever seen him look at anything before. 

Your hand transfers to his shoulder, and one of his own comes to hold it in place. You press a kiss to his nose, then either of his cheeks, then end it sweetly on his lips. 

The kiss doesn’t drag on very long— it’s quick and chaste, little more than a peck on the lips. But Wriothesley still smiles at you when you part.

“You sure you’re fine?” You ask, hand cupping his cheek. He leans into your touch the way a cat would lean into the sunlight. 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs. Turns his head. Presses a kiss to your palm, locking eyes with you the entire time.

“Okay.” You’re breathless, never breaking eye contact with him. “Okay, that’s good.”

You feel his smile against your skin, then. Tender and sweet. His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you near. His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks again. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“For patching you up?”

“For caring, baby.”

[ #Taglist registration here !! ]

[queenimmadolla]

hey vivi!! big fan of you🩷 since you’re doing drabbles, do you think you can write about penny going on her first date ? i can only imagine what eddie would be like lol. love you ❤️

𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫!𝐃𝐚𝐝!𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐱 𝐌𝐨𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 (don't have to read but you'll want to) (𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐔𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧)

“I’m sorry???” Eddie croaked out over the phone, and your teeth dug into your lip to fight a smile off.

  “It’s innocent, Eds. They’re just seeing a movie together,” You mused and briefly placed the phone against your chest to listen for any cries throughout the house. Quiet. The baby was still asleep, thank god. You’d already raised two kids out of their baby phase of life, but this one was giving you and your husband a run for your money. Colic and Eddie’s genetics (dramatics) made for one hell of a Velcro Baby. Maple always had to be attached to one of her parents, or she was crying bloody murder and since Eddie was away for the next two days, it was you she needed to be on. You’d managed to sneak her successfully into her crib when she fell asleep—usually her big brown eyes flew open the second you bent over to lower her in since you were only ever allowed to be standing when holding Maple, per her demands—just before Eddie called (and you’d dove to stop that phone from ringing). He wasn’t impressed with your plans for the rest of the day, “I’ll be in the row behind her, with a baby hidden under my shirt and attached to my nipple, and Wayne if he doesn’t want to hang out with big Wayne. Don’t be dramatic.”

  Eddie scoffed so you rolled your eyes.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady.” Your back straightened from your lean on the counter, eyes scanning the living room for the camera he had to have hidden as he kept talking, “What are you gonna do when this punk puts the moves on my baby girl, huh?”

  “They’re ten years-old, Eddie. They’re gonna be sweating in their seats, I hardly doubt they’ll even hold hands.” 

  Eddie still didn’t like that. Really, there was no reason for Penny and whatever this kid’s name was to even be going to the movies. He’s sure the punk had a TV at home, and Penny had access to one, so they could just watch something separately in different homes, as in not together, and talk about it at school. Or not talk about it all. Not talk to each other at all. Yeah, Eddie liked that.

  “Tell her she can’t go.” He demanded, shooting a glare at the PA staring at him, eagerly waiting for him to get off the phone so he could usher him to his next interview. The hostility in his gaze was enough to make that very PA poof, disappeared into thin air.

  “I’m not telling her that.”

  “Fine, I’ll do it. Put her on the phone.” You didn’t bother hiding your smile anymore, grinning at his antics. He was such a dad and you loved it. Especially because you knew—what with him currently in New York—Penny would be at the movies with her little crush (and you, possibly your son, and your baby) whether Eddie liked it or not.

  You called for Penny down the hallway and you could hear her galloping down after your voice.

  “What?” She squawked out once she came to a halt at your side and like every other time she voiced that word in her flat tone with a hint of annoyance sprinkled in, you were reminded of the times your mother would reprimand you for being just as irritating.

  You lulled your wrist forward, tipping the phone to her as you raised a challenging brow, “Your dad wants to talk to you.”

  She quickly took the phone, holding it against the side of her head, hand pushing her hair out of her face before scratching her chin “Hi, daddy.”

  “Hi, sweet pea.” You could hear him croon and you shook your head in amusement. He was so fake. “What’cha up to today?”

  ”Nothing. OOH, Uncle Lucas patched my bike for me!” She recalled, thinking back to when the Uncle in question had followed through on his promise to repair her flat bicycle wheel before catching his flight back to Chicago in time for his practice. Penny would be watching his basketball game on TV tonight, after the movie. She cheered as loud as she could for him, but sometimes she cheered for his other teammate, Michael Jordan, too. All the time. She cheered for Michael all the time.

  “Of course he did, just had to steal my thunder. Mom says you’re gonna watch his game tonight.”

  “Yeah, here at home since you can’t take us. . .”

  “I said I’m sorry! I’ll take you to the Finals.”

  “If they win.” Penny mumbled and they both went silent before bursting out laughing. The Bulls wouldn’t be losing tonight.

  “Is that all you’re doing?” He asked, voice honey and sugar once he’d stopped laughing.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Pretty sure? As in, not entirely positive?” Eddie’s voice broke as it went high and he cleared his throat, “Nothing you’re intentionally leaving out?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “What about your LITTLE DATE?! Penny, you’re too young, baby. What have we been talking about for years now, huh? Thought we agreed you’d wait until a couple of years into a marriage before you could start dating. You pinky swore. Wouldn’t you rather me go? You know how Maple is—do you want a baby crying in the background when you recall your first date for the rest of your life? And really, your mom is gonna be chaperoning, don't you wanna wait until I get back? What if this kid is one of those punks that tease you about your mom being hot? Wouldn’t you much rather have your cool, rockstar dad, instead of your hot mom, sitting menacingly—I mean—hold on don’t hang up, I meant ‘measuredly’—”

  Penny’s eyes flashed over to you in a ‘can you believe this?’ manner as you heard your husband blabber on like some grown up in Peanut’ s Special and she rolled her eyes. Eddie must have mumbled something else because you saw her stand up straight and glance around the house with a pout before she mumbled back into the receiver, “I didn’t roll my eyes. . .”

divider ℗ cafekitsune ♡

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again - Part Eight

Summary: It’s been nearly four days since Y/n had collapsed, and she still hadn’t woken. Azriel won’t leave her side, he can’t, no matter how worried his family is.

Warnings: none really, kind of a shorter chapter

Series Masterlist

Another day had passed, Azriel refused to leave her room, he sat in the chair by her bedside and would not move no matter how much his family pestered him. Rhys had forced him to at least put some clothes on, but other than that, he’d stayed right at her bedside and spoke to her, feeling the pulse in her wrist flutter each time, feeling that evidence that she was still there. He read to her out of one of the books on her night stand, obvious gifts from Nesta. He struggled through some chapters, face warm, others he skipped entirely.

“Dinner is served,” Mor struts into the room, a tray balanced in her hands, “I can watch over her while you eat and take a damned bath.”

He frowns up at her, “I don’t-“

“Yes you do,” she sniffs pointedly, “You’ve been bed ridden for two days and haven’t bathed once since you woke. She won’t go anywhere, I promise.”

Azriel looks at the female in question, her lips were slightly turned down at the edges, like she could hear them and wasn’t happy to have him leave, “Fine.”

As soon as the word is out of him mouth, he hears running water in the attached bathroom, it seems the house was sick of him stinking up the place. He sighs, carefully standing up from the chair, shaking his head when Mor moved into casual reach incase he fell.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

“I don’t doubt that,” she sighs, rolling her eyes at him, “at least take the time to wash your hair.”

Azriel doesn’t respond as he closes the door behind him, sighing through his nose as he rest against it. There was this strange anxiety in him, even though Y/n was just on the other side of the wall. Watched over by one of his closest friends. The female he’d spent centuries believing he was in love with, and the female he, he didn’t know what it was he felt for. There was this feeling in him, this feeling of desperation when she’d been in danger, before that when she was about to leave him, when he’d seen her cry beneath the stars. Not love, gods he’d known her less than a week, but there was something, something there. A string of shadow connecting them together, one he refused to let go of. Whatever it was, he wonders if the swirling eddies of the cauldron, or the mysterious force of the Wyrd, that brought her here, right to him.

With Quinlann, it had been the blades, Gwydion and Truth Teller, calling to each other from across the stars. When she’d opened the portal between realms, they found each other. But with Y/n, there wasn’t a reason, there was no mysterious object, no intent. Simply a portal that had torn her from her home and thrown her into his path. He’d spent the last day pondering about it, about why exactly she was brought here, brought to him, and he’d come up with nothing but blanks.

Azriel forces himself to focus on the bath before him, to get in and out as quickly as possible so he could get back to her. The water was lukewarm, like the house knew he wasn’t ready to feel the heat. His bandages had been changed early in the day by Madja, the burn on his chest had been the worst of the damage, the imprint of Y/n’s shoulders burned into him from holding her to him. It would heal, there may be the faintest scar, a darker, rougher patch of skin. He found that he didn’t mind it, that he’d be left with that permanent memory of her, even when she finally found her way home.

He scrubs methodically, using the same lavender scented bar of soap on his hair and his body, not bothering with the bottles of soaps lining the edge of the bath. He submerges his entire body, wings included to rinse off, and he’s up and drying off quickly.

The house provides him with a comfortable set of black sleep clothes, loose fitting shirt to not irritate the burns. He dresses without thought, quickly buttoning the shirt around his wings as he moves towards the door.

“Record time,” Mor says as he walks into the room, “I’m surprised you bothered with a towel, instead of shaking out like a dog.”

He rolls his eyes, taking his seat beside Y/n. She hadn’t moved at all, he hadn’t expected her to, her lips would sometimes twitch in her sleep, but that was the only movement he’d seen.

“She’s not going to disappear,” Mor says gently, “You can rest for a while.”

Azriel knew that, knew that if he crossed the hall and collapsed into bed like his body begged him to do, she was would be right here where he left her. But he couldn’t do it, not until she was awake and he could see those eyes, see that insufferable smile, hear her soft accent. He was a desperate fool.

“I’m fine,” he says, “thank you for the food.”

Mor frowns, “I’m worried about you.”

“I know-“

“No I don’t think you do,” she snaps, arms crossed over her chest, “I don’t know what happened between you two, I don’t want to know, but I can’t stand to see you fall apart over a female you hardly even know.”

“Nothing happened between us.” It’s the truth but somehow it feels like a lie on his tongue, “I don’t expect you to understand it, I don’t even understand it.”

“I’ve had lovers in the past, hell I pined after you for centuries.” Azriel doesn’t miss the way she flinches, he’d never actually said the words aloud, “but this is different, she’s just different. She’s not my lover, I don’t love her, I just- I don’t- When I saw her there, trapped in that spell, it felt like someone was carving my heart from my chest with a dull knife, hacking through skin and bones and ripping the thing out.”

He shudders, looking down at Y/n, whatever this was, gods he didn’t know, he didn’t want to know, he just wanted her to wake up.

Azriel feels a slight pressure on his shoulder, Mor’s hand resting there in gentle reassurance, “She’ll wake up.”

“I hope so.”

Azriel wasn’t sure what exactly woke him up, the pain in his back from being slumped over in his chair, his shadows frantically swirling around him, or the hand that gently twines through his hair. His half asleep brain decides the feeling is very very nice and he almost goes right back to sleep.

“Are you alive over there, shadowsinger? It’d be a shame if you weren’t.”

That soft swirling accent washes over him like the warm surf of the summer court. It has him launching up out of his chair, eyes wide and staring at the female who sits up in the spot she’d laid for the past three almost four days. Her face was washed in silvery moonlight from the window, hair a tangled mess on her head, her eyes wide and warm with the fire in her blood, gods she was beautiful.

He’s surging forward before he can even think that it might be a bad idea. Her face is warm, soft between his scarred hands, and her lips feel like heaven as he crashes his mouth to hers.

Her hands grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer and he could die right then and there. Their lips move in tandem, tongues and teeth clashing in desperation. He can feel her sharp canines, the way they drag on his lower lip, she could tear him to pieces with them and, Mother above, he would let her.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” He pulls back just enough to growl against her, “Don’t you dare, princess.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me, shadowsinger,” she grins against his lips, that insufferable little smile, “it’ll ruin your whole dark brooding warrior image.”

“Shut up.”

She barely has the time to laugh before his lips cover hers again. Azriel’s shadows writhe around them, pulling her closer and closer till she’s practically sitting in his lap. His hands grip her waist, so hard that he’s sure she’ll have bruises in the shape of them. Her hands are tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands in a way that has Azriel purring. Everywhere she touched left him burning, burning with desire for more, more, more.

He’s moving, lips trailing across her jaw and down the side of her throat, he can feel her heart racing, maybe that was his own. Her head falls back, giving his better access to her throat. She lets out a breathless sigh when his teeth graze that sensitive spot, and Azriel wants to hear that noise again and again and again.

“Az,” she gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders like she’s trying to ground herself, “I, gods, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but hold on.”

It takes more effort than it should to pull away, to look into her eyes without begging her to let him keep going, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, this is amazing,” she sighs, “more than that. I just- I need a minute.”

Azriel sees that look in her eyes, that broken heart behind a wall of ice, “Whatever you need, princess.”

Her head falls, hiding, “I failed, Az. I- I did everything the books said, and I fucked it up.”

His heart squeezes in his chest, and he can’t help but to tug her into his arms. She collapses into him, face buried in the silk of his shirt and she cries. Those silent heavy tears, so Azriel holds her tight as she cries and cries and cries.

Y/n feels warm, safe, there’s a comforting weight across her waist, a hard wall behind her.

Her eyes open, blinking at the bright sunlight streaming through her window. It must be late morning, it had been the middle of the night when she’d woke, finding her hand clasped in Azriel’s, the male himself asleep in the most uncomfortable position possible.

When she’d seen him there, moonlight dancing over his features, she thought he was the most beautiful male she’d ever seen. It felt like her hand moved on its own, raking through those black strands of hair, the slight curl to them tickling her palm.

She’d felt him stirr, felt the way he’d pushed into her hand like a cat seeking attention. It was incredibly cute, which is something she was sure had never been used to describe the spy master.

When he’d realized she was awake, when he’d looked into her eyes, she’d seen the utter desperation behind his whiskey eyes. And when his lips had fallen onto hers, she felt it too. He kissed like a man starved, like she was his last meal and he was going to savor every bite of her. He kissed her like she meant something, like she was worth worshipping. Gods she wanted him to do just that, to take her for all she was worth, to ravish her until she was screaming. But then his teeth had caressed the side of her neck, her pulse racing beneath, and she felt herself slipping, felt the memories slam into her, of the matching scars her parents wore proudly on their necks, of the burning words in her throat, of the spell that had taken control of her and had tried to swallow her whole.

She felt everything crashing into her all at once, and when Azriel had looked at her, nothing but understanding in his eyes, she broke. She must have cried herself to sleep, to be waking up near noon.

Y/n froze as the wall behind her shifted, a body, she realized, that weight across her waist, an arm. Azriel.

She glances over her shoulder, finding the sleeping male. He held her close, face tucked into her shoulder. He made no noise, just soft breathing, lips slightly parted. They were laying beneath the knitted blanket that was usually folded by the foot of the bed, like he hadn’t wanted to wake her to get her beneath the covers.

Y/n shifts, gently trying to lift his arm so that she could escape to the bathroom, but the second she tried, his arm tightens and she’s pulled back against his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Gods spare her, his voice was deep and rasping in her ear. Her eyes look back over her shoulder and she’s met by those hazel eyes, still heavy with sleep. His gaze feels like a brand, like he was taking in all of her, like he was planning to claim her in every way possible.

“The bathroom preferably,” she says, throwing in as much snarky energy as possible to hopefully hide the way her face was heating.

He sighs, “I suppose that’s fine.”

“You suppose?” She scoffs, pushing the heavy arm still wrapped around her waist, “Let go of me you overgrown bat.”

He holds tighter for just a second, “You wound me, princess.”

“You’ll get over it.” She slips out from beneath his hold, “Keep your wandering shadows to yourself, I’m going to bathe, I smell like death.”

Azriel looks at her with predatory focus, resting on his elbows so he can look her up and down, “Hm, I hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” she rolls her eyes, “Keep them out, I’ll be back.”

Azriel settles back into the pillows, eyes watching each step she takes into the room beyond. She can still feel his gaze when she shuts the door behind her, heavy and burning.

The bath is already filled with steaming water, clothes and towels laid out for her. She thanks the house quietly, slipping out of her tattered clothes and into that hot water.

Her head tilts back, a quiet moan slipping past her lips at the feeling, her body sore from whatever had taken control during the spell, and then even more from laying in bed for the past several days. She takes her time, washing every spot of herself to rid that scent of smoke. Her hair takes longer, tangled and brittle, she uses half the bottle of the sweet smelling soap.

All of her movements are precise, methodical, to keep her brain and hands busy. Because if she stops for to long, her mind is ripped back to that room, to the yawning portal of darkness, that presence on the other side beckoning, whispering, playing with her. What ever it was, ancient and cold, dark and cruel, she felt it reaching for her. And at the same time she’d felt another pull, one from behind, one begging her to stay, to let go of the gods damned book. A string, a lifeline, a way back. She’d cling to that, and let it pull her out.

But still, on the other side of that portal she heard a whisper, a voice young and old, pay the price, gods killer’s kin, pay the price.

Tag list - If you would like to be added to the list please send me an ask or message me❣︎

@inloveallthetime , @microwaveallthedemons , @nayaniasworld , @thecraziestcrayon , @fightmedraco , @blackgirlmagicforever , @nikt-wazny-y , @fangirlloza010 , @thisiskaylin , @wolfgirl624 , @khaleesihavilliard , @fluffy-bnny , @mariahoedt , @durgenyx , @glitterypirateduck , @byyalady , @amberlynn98 , @ferrarisbitch , @a-cup-of-nightshade , @breella , @hnnybee0 , @superspideyparker , @that-one-little-soybean , @thebeautifulmysteriesoflife , @websterss , @sassybluebird , @fakesocialmediaa

[creepswrites]

MASK OF HATE (CH 2) | Michael x Reader

so when i was writing this, my editor Insisted i use a grilled cheese gif for this chapter. you'll see why... i hope you enjoy though LMAO

MICHAEL MYERS x FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: When the door slammed back open with more force this time, you jumped and let out a surprised yelp. Your dad came barreling in, Michael having already disappeared back upstairs as quiet as he'd come. You tried to intercept him from storming upstairs but his horrified expression stilled you. "That was our neighbor Gladys down the street. She said she saw Myers come up to our house about an hour and a half ago."

WARNING: graphic depiction of deaths, animal violence

PREV || NEXT

"Has anyone ever shown you kindness?" Your voice had Michael opening his eyes, blinking as he looked up at you slowly, your hands tangled in his wet, sudsy hair. He was sprawled out on the porcelain bathtub while you washed his hair, the room dim and sleepy and smelling of lavender soap. He had no qualms letting his legs and arms rest upon the rim to have extra room. You’d since become accustomed to him, no longer flushing at his nakedness, so washing the blood off his skin didn’t bother you.

You’d since bought black washcloths and a black towel for Michael so your father wouldn’t get suspicious about any bloodstains. Lounge clothes - some sweatpants and a t-shirt finally in his actual size - sat folded on the counter beside the sink, his navy blue jumpsuit in a pile on the cool, linoleum floor.

For the past few weeks, you two established a routine of sorts. Michael would get hurt or hungry and come visit you. Sometimes he'd watch you sleep but he'd usually be gone by morning. With your dad's presence in the house very touch and go, it was hard for Michael to stay for any extended period of time. Sometimes he watched you from a distance whenever you'd go in the garden but that was the extent of it.

You knew it wasn't normal for him to care about another person so you did your best to make it easy for him. No more lunging at armed police officers for you, you'd lamented to him in a joking manner. You hadn't been able to see his face but you got the impression he'd glared at you.

You'd also taken to touching him more, getting him to reassociate touch with compassion. It wasn't easy to undo years of trauma but you did little things here and there. Brushing his hands with your own, touching his arm when you wanted attention, small things. He was building a tolerance to it, you could tell. Washing his hair now was the most you'd touched him beyond patching him up after run-ins with the police.

But progress was progress.

Today, he hadn't come home bloody but he had come to you for something. He'd shown up at the backdoor, made a beeline for the bathroom, and you'd gotten the message. Bathing him had also become pretty regular, though you still recalled the first few times where it'd ended with him shaking from how overwhelmed he was by your touch.

Now, though, his gaze bore into you, staring up at you like a big lazy cat. Like a lion too content to strike. Your hands had stilled, still poised to scrub at his scalp. He needed a haircut, you noted to yourself.

"Besides me," you clarified as you resumed scrubbing in slow circles. "You don't… You're-" You huffed, trying to find the words. "I feel like people didn't care for you like you needed them to. If that makes sense." 

Were you anyone else, you don't doubt he'd kill you for saying that. Instead, he just glared at you, pretty hazel eyes narrowed to slits. In anger or confusion, you couldn't tell.

That was yet another development. He'd been taking his mask off of his own accord now, even when he didn't have a reason to. The first time he'd done it had been because his hair was too long and sat uncomfortable in the mask, tickling against his ears and neck. You offered to cut it and, while it took some reassurance and thought on his part, you'd come home one day to him sitting on your bed. Scissors in one hand and mask in the other, clutching it like a child would to a security blanket. He hadn't been shaking or looking up at you with fearful eyes but his jaw had been clenched hard as he white knuckled the accursed mask. A wordless question you'd answered with nimble fingers and gentle tugging on his curls.

Having something so sharp close to his vulnerable neck hadn't been his idea of a good time regardless if it was his idea or not. He'd gotten up half a dozen times during the haircut to stand in the corner to come down from what was probably overstimulation. You were patient with him though.

You'd gotten better at reading him. He'd gotten better at leaving you clues.

In the present, he sat up and slid his legs back into the water. Wet hair slipped from between your fingers as he turned to properly stare at you. Michael was interesting to you still. You could tell he was curious about you too. He stared at you often, like when you watered your plants, washed his clothes, or made food in the kitchen. You felt his eyes on you constantly no matter what.

"What?" You asked with a small sigh, staring back at him with the same intensity.

Michael gave you a slow blink, similar to the ones Mayhem gave you as a show of trust. "Don't gimme that," you teased, smirking at him and motioning for him to sit back down. "I just- I always feel bad thinking about it, in retrospect. I mean, you grew up in an asylum alone. Didn't it-"

He interrupted you by sliding a wet hand around your throat, holding you still as though to physically stop your ramblings. Not squeezing, just holding. You got the message there: let it go. He lay back down and you resumed washing his hair, unbothered by that exchange.

Things like that were normal with him. It had freaked you out at first when he'd wrapped his hand harshly around your throat and pinned you in a doorway. But you'd slowly begun to understand him. He didn't have a way to communicate that wasn't through violence or knives.

Or hospital rooms under scrutiny, you reminded yourself with a grimace. You masked it behind a soft tune you hummed, resuming washing his hair.

Once he was cleaned and dressed, jumpsuit in the wash, you ventured back downstairs to make dinner and feed Mayhem. Michael trailed after you, hair dripping dark spots along his shoulders where it was still damp. He didn't like the hair dryer very much and only tolerated you using it to get his hair comfortably damp. No more.

“You’re probably due for another haircut by the way,” you said as you opened the fridge. Mayhem was immediately rubbing up on Michael’s leg, meowing insistently.

He looked down at her, standing comfortably in the doorway to the kitchen. You glanced over your shoulder to look at him and felt struck with the knowledge that, if it weren't for his injured eye breaking the illusion, it almost felt like you just had a boyfriend over. Your face warmed up at the thought and you snapped your head back around to stare into the white, chilled expanse of the fridge. "Umm… anything specific you want tonight?"

When you looked back over at him, you jumped in surprise when he was barely a few inches from you. Jesus, you thought to yourself. You didn't think you'd ever get used to how quiet he moved sometimes.

Michael tilted his head as he stared at the fridge with you. "I need to go shopping soon, huh?"

He didn't say anything but you could almost hear his nod.

You liked how expressive he'd gotten as the two of you began to trust each other. Little things like that made the whole thing feel domestic somehow. 

"Well, hope you like grilled cheese." You snagged the almost-empty package of sliced cheese and dangled it tantalizingly. "I'll go shopping tomorrow, promise. If you want anything in particular, let me know." You said as you grabbed the bread from the cabinet. Before he could say - or, technically, not say - you spun on your heel. "Besides pumpkin pie."

He nodded once and you smirked.

Domestic, your brain said again in an almost mocking tone. You swallowed and tried to focus on the sandwiches and not the way Michael stared at you. You began buttering the bread as the pan warmed up and tried to not envision life being like this forever: painfully domestic and sweet with Haddonfield's best known serial killer in soft lounge clothes you'd bought him, curled up on the couch eating an early lunch together after you'd washed his hair.

The sound of the front door rattling open was out of place and terrifying. Never in your life had you felt as though the ground would swallow you as your heart threatened to pound out of your chest. You spun to face Michael and quickly assessed your options.

There were two doorways that led out of the kitchen - one that faced the living room and another that led into the hallway to the stairs. There was a dividing wall between the two doorways. Meaning if you could get Michael into the hallway, he'd be out of sight for at least the briefest few seconds it took your dad to walk towards you.

"Upstairs, now!" You whisper-yelled, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him towards the hallway. "Stay quiet, he'll go away soon."

Hopefully, you thought to yourself. Hopefully he will.

"You're home early." You called to him as you took your spot at the stove again, spreading butter on bread and placing them in the pan.

Your dad sounded exhausted, shrugging off his outer coat and tossing it atop the back of the couch before slumping in his chair. "I decided to come home early. It's been an exhausting week. But Myers seems to be taking a break from killing these past few days."

You couldn't help but frown. Not killing? Sure you'd noticed less blood on his clothes but surely he'd stopped altogether. So close to Halloween too…

"Cool, I was, uh, making lunch." You called out over the pan sizzling. "You want some?"

The telltale creaks of the wooden floor had your hair standing up on end. It wasn't like normal sneaking around when you had a boyfriend, this was Michael Myers you were hiding. Right under his nose. Even if your dad didn't immediately go for his gun when he saw him, you were still a liar. And an accomplice to his crimes.

"Grilled cheese, huh?" He smiled for the first time since he'd taken on the case. "Want some help? I can-" The sound of his phone ringing cut him off, making him grimace. "I'll take this outside," he sighed as he went back out the door. You sighed with relief and looked towards the doorway to the stairs.

Michael stood there, mask on, gripping a knife tight in his hand. You had no idea where he'd gotten it, since your knives were accounted for.

You tried to seem reassuring. "He's probably going to get called back into work, it's okay." Even though you'd gotten used to it, you still swallowed when you saw the glint of the knife in the dim lighting of the doorway. "He, um, he said you haven't been killing lately?" 

Michael was eerily still. Just staring at you.

"Is everything…okay?" It felt a bit weird asking when he was going to kill someone again. Like it was just a casual hobby of his. "Just let me know, alright?"

He just stared at you. His walls were back up, you could tell, so you tried to not take it personally.

When the door slammed back open with more force this time, you jumped and let out a surprised yelp. Your dad came barreling in, Michael having already disappeared back upstairs as quiet as he'd come. You tried to intercept him from storming upstairs but his horrified expression stilled you. "That was our neighbor Gladys down the street. She said she saw Myers come up to our house about an hour and a half ago." His gun was out, alarming you. "Have you… have you seen anything?"

"No." You swallowed around your lie, quickly turning the stove off, lunch forgotten. "No, it's been quiet. I was out in my garden, mostly."

He didn't seem convinced though. "She said he was circling around the house before coming inside."

At that, he froze. He held a finger to his lips, signaling you to be quiet. You wanted to roll your eyes at how comical this was but you also couldn't afford to break character. Scared young child of the police detective, home alone with a killer in this house. 

"Where's your cat?" He whispered, glancing up at the ceiling as though expecting to hear footsteps.

Glancing around, you tried to play up your alarm. "I don't know!" You whisper-yelled. "Do you think he's-?"

"Dead, then." Your dad's bluntness made you flinch. "Myers usually kills the pets first. Keeps 'em from sounding an alarm." He didn't even try to look sympathetic as he crept towards the stairs. You followed after him as he crept silently from room to room, pushing the door open slightly before scanning the room with his gun out. It made you anxious and you kept periodically glancing towards your bedroom, dreading the impending inspection. First the hall closet, then his bedroom, then the bathrooms, and finally: your bedroom.

You felt sweat drip down your temple as he pushed open the door. Everything felt tense, suffocating you as you chewed anxiously on the nail of your thumb.

He swung open the closet door and fired at the first sign of movement.

Mayhem yowled, a sharp, piercing sound, then darted past your legs as he took off down the hall. "MAYHEM!" You shrieked in horror, watching blood trail behind him faster than you could catch him. You ignored your dad's stammered apologies and took off after your cat.

The blood trail went down the stairs and out through the back door, which had been left cracked open to let Mayhem come and go as he pleased. Now he was gone. Your heart sank as you ran outside, crying for Mayhem to come back. In the tall, mud-riddled forest it was hard to see any kind of blood trail or spot your all black cat. Minutes ticked by with no response and you fell to your knees, wrapping your arms around yourself as you bawled.

He was your little kitty. And now he was gone.

"Sweetheart, I- I'm so sorry. I didn't know he was there." Your dad tried to explain as he watched you from the doorway. "It- It'll come back, I'm sure."

"You SHOT him!" You rounded on him almost instantly, storming up to meet him and relishing in the way he backed up in fear of your anger. "You SHOT him and now he might DIE out there!" While you didn't consider yourself an angry nor violent person, it felt vindicating to shove him and watch him stumble back. "You don't even CARE!"

"No, I don't!" He shouted, trying to scare you back. "It's just a cat! What if Myers had been there, huh?"

You felt hysteric. "I don't care about that! Fuck, dad, I care about my CAT!"

Suddenly, he'd grabbed you by the shoulders and slammed you into the nearby wall, his voice hissing like a viper when he spoke. "I don't give a shit about your fucking cat. I am stressed enough as it is and I am focused on finding Michael fucking Myers, not your shitty little cat. Let. It. Go."

The sign of movement in the shadows behind him made you smile.

Michael grabbed your dad by the back of his shirt and yanked him back harshly, letting him fall to the kitchen floor. He stood there, knife tight in his fist as he stood over the whimpering man who scrambled for his gun. 

You watched with an empty expression as Michael kicked the gun aside, skittering on the tiled floor and out of reach. "Grab it!" He hissed at you. Michael tilted his head down at him but he tried to not be intimidated. "Grab my gun, just-"

Reality began to settle in as shock wore off. Your ears were still ringing from the gunshots and you could smell the charred butter coming off the stove. "Michael." Your mouth moved but you didn't feel like your words were yours. "I'm okay."

A heavy boot thudded against your dad's chest and you watched him scramble to try and understand. The dark pits of the mask's eye holes bore into you, almost searching for permission.

"You've been hiding him." Your dad gasped in horror. "You've been hiding the man I've been hunting. Right. Under. My fucking nose!" He roared, struggling to get out from under Michael, only ending up grabbed like a scruffed kitten in his attempts to lunge at you. "How long!? How long has he been hiding here?!"

You didn't feel like answering. So you didn't.

He didn't like that though. "What have you two been doing? What, do you nurse him back to health under my fucking roof every night? Is that why you've been buying first aid shit?"

None of this felt real to you in any substantial way. It felt like a movie almost, a sick indie film about a serial killer you'd grown attached to finally snapping and slaughtering your family because you'd finally given him the chance to get close. You watched Michael press the tip of his knife to your dad's sternum and could almost see the anger and hatred rolling off the masked man in waves.

After all, you'd given him a hard line of not hurting Mayhem. And your dad just broke that rule.

You backed up against the fridge and slid to the floor, watching with a distant expression as Michael wrestled the man to the floor. "Yeah." You said quietly, more to yourself than to him. "I clean him. Bandage him. He protects me." A wet laugh left your throat at the absurdity of it all. "We're partners."

No point in hiding it anymore.

"M-maybe I should call Loomis, s-see if I can get you two joint rooms in the fucking asylum-!" The man below Michael yelled out, his words muffling as Michael jabbed the knife into him. Wet squelching sounds that became almost monotonous as hot red sprays erupted from the holes in his neck. Puddles of red seeped beneath the man's body and Michael seemed to relish in the thrill.

"You killed my cat," you mumbled bitterly to the corpse of the man you once called dad.

And you watched as the body ran cold with Michael's anger. He stood up, towering over you as he tracked bloody footprints as he approached you. "Hi." You said absently, giving him a small smile. "You'll have to kill our neighbor. No witnesses."

He tilted his head curiously and you just let your head fall between your knees. You didn't want to talk about this anymore than you had to. "Just- Just get rid of the body, okay? I'll clean up."

Had you looked up, you would have seen his nod.

The stench of bleach burned your nose and made your eyes water as you scrubbed at the now blood-free kitchen floor. You'd opened the windows to air out the smell but it still felt like it was suffocating. But there was no evidence anymore, thank god.

You didn't ask Michael what he'd done with the bodies. You'd kept your head down when he'd lifted it up and carried it with him out the back door and you were content not knowing. It would only serve to upset you.

Clutching the rim of the sink, you let out a long, pained sigh. Things were going to change now. Your father and Mayhem's blood was all gone, the knives would be disinfected, and Michael's jumpsuit would go through the wash again. No evidence any of this had even happened.

Logically, you knew this should upset you. It did, only in the sense that the wet plunging sounds of the knife echoed in your mind. But you couldn't feel anything beyond anger that he'd shot Mayhem. That he didn't care about you, only his work. It infuriated you to think about how little your life would change with him gone. The house was bought and paid for, you knew everything he owned would be left to you, and life would continue on.

He didn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. You repeated this mantra over and over to yourself as you heard the back door open.

Michael stood there, his hands and suit stained with blood. Flecks of dark red stained the white mask in harsh streaks that made you want to hurl. "How, um, how did it go?" You tried giving him a smile but fell short. He approached you and you did your best to hide your flinch when he took your wrist. Red stained your skin and you heard the sickening stabbing again. "Sorry," you mumbled, "I should have done something to- to try to make him leave, or-"

Michael cut you off with a harsh tug on your arm. Your head snapped up to meet his eyes behind the mask, your own wide in confusion. He just stared you down, only gripping you tighter when you tried to pull away.

His silent question felt loud in the little kitchen, even if he said nothing. "I'm… I'll be okay." But you weren't sure if you were telling that to him or yourself. "It was inevitable. I- I just didn't think it would be so soon. But, um, I knew I was… I knew I was going to be sticking with you. Partners, right?"

You didn't wait for any type of response, gesturing to his jumpsuit. "Lets, um, get you into clean clothes, yeah?"

Michael didn't budge.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he lifted his hand towards your face, dragging a bloody finger down your cheek and marveled at the way it stained your skin. A red to match his own,

And as quickly as he came, he left. His footfalls were heavy as he went up to the bathroom and left you floundering in the kitchen. You broke from your trance only when you heard the shower running. Swallowing, you followed his trail upstairs to collect his bloody clothes. You could only hope the blood was fresh enough to come out easy.

When you passed by Mayhem's food dish, you winced at the memory of your cat's blood streaked across the house. You filled his bowls and set them outside, hoping the prospect of dinner would entice him home. 

It was the best you could do, really…

The cops came two days later. When no one on the force had seen or heard from him in a few days, they'd come by to check. It wasn't hard to play up your distress. The five stages of grief had hit you harder than expected. On the first day, you'd just yelled at Michael, slamming your fists into his chest as he watched you curiously. You'd wondered to yourself after sobbing over breakfast how he'd felt after his sister died. You'd only ever heard stories but you wanted to ask him.

"We found him off a backroad down the way with an older woman in the car," the officer interviewing you asked. "Do you have any idea what that was about?"

You swallowed and shook your head. "He, um, he mentioned he got a call from Gladys. That, uh, Myers was outside her house so- so he told me he was going to take her to a hotel and then go back to work." Your voice trembled as you spoke. "H-he'd been working so much, I-" 

The officer gave you a sympathetic look. "I'm so sorry, kid." 

Michael was easily named the killer so you weren't even considered a suspect. What they didn't know was that he was taking this opportunity while the police were busy to kill again, letting out his frustrations that had been building up. 

He hadn't left you alone since your dad had died. Always hovering in doorways or your wrist if you were close enough. You knew Michael well enough at this point to know he didn't necessarily feel bad for what he did. But he was certainly capable of fearing your reaction. You could easily turn him in now, all wound up emotions like a ticking time bomb.

But you didn't. You were partners. A pact now sealed in your father's blood

Once the police left, you wanted to get out of the house. It all felt too suffocating. You just needed a moment without Michael's eyes on you, if such a thing existed. So you'd gotten dressed into proper clothes and went into town. You knew the whole town would be looking at you so you tried to keep yourself presentable while still looking a wreck.

Which wasn't hard, after everything that happened.

News reports of your dad's false crime scene would be all over the news in a day. All over the televisions, newspapers, and your dad's police buddies would be sharing stories in bars over drinks. You felt sick at the knowledge that he'd had a life outside you and your little bubble of fake domesticity with a serial killer.

It all felt like a huge reality check that left you stumbling like a drunk on the curbside.

You snapped back to your body as you stared emptily at some crummy greeting cards in the little general store. You'd been walking the aisles with no clear goal in mind and many of the other patrons simply let you pass with pitiful smiles that made your skin crawl. "I should've looked at the fridge…" You mumbled to no one.

"Hey." A soft voice interrupted your train of thought and you gave a glance over your shoulder. Laurie Strode, dressed in all black like she was attending a funeral. Maybe she was - a funeral for the town. You knew the paranoia of Michael stalking her never really went away and you felt a little bad for her. A part of you wished you could reassure her.

“Oh, um, hi.” You stuttered inelegantly. “What- um-“

“I’m sorry,” she gave you a sorrowful look. You were getting pretty sick of those. “I heard about your dad… Michael is ruthless.”

You swallowed around a lump building in your throat. “Y-yeah. I hope, um, you’re doing okay too.” You tried to give her a reassuring smile but you weren’t sure if it came out like a grimace.

Laurie just laughed, no joy behind her tight smile. “I’ll survive. Always do.”

You said your polite goodbyes and you left her, now even more uneasy. It was jarring to be reminded that life existed outside your little house in the forest, that Michael's actions had consequences that spread far beyond just you.

It made you wonder if Michael’s intentions were what you thought they were. He’d never leave Haddonfield. Not willingly. He’d continue killing with or without you in his life.

And that knowledge made you feel sick.

Your dad's funeral was mostly uneventful. A few of his work friends came to console you but you denied their company when you went to the cemetery. Your dad had told you many times when you were young that, when he died, he wanted to be poured into water used to help grow flowers on your late mothers grave. It had struck you as odd then but now you understood.

Guilt still ate at you. He'd probably haunt you if he didn't get to be reunited with your mom in some way, so you'd bought some daisies - her favorite, according to him - and brought them with his ashes and a bottle of water. Haddonfield's graveyard was nothing spectacular, just rows and rows of headstones. Some newer with fresh flowers and photos, some older and covered in moss and dirt. The forgotten ones always made your heart clench.

You pointedly kept your head down when you passed Judith Myers' grave. Her parents had a joint headstone beside her, a spot they'd reserved for themselves a year after she'd died. According to stories, they'd believed Michael deserved nothing but cremation. No tombstone, no funeral, just death in silence.

The fate of the Myers family had been a horrible story. Even after their son was shipped off to Smith's Grove, the family still received harsh criticisms for what they'd done. While Michael's actions were certainly the focus, some people still believed the parents had some sway in it or had influenced his behavior. He'd only been a little boy, after all. A possibly mentally ill, neglected child whose parents had, allegedly, favored Judith to the point Michael acted out.

A car crash killed them, according to the news. You weren't sure. The timings had been too close and their funerals had been closed caskets. But you'd been too young to really care about that sort of thing. Now, though, you were curious. It felt like you'd get answers somehow if you knew. Regardless, Michael was left without guardianship and became a ward of the state, locked away in a hospital for fifteen years. At first, the town didn't know what to think of him. The poor, unstable boy who now had no one waiting for him if he ever got out. Many villainized him, of course, but some wanted to see him make a full recovery. They saw a traumatized child who needed help.

It was only after Michael broke out of Smith’s Grove and killed again that public opinion on him changed.

You pushed those thoughts away and focused on kneeling before your mothers grave. Your fingers were still damp from the wet earth you'd pulled out as you'd dug a little hole for the flowers all on autopilot. The little flowers looked nice, spots of white and yellow against mucky browns and greens. This wasn't that different from gardening, you thought to yourself as you added the water into the jar of your father's ashes. Not that different at all.

It felt a bit weird. But it was his wish. After everything you'd done, the least you could do was honor that. Besides, you didn’t really think you could cope with having the jar of his ashes in the house you’d let him die in. So you poured the water over the flowers, dirt under your nails as you showered them graciously.

You'd never made a habit of talking to your mom's grave. Your dad did it a few times and you'd seen people doing it before but there was just no appeal to you. Talking to air felt weird and you weren't exactly going to start now. You'd never known your mom, she didn't need to hear your stories.

She’d died when you were young so it wasn't like you knew her. The concept of a mother meant more to you than who she specifically did. When you were growing up, sometimes you'd feel a longing absence that she wasn't there but the woman buried beneath your feet still meant nothing to you. A stranger whose photos lined the walls of your dad's bedroom - photos you would probably store in the attic. Like you'd never really known them. A part of your dad died with your mom anyways so the symbolism felt right.

He’d always go on and on about how much you looked like her, how similar you two were, that sort of crap. Now, staring at her headstone, you wondered what she’d think of you.

The feeling of eyes on you has become commonplace for you now. An is-ness rather than a concern. So you didn't even bother lifting your head. Just slumped forward, cross-legged, and picking at the dirt under your nails, flicking it at the daisies. "Do you ever miss them?" You asked aloud. You knew Michael was close enough to hear, especially since you were alone. "Your parents, I mean. I doubt you miss your sister too much. I mean, I heard what you did with her headstone when you killed those high schoolers." The bitterness in your tone was not missed but it didn't feel right to put words in his mouth.

"I'm still trying to decide how I feel." You sighed, poking at soft petals. "I never knew my mother so I can't miss her. She wasn't part of my life, only her ghost was. But I don't know how I feel about my dad dying. It always felt like I was competing with her for his affection. He loved her so much and could barely spare me a passing glance…" You swallowed and your throat clicked. "Sometimes I wonder if he'd have been happier if I had died and she'd lived.

If Michael Myers had to be the one to hear your confessions, at least you knew he wouldn't tell anyone.

You wiped your eyes and sniffled. "It's weird. I haven't decided if I hate him for that yet. If I hate him at all, even." When you looked up, Michael was staring down at you, face hidden behind the mask. You almost envied his ability to simply hide his feelings away. You'd never been able to avoid wearing your heart on your sleeve. "Do you ever think about if your parents wished it had been you instead of Judith?"

The silence felt suffocating and you broke into a helpless sob. The kind of crying that you did when no one was around and it felt like nothing was ever going to be okay again. Michael sat down beside you in the dirt, silent companionship through your tears.

He didn't say anything. But he didn't have to.

[greghousescane]

untarnished

henry winter x ditzy!reader ,, fluff

tw; -

lowercase intended

third person ,, female pronouns

henry didn’t want to be there.

it smelt like junk and poverty (it was just the hallway of the dorm). but anyway, he grimaced and begrudgingly knocked on the door to judy’s dorm, fixing his glasses with a straight face. but judy didn’t open the door—no, it was… it wasn’t judy. it was someone… someone that shone so bright of sunshine that henry felt genuinely blinded. and so she stared at him, slightly confused, with a sweet smile, batting her lashes.

“richard left his shirt,” he kind of awkwardly just spoke out, not really sure what to do in this situation and just assuming the girl knew what he was talking about.

he peered over her head, behind, trying to see if maybe, just maybe, judy was there—but would it be better if judy was? he hated poovey’s guts.

“oooh… like, what colour was it?” she replied simply, busy in her own little world.

and he kinda just looked at her… eyes narrowing slightly, his thoughts racing about how… not pretentious she was. although he’d never in his life admit it was quite adorable.

“red… i think…” he wasn’t too sure. maybe he just made that up. maybe he didn’t—he just knew he was there to get a shirt richard left at judy’s.

every time he took a detailed glance at her, he felt as if his brain was eroding but… was it such a bad thing? she seemed quite… untarnished, something henry wasn’t really used to.

“hmph!” he heard her hum as she spun around on her heel, going to rummage through piles of clothes in judy’s messy dorm.

“hmm… i think… this is it!” she squeaked out, holding up two shirts.

one was a simple red one, a little stretched out, but the collar of it seemed tight. there were suspicious patches of darker red, but henry decided to ignore them. the other was much shorter, with a funny design on it—and well… it was clearly not richard’s.

henry fixed his glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose with a sigh, pointing lazily at the larger shirt. he had no clue if the shirt henry was looking for was supposedly red, or a different colour. but he didn’t care enough to spend that much time looking for a shirt in judy’s foul dorm.

“uh… that one.”

she eagerly nodded, throwing the other shirt back onto the dirty laundry pile. although, there seemed to be more than clothes—like an empty bottle of vodka with some tissues stuffed into the neck.

he hadn’t even realized her outstretched hand—

“it’s a little sticky, i think…”

it instantly made him grimace as he took the shirt. god. it didn’t feel sticky so far, but he still held it with his thumb and pointer finger, just so it wasn’t touching his coat.

“y/n! who the fuck is it?!” a croaky yell was heard, and there was no doubt it was judy’s raspy voice, probably coming from the bathroom.

“richie’s friend!!” she yelled back, and henry’s eye twitched slightly from the sudden noise.

“goodbye…” he mumbled—not really feeling like bothering with judy and her… ignorant friend. but something couldn’t stop him from glancing back at the door to see her wave at him with a grin—why the hell did she seem so happy all the time? she was the opposite of him. and not in an opposites attract kind of way—she was bright, he was dark. he doesn’t like bright.

but he couldn’t help but raise his hand.

it wasn’t a wave. henry doesn’t really do waves.

but it was something.

[l-in-the-light]

About Trafalgar Law and his vitiligo

Feel free to ignore this post if you so wish, but I chose to speak up on this matter. I have seen so many fanarts that portray Law with his white skin patches, often looking like a dalmatian and it bothers me. Are you all aware that animal-like patterns for vitiligo are considered insulting? And you all might look at me weirdly now and ask "how can something so cute/wholesome/unique possibly be bothersome to anyone?!" Read further on your own risk, slight tmi.

Law's disease is of course fictional. Visually it looks the closest to vitiligo, but it has a lot in common with autoimmune skin diseases as well. I happen to know how it's like to live with a skin disease. Meds for my condition aren't really for curing anything, they just make the symptoms dimnish, but in return they leave white patches on my skin that are resistant to tanning for a long while (also those meds are very dangerous for your kidneys apparently if used too often, as a side note). Why would anyone use them? Well, because it's a hereditary skin condition: it never goes away and there's no way to cure it, those meds are literally the only thing that does anything. I just get lucky whenever symptoms aren't visible for some time until they inevitably come back anyway. And believe me, this isn't "wholesome", "cute" or "unique" to have discolored skin patches. You all probably have no idea (why would you have anyway, it's natural that you don't) how it's like in summer, when you go on a bus or tram, you wear a t-shirt because it's freaking hot and you can't hide under the clothes or you risk melting or fainting. And people see your discolored skin or red patches on your skin. You know how they react? They stare at your hands/arms and then they move away. That's the default reaction whenever your skin looks unusual. People would rather move away, just in case it's something contagious. They will also stare, a lot, and you can feel it's judgemental, even though my condition is in no way my own fault (or anyone else's who also has it), thank you very much.

That being said, I doubt Law would be happy parading openly with white patches visible on his skin. Most people wouldn't realize that's it's just a leftover from his old, cured disease. They would simply assume what people always assume: that it's something contagious. Evidence below, if you need it:

And Law's reaction to their reaction:

He doesn't look very happy, of course.

People would isolate him, avoid him and *stare* disrespectfully at him like he's a weird specimen, at best. Law would quickly learn to hide it under his clothes, long sleeves, long pants, gloves etc. No one truly wants to attract negative attention like this, especially not someone who already went through a lot of traumatic experiences, like Law. And sure, as a child he didn't really hide it:

But take into account those are the clothes he was wearing ever since Flevance happened. He didn't have any other clothes. As soon as he's accepted as part of Doflamingo's family he starts to wear different ones, and he covers up the spots on his arms by wearing long sleeves:

And oh boy, I can totally relate to that.

Sure, in ideal world, no one would assume Law has a disease just because his skin is discolored. But we're not living in ideal world. Some people, just like me, have hereditary skin conditions and feel bothered by fanarts that exoticize skin disease or skin disorder. Yeah sure, why does it matter, Law is a fictional character with fictional disease, right? But vitiligo is very similar to this and is a real condition which is part of life of real people. Those aren't freckles that are just cute and make you look unique (and some people might have freckles and still hate the extra attention drawn towards it, and it's valid if they feel like that!).

Just wanted to get that off my chest. I don't need sympathy for my disease, this is not why I wrote this post. I just wish people would realize that by drawing a vitiligo Law they're toying with a lot of emotional baggage there, please treat it respectfully. Maybe one day the world will be wholesome enough to think of it as normal (normal, not fetishized, ugly, contagious or exotic!), but I assure you it still doesn't. If you think it's just a "me" thing, check out this blog: https://www.tumblr.com/vitiligo-is-not-a-trend/765530242896003072 and many other posts of theirs. Not everyone with skin conditions might react the same way, but keep in mind people with actual vitiligo and skin diseases can and often will be really sensitive about it, and for a good reason.

Yes, that being said I also think it's wholesome if Luffy accepts vitiligo spots on Law easily like it's not a big deal, especially in comparison to the rest of the world which would fear him instead. It's definitely something Luffy would do. But that's completely different from fetishizing it. Please, you're stepping on a thin line here, tumblr.

[bobafetts-princess]

Good Luck Charms

Months 7-12

Summary: After things have become a touch less frosty between you and Detective Magalon, you find that you actually like the man quite a bit. Maybe more than you bargained for.

Pairings: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.5K

Warnings: cursing, canon-typical sexism, mentions of substance issues (pain meds), someone gets shot.

A/N: This is slow burnnnnnnnnnnn

Months 1-6 can be found here!

MONTH 7

Month 7 is when things change.

It’s a raid. You’ve all been on one before but never together and the guys have never seen you this dressed down. They’ve only ever seen you in work clothes; pencil skirts and jackets, power suits, wrap dresses, slacks and silk blouses. You never have a hair out of place, it’s always styled with the perfect work makeup.

But today your hair is braided, you’ve got on jeans and a pink button down and brown boots, with a bulletproof vest over the top. Not an ounce of makeup. It’s a different side of you and the guys don’t know what to make of it.

“Fed? Is that you?”

“What’ve you done with the chick that comes to the office every day?”

“Well damn I didn’t know you owned a pair of jeans!”

You roll your eyes at all of them, flipping them the bird which makes them cackle. Detective Magalon doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t bother you.

Really. It doesn’t.

But the raid goes sideways, only a little. One of the ATF guys doesn’t clear a room completely and you get shot.

Well, not really shot. More like grazed. It rips a hole in arm of your shirt and slices you deep enough that you think you’ll need stitches, but you’re alive and that’s the important part. You’re just lucky it was your non-dominant arm so you can still pull the trigger.

Detective Magalon takes the guy down and checks on you, but you wave him off. It’s not the first time you’ve been shot and in your line of work? It won’t be the last either.

“I’m fine. Finish the raid. Suspect is in the center,” you yell over the sound of gunfire. Big Nick finds him and tackles him down, wrestling with the gun and managing to get it away from him. You’re next in, jumping on the suspects back and getting cuffs on him before he has a chance to get away.

You’re running on pure adrenaline and haul the suspect up, it’s the head of cocaine sect of the organization. Catching him alive was the number 1 priority of this mission and you and Detective Magalon (with the help of his team) have succeeded. You shove him out, handing him off to Mike to be booked and turn, looking to the team. They’re exchanging high fives and cheers and Detective Magalon smiles at you. Henderson comes to high five you and you raise your arm to give him one back. You’re smiling and relieved until a shot of pain goes through your arm and you have to drop it.

Benny knows you got shot. He was there when you jerked, grabbed the spot and yelled at him to keep going. He knows you got shot even though you cuffed the suspect and marched him out. He really knows you got shot though when you move to give Henderson a high five and gasp in pain. Medical doesn’t arrive quick enough (in his opinion, at least) but they end up patching you up. They’ve gotta strip you out of that pretty pink button up, leaving you in a white undershirt and jeans as they give you stitches in the back of an ambulance. Benny notices a tattoo along your collarbone that he hadn’t seen before and he wants to get a closer look.

“You good?” He asks, stepping over after being checked himself. You glance up at him and Benny is surprised to see a light dancing in your eyes, the after-effects of an adrenaline rush no doubt. The guys are behind him, checking in on you at the same time he is. He catches some words and a date, something he definitely can’t see when you wear your buttoned up power suits and those fucking pencil skirts.

“I’m good, Detective,” your eyes are flicking between them all and you turn your body, wincing slightly as the needle punctures skin and he reads what the ink says. ‘How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard’. Benny wonders if it’s about an ex but shakes the thought away before it can take root. Why would you get a tattoo about an ex anyways? Stupid thought. But then you’re speaking again, drawing Benny’s attention. “It’s not the first time I’ve been shot. At least this one didn’t require surgery.” You quip and Benny’s eyebrows raise at the insinuation. He knows the group chat is gonna blow up about this little insight into your life in a while and Benny already wants to put his phone on mute.

************

MONTH 8

With month 8 comes…..coffee? You’ve found this little hole in the wall place by your government issued apartment that serves fantastic coffee. They open at 5:30 in the morning, so when you get there at 5:45, the coffee is hot and fresh. They know you by first name at this point and know what time you come by in the morning. It’s easier than making drip coffee and it tastes better too.

Well one morning your alarm doesn’t go off. Or you shut it off. Or you sleep through it. You’re not really sure what happens. But you do know when you open your eyes and check the clock and see 7:30, you’re flying out of bed. You dress and clean up in record time and are out the door by 8:15, to your coffee shop by 8:20 and ordered before 8:25.

It’s 8:45 before you get a coffee in hand.

“I’m so sorry honey!” Shouts the owner, a stunning woman in her late 60’s. “One of my girls has the flu and one of our coffee machines broke!”

“It’s okay Mrs. Akron,” you assure her but god you are so late. You’re never late. Ever.

“Here darling,” she says, out of breath and frazzled. “Take a large black coffee, on me!” She thrusts your caramel macchiato at you as well as the large black. You start to protest but she won’t let you. “I insist! You’re running late and probably overslept, so you might need an afternoon boost. Take it,” she says, closing your hand around the cup. You nod at her, stopping to stuff a $50 in the tip jar before you make it to work. You roll in at 9:00, three hours late. The entire office whips their heads up and watches you walk in but you refuse to let it bother you.

“You good?” Detective Magalon asks and doesn’t press when you nod.

“Do you drink black coffee?” You ask before you lose the nerve. He’s bought you so much food, the least you can do is give him your extra coffee. “My coffee shop gave me an extra and….” You trail off, setting the coffee on his desk and taking a seat without an answer.

“Thanks.”

You simply nod but a couple times a week you bring him a large black coffee.

*************

MONTHS 9&10

Months nine and ten brings a trial and it’s a long trial. The examination and cross examination and evidence and witnesses take nearly 6 weeks. You and Detective Magalon spend nearly every waking hour together, working with the district attorney to make sure all goes the way it should.

You’re both emotionally, mentally, and physically drained and by the time the jury is sent off to make their own decision, you feel like you can nap for hours.

In fact, you do.

The couch in the district attorney’s office is so dammed comfortable and you’re sitting next to Detective Magalon, whose body is just radiating heat. You’d both just finished testifying, his took 3 hours and yours took 4. You’re silent next to each other, too drained from all the information you had to recall and all the talking.

The next thing you know, you wake up. Your head is resting against Detective Magalon’s shoulder and you might (you’ll deny if anyone asks) have drooled on his shoulder. You push off him and get some distance between your bodies.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. This case has taken it out of me. How long did I sleep?”

“Three hours.” He says, clicking his phone shut and looking at you.

“Oh my fucking god, you’re kidding? I’m so sorry,” you tell him but he waves you off.

“It’s been a long trial. I don’t blame you for being tired,” he says, standing. You hear his knees crack when he does and see a wince of pain cross his face as he makes his way to the restroom.

Oh my god, he let you sleep even though he had to piss? There’s no way you’re unpacking that right now.

Benny never tells you that he fell asleep too.

When the verdict comes back a few weeks later and the suspect is found guilty as sin, you celebrate. It’s only one person, only one head of the hydra you’re dealing with, but it’s something.

The guys get a couple packs of beer and one Friday after work, you drink together.

“Fed! You have to hang with us for a little while. You just had your first successful trial with us,” Connors insists and you agree to stay.

“One beer!” You tell them and they laugh and wave you off. It’s the first time you’ve ever drank with them and you’re so damn careful not to overdo it. They shoot the shit, swapping stories and peppering you with questions you refuse to answer.

“Still no boyfriend?”

“Is it hard working around such attractive dudes all the time?”

“Ever smoked weed? Does smoking disqualify you from being a fed?”

“You seem like the type to own a cat”

“Got a hot sister?”

Benny notices the last one makes you wince and he wonders why. Then he tells himself that it’s none of his business. But then he thinks of your tattoo and he can’t help but try to put the pieces together.

“Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I wouldn’t know, all y’all are ugly.”

“No it doesn’t disqualify you.”

“That’s a weird statement.”

You swallow hard before you answer the last one.

“Doesn’t matter if I do, none of you are meeting her.”

Benny can see you’re uncomfortable and he doesn’t want the guys to latch on. So he takes the reins of the conversation, asking Big Nick about his latest divorce. Of course he launches into a huge speech about how it’s not his fault that he likes pussy so much and blah blah blah.

Benny shoots you a glance and notices you looking at him. You give him a small nod and raise your bottle in thanks.

At least, Benny thinks it’s in thanks.

********

MONTH 11

Month 11 earns you a nickname.

It’s another raid. Another head of the hydra that you’re looking for. You wear basically the same outfit, only this time the button down is army green instead of soft pink.

“You ready?” Magalon asks you, standing next to you and you wonder if he’s thinking of the last raid where you got shot. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with a grey LASD beanie over his hair. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and you see the strong salt-and-pepper there. It makes you twitch, low in your belly and wonder if he has-Jesus. A raid. You’re wearing a goddamned bulletproof vest and are getting ready to charge into a building where you might potentially get shot. Tamp that shit down.

“Yeah. I don’t think anyone is ever fully ready but I’m as ready as I can be,” you tell him, twisting your neck to look up at him.

“Try not to get shot this time,” he chuckles, looking at you. You nod, smiling as well and promising to do your best.

You get shot.

You actually get fucking shot.

It happens in a flash, one second the LAPD is declaring the room and by extension the building clear. The next second, you’re on the ground absolutely gasping for air.

“What the fuck?” Connors yells, pointing his gun that direction as Magalon covers your body with his own.

“You’re like a fucking magnet for bullets,” Magalon grumbles at you, grabbing you by the shoulder straps and moving to haul you out.

“Stop,” you gasp. “I’m fine, got the wind knocked out of me,” you tell him, pushing him off. The last thing you need is him getting shot in the back because he’s worried about you. “Get the suspect,” you tell him, pushing him off and finding cover behind a couple barrels off to your left. There’s a few more shots and a small shout of pain, hopefully from someone that isn’t on your side, before everything stops.

The barrels are moved out of the way and your gun flies up before you see who it is. Magalon. You never thought you’d be so happy to see him. “He’s cuffed. Connors shot him in the shoulder too but he’ll be fine. Unfortunately. Come on, you need a hospital,”

“No. No hospital. I’m fine,” you insist.

“Bullshit. Can you walk or do I need to carry you?”

“I’m fine. Seriously.”

“I guess I’m carrying you,” he says, handing his gun to Big Nick and moving to take off his own bulletproof vest.

“Damnit, I can walk,” you say, moving to stand.

“Good. Walk yourself to the ambulance so we can go to the hospital,” his jaw is set and you know that you’re going to end up at the hospital whether you like it or not.

“Fucking stubborn ass,” you snipe at him as you pass your own gun off to Connors.

“I’m going to get you a four leaf clover for luck, maybe then you’ll stop getting shot,” he shoots back and you can hear the frustration laced in his tone. As well as something else? Fear? Surely not.

“Ha!” Big Nick laughs and everyone turns to look at him. “That’s the perfect nickname for our fed. Clover,” and you groan because you know it’s going to stick. There’s no way it’s not going to stick. You don’t even get a chance to think about them calling you ‘our’ fed until you’re in the waiting room of the hospital.

—————————

“It’s two broken ribs and a nasty bruise,” says the ER doctor, sticking your x-rays up. “Desk duty for the next two months,” she tells you and you groan. Magalon hasn’t left your side yet, the others have, reports to write and debriefs to be held. “I’m going to give you some pain meds, I think the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet and that’s the reason you aren’t feeling much pain.” You have been feeling pain but downplaying it in the hopes of fooling the doctor. Unfortunately for you, x-rays can’t fool a doctor. “I’m also going to insist that you take the next four days off, bed rest.”

She stares you down and you have no choice but to nod and agree. She turns to Magalon and says “as her partner, I fully expect you to keep her from over-exerting. And absolutely no sex until those ribs are healed,” she wags her finger at the two of you and you both splutter at the same time.

“We’re no-“

“It’s not like-“

The poor woman is confused and you can see why because Magalon introduced himself as your partner when they brought you back to the waiting room.

“I’m FBI,” you explain.

“I’m LA County Sheriffs Department. We’re partners on a case,” Magalon finishes the explanation.

“Ah, well. Regardless,” she points her fingers at you, “you’re on bed rest for four days.” She turns to Magalon, “I don’t know if you can make that happen but I expect you should try.” He nods and she moves to leave the room. “And I know you’re not being truthful about how much pain you’re in,” she points at you again and your face heats. Her finger swings to Magalon, “make sure she takes a pain medication. Take it with food. It’ll probably put you to sleep,” she warns before she heads out.

She must decide that either you aren’t going to take one or Magalon isn’t going to be able to convince you to take one because a nurse makes you take one before you’re allowed to leave.

“She’ll need another one in four hours,” she warns before she takes off. And of course, it takes almost 45 minutes to get out. Between filling the script and getting discharged, by the time you make it to the parking lot you’re a zombie. It’s been a long day and you’re sore, exhausted, and grouchy.

“I had the guys bring your car,” he tells you and you nod. “What’s your address? I need it to get you home,” he says. His voice is soft, like one you would use around a skittish dog as he helps you into the passenger seat but your tongue is thick and heavy and you can’t form words.

By the time Benny makes it back to the drivers seat, you’re asleep. Passed out against the center console and Benny can’t help but smile. You look so soft and peaceful and not at all like a woman who just got shot.

Benny decides to take you to his place since he doesn’t know how to get to yours. He bridal carries you up the stairs to his apartment and manages to get you inside without waking you. Benny settles you down in his bed, unsure of whether to leave your clothes the way they are or try to change you into something comfortable and decides to go with the latter.

He removes your shirt, hoping you’ve got a tank underneath it like last time and is relieved to find one. He slips one of his t shirts over your head, pulling it down across your body before reaching under to pull down the tank. He refuses to look at the tattoo, knowing it’ll kick his brain into overdrive if he does. When he removes the undershirt, Benny must brush against your bruise because you groan in pain but he manages to get it off without waking you. Remembering an old trick from a previous lifetime, he unsnaps your bra and pulls it out the arm holes of the shirt, tossing it with the tank. Jeans are last and he makes sure to keep the shirt pulled all the way down as he blindly unbuttons and strips you. Finally, he tucks you under the covers and grabs a pillow to take to the couch. He sets an alarm and passes the fuck out.

The thing that wakes you is the aching pain in your ribs. You groan, doing your best to sit up but god, they hurt so bad. Glancing around the room you expect to see your collection of plants and pink sheets, but are surprised by bare walls and black sheets.

“Where the fuck-“ you start but then Magalon appears in the doorway. It’s that moment that you realize you’ve been changed into clothes that aren’t yours and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I didn’t see anything. I closed my eyes,” he tells you, crossing the room. “I had to take you to my place because you fell asleep before you could give me your address,” he explains. He’s got a protein bar in one hand and a cup in the other and he hands the cup to you first. “It’s time for your next pain med,” he drops the little pill in your hand, “I know your ribs hurt,” he gives you a pointed look. Grimacing you take the pill and chase it with the water.

“Thank you,” you say when he hands you the protein bar. Scarfing it down, you glance up at him as he nods. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. God, you probably had to carry me inside, didn’t you?” Magalon chuckles and nods.

“I need to tell you that I’m not leaving your side until you can go back to work,” and you open your mouth to protest. “Nope. No arguments. I’m more than happy to take you back to your own place if that would make you more comfortable, but you are stuck with me,” he says and you can tell he isn’t going to argue with you about it and you don’t have the energy to try either.

“Fine. How did you get me changed without ‘seeing anything’?” You smile as he explains, careful not to laugh because you know that it’s going to hurt. “I need to shower. Do you think I’ve got enough time before this kicks in?”

“Not sure, but I think it might be safer to wait until you’ve rested a little more,” you can’t help but agree because as he leaves the bedroom again you feel the deep weight of exhaustion overtake you again and before you know it, you’re out.

—————————

The next time you wake, Benny is already there and waiting for you.

“No, I want to try to shower first,” shaking your head at him and trying to sit up. Goddamn, your ribs hurt. He gives you a hand and leads you to the bathroom.

“I’m sure I don’t have the right…anything. But feel free to use anything in my shower,” he says. “But leave the door unlocked just in case you need me. Do you want me to try to make you something to eat?” Your stomach gives an aggressive grumble at that exact moment and he laughs. “Fried egg sandwich? Coffee?” Nodding at both he takes off to his kitchen. Heading into the bathroom, you flip on the lights and take a look at yourself in the mirror. You look like absolute shit. Red eyes, dark circles, your hair is a mess and a half. You haven’t washed your face recently and you know that the shower is going to dry your skin out. Of course Magalon doesn’t have any body lotion either.

Stripping off the tshirt, one of Magalon’s no doubt, you inspect the large bruise on your right side. It takes up almost your entire ribcage, stretching from under your breasts to almost touching your hipbone and it’s a nasty deep purple. It’ll only worsen over the next couple days too, turning brown to green to yellow. When you turn on the shower, you realize you don’t have a clean towel.

“Magalon?” You call out and hear his answering response. “I don’t have a towel, can you bring me one?” There’s silence, then he calls back that he’ll do it in just a second. Locating a brush, you step into the shower and groan at the hot water on your skin. Magalon has a nice shower, a cool grey tile with glass doors. And he has several body washes to choose from. And an actual shampoo and conditioner, not a 4-in-1 combo. You wash your hair with one hand because it hurts to raise the other and skip washing your feet cause you can’t bend over to reach them, but damn do you feel better.

The towel and a pair of sweats is right outside the bathroom door when you get out. You try to rip a brush through your hair, but the exertion makes your ribs hurt too much. So instead, you dress and head to the kitchen. Magalon is in there, plating a sandwich and setting it next to a cup of coffee. Your damn ribs are absolutely aching but right now? You’re more hungry than you are anything else.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. But you’re my partner and I’ve got your back.” Swoon. No-wait. No swoon. Swooning is bad.

“Can I ask you for a small favor?” He nods and you hold out the brush. “It hurts too much to try and brush it.” He takes the brush and looks at it a little funny before he moves to stand behind you. He’s so gentle with it, afraid to put any tension on your head and hurt you. He gets through it as you sip on the coffee, (black, gross) and it doesn’t take him much time and you feel so much better when he’s done.

“Do you want to take your pill now or after you eat?” You opt for now and he hands it to you with a cup of water. “Still tired? Did showering hurt? Do you need to nap?”

“A little but not like I was. No, I feel a lot better being clean. I guess we’ll have to see.”

“Do you want to head back to yours or stay here for now?”

“I’d like to go back to my place, but maybe food first,” Magalon nods and you suppose you should be calling him Benny now. “Clover is gonna stick, isn’t it?” He looses a chuckle and grabs his phone, pulling up a text thread.

Big Nick: How’s Clover?

Benny: Fine. She’s resting. Pain pills took her out.

A couple hours later.

Z: Clover still out?

Benny: Ya. Long day for her. She’s at mine.

Big Nick: Damn Borracho, how did you get that to happen?

Z: OooOOooooHHhhhhh

Connors: Apparently only drugged women go home with you.

Henderson: Y’all are obnoxious

Benny: Fell asleep before I could get her address.

A couple hours later.

Connors: Clover good? Still out?

Benny: Ya. And ya.

Henderson: You know Borracho, my favorite thing about you is how conversational you are.

You snort a laugh and immediately regret it, grabbing at your ribs.

“Are they always like that?”

“As long as I’ve known them. They’ve taken to you though, more than any other person we’ve worked with. Man or woman.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“They’re used to other departments being straight-laced and talking shit about us. You haven’t done that. You call the guys out when they need it and let shit slide that doesn’t. They respect that,” he says, shrugging.

“Is that what happened with the other female agents that worked with you guys?” And he nods.

“By now you know how they are and if they think they’ve found something that’ll bother you, they dig in. And they don’t know when to quit.”

Nodding you ask, “is that how you got the nickname Borracho?” It’s a far cry from how you made fun of his nickname all those months ago. He sighs heavily and you know it’s a story that irritates him a little.

“One time, back when it was Big Nick, Henderson and me, we had a work event. It was fancy and an open bar, so I naturally got shit-faced. Nick and his first wife had to help me out and make sure I didn’t vomit all over myself. Nick started calling me Borracho and I never got rid of it, especially once they realized I hate it.” Your sandwich is gone by now and you move to go put the plate in the sink but Benny stops you. He takes the plate and puts it in the dishwasher before coming to sit next to you again.

“That’s a horrible way to get a nickname,” you smile at him and he smiles back.

“Tell me about it.” A pause. “Getting shot is a much cooler way to get a nickname,” and you shoot him a small glare. “Do you want to try and nap again or are you alright?” Between the shower and the conversation, you’re exhausted again so you opt for another nap. “While you sleep I’m gonna run to the office and grab some files so I can get some work done while I’m out,” he tells you and you nod, drifting back down the hallway to his room. Pulling back the sheets and sliding in, you don’t even hear the front door shut before you’re asleep again.

—————————

You’ve forgotten how much you hate being on bed rest. It’s been years since you last were but good god it is awful. At least there’s company. Once Benny got back from the office with a box in the SUV and some get-wells from the boys, you’d finally felt rested. You got Benny to take you back to your own apartment and he chuckles when he walks in.

“This is the girliest place I’ve ever been in.”

“Leave my decoration choices alone,” but he’s not wrong. Everything is soft and feminine, a grey couch with pink and grey pillows. A baby pink sheets and comforter set and plants everywhere. “Thanks. Seriously. I appreciate you staying with me to make sure I’m okay.”

“No coffee machine?” He asks in lieu of a response.

“I only get coffee from that one place,” you remind him. “It’s easier and it tastes better than drip coffee from a pot.” He laughs and says whatever before he sets the files on your counter.

“Two more days, then you can go back to work,” he reminds you and you stick your tongue out at him when his back is turned. Your ribs still ache but you can at least take a pain pill and not pass out within 20 minutes, so that’s an improvement. “Do you want to sift through these files with me?” He asks and you groan. You don’t, you’re too foggy. “Okay okay, we don’t have to,” he chuckles and turns to you. “What do you feel like doing?”

Truth be told, you want to watch a show. Your favorite romantic show just released a new season last week and you want to get caught up. But it’s steamy and not a show to be watched with a coworker so you say, “is there a game on?” Benny quirks a brow at you and you sigh. You like sports but you just aren’t in the mood for them.

“What do you actually want to watch?” When you give him the name of the show he belly laughs and says “let’s watch it. Cmon. I want to see what it’s like.”

Two hours and several spicy scenes later, Benny is deeply invested in this show. He keeps asking questions and insisting things don’t make sense, but that’s only because he hasn’t seen the first couple seasons. If it didn’t hurt so much to laugh, you would be in absolute tears by now because who knew that Detective Magalon from the LASD would be into regency romances?

“Who is that man?”

“They’re in the garden alone. Don’t they have to get married now?”

“He touched her tit, they definitely have to get married now.

“Who is this entire family?”

Finally you get tired of answering his questions and suggest that you start the whole series over, so he can be caught up. He gives you a side eye, but you ignore it, starting from Season 1 Episode 1 and let it play. The two of you get through the first four episodes before it’s time for another pain med, you’re trying to stretch out the time you need them so you can wean. After you take it you curl into the couch, Benny at one end and you at the other. It doesn’t take long for this one to knock you out and eventually you’re stretched out, your head in Benny’s lap as he finishes the season by himself.

He picks you up as gently as he can, walking you down the hall to settle you into your own bed. He takes the time to examine the pictures hung up in the hallway when he heads back to the couch. He notices a girl in your pictures, one so similar in a way that’s more than just a sibling. You both look about the same age and share the exact same smile, often the both of you holding matching Winnie the Pooh plushies. The pictures of the two of you stop when you reach late teens, Benny guesses somewhere between 17-19. It’s just you now, you and your parents, you and another sibling, a brother. Benny starts taking the pieces and putting them together. A memorial tattoo, a refusal to talk about your family. A decided sensitive spot about your sister, or lack of? Benny doesn’t want to make assumptions, he knows what they say about assuming. But he’s a cop, a long time cop, and he knows how to make an educated guess.

You wake in your own bed, surrounded by your fluffy pink comforter and a deep ache in your ribs. It’s not time for more pain meds, so you decide to ice them down instead. Sneaking past a sleeping Benny and you take the time to study his profile. Strong nose and jaw, salt and pepper in his beard, eyes that have a capability to be soft. He really is an attractive man, if you were being honest with yourself, which you try not to be. He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping, so much different without the deep furrow between his eyebrows. You try to be as quiet as possible as you make a bag of ice, but it doesn’t take him long to follow you into the kitchen.

“In pain?” He asks, leaning up against the counter. His beefy arms cross his chest and you have to avert your eyes quickly.

“Yeah. The sharp pains are gone but the aching pains won’t budge.” He nods before glancing at the clock.

“It’s early,” you glance at the clock yourself and notice it’s only 6 am. Old habits die hard. “Want to get out of the apartment for a while? We can go grab breakfast?” He offers. “Does that coffee shop you like serve a full breakfast?”

“Actually it does. I’ve never eaten breakfast there before though.”

“Are you willing to try it?”

“Anything to get out for a bit. Just let me finish icing my ribs first. It should take about 30 minutes. Do you need to go home and shower?”

Benny shakes his head, “nah, I took one in the guest room while you were sleeping. Want to watch your show while we wait?” Obviously the answer is yes and you can’t stop watching mid-episode so it’s after 7 by the time you leave the house. Benny orders literally only a cup of coffee and you side eye him a you order blueberry pancakes, bacon, and hashbrowns with a French vanilla cappuccino.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” He shakes his head at you.

“Nah, not much of a breakfast eater,” he says, taking a deep drink.

“Breakfast is the best meal of the day,” and it sends the two of you into an argument about which meal actually is the best meal. (Benny says they’re all the same, which leads you to believe he doesn’t eat much outside of work.)

This silly argument lasts nearly the entire time you wait for food and when it does arrive, you dig in. You’re so hungry that you almost don’t notice that Benny steals a piece of bacon off your plate. “Hey! Get your own food!” You cry, moving to stab him with your fork, but he manages to dodge. He laughs, a full belly laugh, and the sound is delicious. “You should’ve ordered something,” you warn, covering your food with your arms. “I don’t share food.”

He laughs again and flags down the waitress, ordering a side of bacon and some toast. You glare at him until it arrives, and the waitress chuckles as she fills his coffee. “I don’t share food with my boyfriend either,” and before you can argue that Benito Magalon is NOT your boyfriend, she’s gone.

————————-

Benny stays with you the next day and a half, until Monday and you’re allowed to return back to work. He offers to drive you but you refuse, telling him you go in much earlier than he does. “I can stay on your couch again. I’ll wake up when you wake up,” he says and you finally relent. So the next morning, at 6:30 you head into the kitchen, only to find Benny showered and holding coffee. “Hey. I grabbed coffee,” he lifts said coffee. “Want me to drive your car?”

It’s so bright in the office, much more bright than the low lights of your home, and it makes you wince.

“Clover!” Comes the cry from your office mates as they see you. You can’t help but smile and then it widens when you see what’s on your desk. A tiny pot with something green in it, which upon further inspection turns out to be…..clover.

“You guys have to be fucking kidding me,” you laugh, gently so not to upset your ribs. There’s a loud ruckus of laughter from them, as if it’s the funniest practical joke they’ve ever pulled. “You know this won’t live, right?” Examining it, you notice that it looks like they literally dug it up from the front lawn and stuck it in a pot. “It needs a lot more light than it’s gonna get sitting on my desk,” you explain before thanking them for doing something so thoughtful.

Big Nick steps out of his office to welcome you back, reaching over to slap a hand on your shoulder. You brace, waiting for the impact to jar your ribs but a sharp ‘don’t’ from Benny stops the hand before it connects. “Those ribs are still broke, Nick,” he says, barely lifting his eyes from his files to acknowledge Nick. Nick grunts, turns, tells you how good it is for you to be back, then disappears.

Lifting your eyes, you notice the same stunned expression on everyone else’s face and exchange of glances with one another. And glances with you.

That Monday is one of the longest of your career. you barely get anything done and all you want to do is go home and rest, but you can’t. It’s nearly midday when your patience snaps because Henderson looks at you funny when you grunt in pain.

“Got something to say, Henderson?” You snap and he gives you a wide, nervous glance before his eyes snap to Benny. “No. Don’t look at him, look at me. Do you have something to say?” Benny, you see him out of the corner of your eye, checks his watch and then pulls his phone out.

You’re so annoyed because you know they’re texting their little group chat. And you know they’re texting about you. Especially when four phones go off at the same time, more than once.

Borracho: it’s her first day off pain meds. Cut her some slack.

Nick: been there.

Henderson: same.

Z: does she need anything?

Borracho: food. And a coffee.

Z: what does she like?

Borracho: get her General Tso’s and house fried rice. And a caramel macchiato.

Z nods, getting up from his chair and heading out the door.

“Y’all texting about me?” You snap, eyes sharp as they bore holes in Benny’s head. He gives you this soft, pitying look that absolutely makes you rage and stand up suddenly before you double over in pain. Stupid fucking ribs. Stupid fucking perp that shot you. Stupid fucking pain meds. Wait-pain meds. Oh goddamnit. That’s why you’re so grouchy, you haven’t had any today and you’re sore and shaky.

“Are you alright?” Benny asks, standing. You wave him off, heading to the back of the bullpen where there aren’t any eyes and take a couple deep breaths. After four days of basically living together, you recognize the sound of Benny’s feet as they come up behind you. “Hurtin’?” He asks and you nod your head. “Want to head home?” You shake your head, but you really like the way he uses home like it’s somewhere the both of you are going.

“Nah, I just need a little bit of food and probably some coffee,” and you’re confused when Benny smiles.

“That’s where Z went. He’s grabbing Chinese and a caramel macchiato.” And you know that it was 100% Benny’s idea.

“Thanks Ben,” you smile at him, placing a soft hand on his forearm. There’s a moment there, in the back of the bullpen, between the two of you. You’ve been toeing that line all weekend, really for the last two months and this might be the turning point in your relationship. Benny feels safe. Benny feels like comfort. Someone you can trust. Someone you can count on.

Which is amazing to you because it’s such a far cry from where you started, nearly a year ago. Which makes you think, then makes you apologize.

“I’m sorry for how I acted when I first got here.”

“It’s fine. I think you had the right to be, these guys are a tough nut to crack,” he says, gesturing to the bullpen behind them. “They don’t take very well to others, especially fed. The ones we usually deal with are snarky and uptight. They make fun of us or judge us.” You understand, really you do. It makes sense, how defensive they are and how they treat new people. “Are you sure that you don’t want to head home? I can work from there,” he offers and it makes your chest tight. But his phone dings and it’s Z, letting him know that he’s back and that makes your chest tight again. These men care about you, your physical and mental well-being, and they want to make sure you’re okay. So, you shake your head at Benny and head back to your desk, lobbing an apology to everyone for your behavior, and sit down. Grabbing a file, you start to flip through it, but before you even have a chance to look at it, a bag and a coffee are set in front of you. You glance up and smile at Z, thanking him and apologizing to him in the same breath. He waves you off and sits down, but you can’t quite let it go.

“Z, what’s your cashapp. Or your Venmo? Let me pay for this, you didn’t have to go get it for me,” you tell him but he waves you off again.

“Nahh, Borracho already paid for it. Don’t worry about it,” and when you look at Benny, he refuses to look at you.

*************

Month 12

Month 12, you’re added into the group chat. Your phone buzzes one morning with one text from Big Nick and you notice that there’s a bunch of numbers there that you don’t recognize. Benny’s you do, but no one else. After about a week he stopped sleeping on your couch but he still gets to the office early and the two of you spend your mornings in companionable silence, sharing breakfast.

Big Nick: Anyone up for grabbing donuts this morning?

Big Nick: Also, drop your names so Clover knows who’s who.

Clover: Isn’t being a bunch of donut loving cops a little cliche?

Big Nick: Rude. No donuts for you.

You laugh a little out loud, noticing the ache in your ribs has almost completely disappeared, nearly two months after you got shot. You know Nick well enough now to know that he’s joking and he’s not being the rude, brash, asshole you initially thought that he was.

Zapata: It’s Z. Can’t this morning, gonna do a witness call.

Connors: This is Connors. I’m already at a crime scene, so I can’t. Save me some though!

Henderson: This is Henderson. I’m gonna be late as it is, I don’t have time.

Benny: Borracho can grab some from the usual place.

Clover: Don’t get any jelly filled ones, they’re the worst.

Zapata: Uh oh.

Clover: What?

Connors: NO JELLY FILLED? THAT’S UN-AMERICAN. I’M GOING BACK TO THE OTHER GROUP CHAT.

You laugh out loud again, the idea of Connors taking jelly-filled donuts so seriously honestly tracks for who he is as a person.

Clover: I’m sorry! Get all the jelly filled that you want, but get me long chocolate donut. No jelly, please.

Connors: Borracho, get a dozen jelly-filled just to spite Clover.

Clover: Awe, Connors. You’re hurting my feelings.

Big Nick: It’s too early to be reading this many messages.

Clover: You texted us first.

Benny: Chill or I won’t get donuts.

Henderson: You started the group chat.

Connors: You text first?!

Zapata: Speaking of, what should I name the chat?

Big Nick: Why does the group chat need a name?

Zapata: Our other chat is called The Regulators. We need to name this one too.

Connors: How about the FEDulators? It sounds the same!!

Clover: That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard, Connors.

Clover: How about Clover and the Four Leaf’s?

Zapata: OoOoOoOhHhHhH!!!!! I like that!!!!

Zapata changed the group name to 🍀Clover and the Four Leaf’s 🍀

Big Nick: Y’all are fuckin’ idiots.

You’re already in the office and lift your head at the sound of someone coming into the bullpen. It’s Benny, carrying two dozen donuts. He smiles at you and it makes something go slippery in your chest and Jesus you’re an adult.

“Welcome to the group chat. It’s hell here,” he laughs, holding out an open box for you to grab one. The two of you sit in silence, eating donuts and sharing files.

[sheepwithspecs]

Sheer Luck: Ch. 1

|| RDR2 || Rated M ||

Read on Ao3

(Karen x Sean) (Mary-Beth x Kieran) "You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from." -No Country for Old Men Canon-divergent retelling of RDR2 from "A Short Walk in a Pretty Town" onwards, due to a domino effect that started with Sean being two inches to the right.

Ch 1: A Short Talk on a Pretty Morning

Karen Jones considered herself to be many things: an outlaw, an aspiring actress, a decent singer, and a fairly good markswoman. She did not, however, consider herself a coward… at least, not until today.

“Don’t you dare go anywhere near that lake, Jack! You hear me?”

“Yes, Mama!”

Karen’s fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirts, a fitting echo of the knot currently wedged at the base of her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears as she watched Jack race by through the early morning fog, swinging his makeshift sword at imaginary enemies. Cain bounded faithfully at his heels, his staccato barks echoing across the still waters of Flat Iron Lake.

Abigail watched him from the comfort of their shabby lean-to, chin pillowed on her fist and a faint smile on her lips. After a moment she shook herself from her reverie, smoothing back her dark hair. The humid Lemoyne morning had already started its work, sweat beading on her forehead. She picked up one of John’s shirts, turning it over in her hands to study a jagged tear in the seam.

The sight of her settling down to work spurred Karen into action, as did the sounds of the camp awakening around her. The longer she tarried, frozen in uncertainty, the higher the chance that the wrong person might overhear their conversation.

What am I even supposed to say? she thought helplessly, her feet carrying her through the hodgepodge maze of supply crates, empty cans, and messy bedrolls. How am I ever gonna explain—

“Mornin’, Karen.” Abigail nodded amicably. She had already managed to line up the seams, patching the tear with a length of fabric. Karen recognized the faded pattern from one of Abigail’s old skirts, long sacrificed the scrap bag and never-ending supply of rags. “Looks like it’s going to be another hot one, huh?”

“H-Hey, Abigail.” Karen silently swore at the sound of her voice, shaky with nerves. But… that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? This whole emotional upheaval that had her coming to Abigail in the first place, only because it felt like she was the one person in camp who’d understand. As it was, she had already put it off for too long. Now she was desperate for any help she could get, anything to allay her fears and put her doubts to rest. “I… erm… can we talk?”

Abigail studied her silently, thick brows knitting as her eyes fell from blotchy skin to bitten nailbeds. Karen knew without being told that she was “a sight”, ragged and unkempt, and silently thanked her lucky stars for being too exhausted to bother with the temptations of the whiskey create. If nothing else, she could rest easy in the knowledge that she didn’t reek of stale liquor and vomit.

“Look,” Abigail sighed frankly, adjusting the shirt on her lap, “if this is about John, don’t bother. That man is a pathetic, god-forsaken idiot. It ain’t your fault he don’t know how to keep his hands to himself, the… the… ugh!” She shook her head in frustration. “In any case, I already heard about how you stood up for me. Arthur told me, and I trust him, so… all I’m saying is: it’s not a problem where I’m concerned.”

“This ain’t about John—well, I guess it is, in a roundabout way, but—”

“Oh, good lord,” Abigail cut her off with a groan. She threw the sewing aside, crossing her arms. “What’s that jackass gone and done now?”

“It’s nothing like that, really.” Karen gestured to Jack’s empty bedroll. “Can I—?”

“Sure, go ahead.” Karen plopped herself down, wincing as the corner of something sharp dug into her hip through the bedding. Reaching down, she fished out one of Jack’s penny dreadfuls from beneath the blanket and chucked it aside with a snort. Barely old enough for breeches, that kid, and yet already one of the men with how he left his belongings scattered about.

“So, what’s on your mind?” Abigail turned towards her, easing out of her scowl as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Now or never, Karen.

“I just wanted to ask you about when—I mean, where—” God, I sound like such an idiot! Averting her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried again. “I know it sounds god-awful and stupid, but how did you know that John was… the one for you?” Abigail’s eyebrows lifted in clear surprise, but to her credit she did not laugh. Instead, the edges of her mouth drew tight as she considered the question.

“Well…” Her fingers plucked idly at a stray thread on her skirt. “I’m not sure that’s something I’ll ever truly know. Not in the way you’re askin’, at least.”  

“But you do love John, don’t you?” Karen managed, overcome by mounting confusion. “I know you two have your moments, and you’re arguing more often than not, but… I just thought….” She thought of the way Abigail had refused to stray far from his sickbed in Colter, scolding him for his recklessness even as she wrapped and rewrapped his ravaged face. Arguing when he was awake, guarding when he was asleep, all the while stroking his tangled locks with the tenderness of a first love.

They weren’t the best role models by any stretch of imagination, but John and Abigail were the only tangible evidence she had of what life could really be like when shared between a man and a woman. Mary-Beth’s books, while diverting, were little more than fanciful nonsense. Molly lived in some delusional fairyland where Dutch wouldn’t abandon her the moment she stopped being interesting. Tilly was perfectly happy to wait for a rich young man with a heart of gold, and Bessie, rest her soul, was not around to offer sound advice. That left Abigail, for better or worse.

“Of course I love him.” Abigail smoothed down the shirt’s stained collar, caressing the worn fabric with a rueful smile. “But love won’t stop the hard times, and it ain’t enough on its own. Lovin’ someone, fightin’ for them, fightin’ with them… it’s a choice you have to make. Each day that I wake up, I choose to keep on lovin’ him. Heaven knows he don’t always deserve it,” she laughed. “But even when he’s at his worst, he’s still….”

“He’s still…?”   

“He’s still mine.” She lifted her hands, letting them fall helplessly to her lap. “And, damn me for a fool, I’m still his. For better or for worse, and we ain’t even taken vows.” She smiled sadly. “Maybe that’s what love is, in the end. Two people choosing one another, over and over again, until one of them dies.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly, “John is a fool. But in my experience, most men in our line of work are fools. The ones with any sense in their heads become… I don’t know, bankers, or something,” she shrugged. “He has his moments, though. He acts all big and bad, but deep down he’s as soft as warm butter. And I can tell when he’s trying… that’s why it lights me up to see him acting the way he does around Jack. How hard is it to just… act like he gives a damn?!”   

“I wouldn’t be holding my breath,” Karen remarked dryly. “He’s plenty of things, but he’ll never be a saint.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t expect him to be one. I don’t want him to be perfect. I just want him to be the man I know he can be.” Abigail wiped at her face, resigned. “But something tells me you didn’t come to hear me gripe about my idiot, so… what about yours? What’s Saint Sean done that— don’t give me that look, Karen Jones!” she cackled, trying—and failing—to muffle the sound with her palm.

“W-What makes you think this is about Sean?!”

“For starters, you ain’t been makin’ eyes at no one else.”

“I don’t make eyes at him!” Karen protested, feeling a prickling blush creep up her neck. She scrubbed at her cheeks in vain, trying to hide behind her loose ringlets.

“I’ve been watchin’ him make eyes at you,” she teased. “The poor boy’s completely besotted… Hosea’s words, not mine,” she added, seeing the dangerous glint in Karen’s eyes.   

“Sean MacGuire flirts with any girl that’ll give him the time of day,” she snapped. “The Irish bastard thinks everyone’s head over heels for him, and eager to prove it.” She tried to ignore the prick of jealousy that arose with the thought. “I can’t stand him.”

“He ain’t flirtin’ with me.”

“That’s because he knows John’ll kill him if he tries!”

“Or Molly.”

“Who’d want to flirt with that cow?”

“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him try to kiss Mary-Beth.”

“But—well— Mary-Beth’s like everyone’s little sister!” Karen protested weakly. “And besides, Arthur wouldn’t stand for it—”

“But it’s fine when it’s you?”

“Because he knows I can take care of myself!”

“Mmhm. Sure.” Abigail’s smile widened. “Do you love him?”

“Absolutely not!” It was too quick of a denial, her voice pitched high enough to crack. “I-I mean, he definitely doesn’t love me.”

“That ain’t what I asked! And anyway, how would you know? Have you asked him?”

“No,” she was forced to admit, chewing on the last slivers of an already shredded thumbnail. “I guess I don’t know, but… the rest of you don’t see what I do!” she insisted. “Everyone claims that he’s sweet on me, but there’s not a damn thing he does for me that he wouldn’t do for any other girl! He’s nothing but a goddamn tease.”

“I see….” Karen squirmed under the weight of her matronly gaze. “Does that upset you? Would you rather be the only one?”

No.

Yes.

“I don’t care one way or the other!” She threaded her fingers through her frizzing locks, curls falling limp in the Lemoyne heat. “What I think doesn’t matter, anyway. He doesn’t spare me a glance unless I’m drunk. Says I’m “superior” when I’m sober, whatever the hell that means.”

“You wanna know what I think?” Abigail asked, her voice softening. “You must do… otherwise you wouldn’t have come.”

“I… I don’t care. You can say it, if you want.” They eyed one another, the tiny gap between the bedrolls yawning wider than the Atlantic. “Okay… fine,” she finally admitted. “Maybe I do, a little.”

“I think you like him a lot more than you care to admit.” She reached out, taking Karen’s hand and holding it loosely in her own. “I think you’re afraid to let him know that, because it might turn out that you like him a lot more than he likes you. And,” she continued, raising her voice to be heard over Karen’s wordless sputter, “I think Sean feels very much the same way about you.”

“You’re crazy.” Karen yanked her hand away. “Sean is not afraid of me. There’s no way.”

“He’s not afraid of you, but he’s afraid to have his heart broken. Most people are,” Abigail argued. “It’s true, he teases and jokes with everyone. He craves the attention it gets him, good or bad. But you’re the one not seeing what the rest of us do.”

“And what would that be!?”

“The way he looks at you,” she replied matter-of-factly. “The way he studies you, trying to figure out what puts a smile on your face. The way he lights up when you give him your full attention, and sulks when you’re ignoring him. I don’t think it’s a matter of only liking you when you’re drunk, you know. It’s just that when you are, you’re less likely to push him away.”

“I don’t push him away.” Liar, whispered a tiny voice in the back of her mind. You’re a liar, Karen Jones. “E-Even if I did, what am I supposed to do about that? The fella is supposed to be the one chasin’ the lady, not the other way around!”

“It ain’t a very fun chase if there’s no chance of winning.” Abigail pointed out. “Besides: even if they’ll never admit it, men liked to be chased almost as much as they like the chasin’. That’s why they make such easy marks. All it takes is one smile to turn a smart man stupid.”

Abigail jerked her chin, pointing with her eyes. Following her lead, Karen spied John pouring himself a cup of coffee at the main campfire. He yawned, squaring his shoulders and steeling his nerves for the first acrid sip of the day. Abigail caught his eye and smiled warmly, tilting her head in a manner that was clearly meant to be disarming. John blinked, jaw going slack; he turned, looking around as though expecting to find someone else behind him, someone far more deserving of her good favor. Seeing no one, he smiled back sheepishly, his scarred cheeks flushed pink in the morning sun.

“Silly man,” Abigail muttered, fondness lacing every syllable. “See what I mean? He’ll be thinking about that all day.”

“So you’re telling me to smile at Sean. Or… treat him like someone I’m about to rob? Is that it?”

“I’m telling you to give the poor boy a chance,” she replied, picking up the torn shirt and resettling it in her lap. “If you want him to start courtin’ you, that is. Call his bluff. Tease him back. If he’s interested in more, he’ll make sure you know. John certainly did.” She caught the look on Karen’s face, wincing in sympathy. “I won’t say it’ll be easy. Nothing about this is easy,” she remarked, waving her hand at the camp. “Caring for someone is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do, but it’s worth it. It really is.”

“Even… even the fightin’?”

“I only fight with him because I love him,” Abigail admitted softly. “If I didn’t care as much as I do, we’d probably be the best of friends. And it’s not that way with everyone. Did you ever hear Hosea and Bessie going at it tooth and nail the way John and I do?”

“No, I guess not.”

“The choosing, it comes more readily to some people than others. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but it’s the truth. The rest of us have to make do with the hand we’re dealt. But when it’s the right person….”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to ask you!” she groaned. “How am I supposed to know if he’s the right person?! How do you tell?!”

“I don’t know.” Abigail stared blankly at her needle, twisting it back and forth in the light. “I guess the only way to know for sure is to let it happen, see for yourself.”

“I guess.” Karen climbed to her feet, dusting off her skirts. “Thanks anyway, Abigail.”

“I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but… it’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid.”

“I think it helped.” Until she said the words aloud, Karen hadn’t known them to be true. But the knot in her throat had lessened, as had the churning feeling in her empty stomach. Maybe what she’d needed wasn’t necessarily a straight answer, but rather the reassurance that other people also felt conflicted when it came to these types of emotions.  

The camp was properly awake now, everyone in various stages of half-dress as they drank coffee and smoked their first cigarette of the day. Out of habit, Karen scanned the horizon for the familiar flash of coppery hair that practically screamed Sean. She liked to tell herself that it was only to help her orient herself, to keep her wits about her; it never failed that he would eventually annoy the piss out of her, and it was always better to have an escape route planned in advance. However… if she were honest with herself, she liked the visual confirmation that he was back here, in camp, where he belonged.

It wasn’t at all unusual for Sean to vanish for weeks, even months on end. Sometimes he was invariably separated from the gang following a tricky escape, or wandering off on some personal hunch of his own. No one really seemed to care, seeing as he always managed to make his way back again, and often with plenty of spoils for the box. This time, though… no one had really expected him to escape Ike Skelding’s boys on his own. Escaping a rival gang was one thing—bounty hunters and the feds were something else entirely. Had Arthur and the others not stepped in when they did to save his sorry hide… she didn’t like to follow that train of thought very far.

As she wound her way towards the lake, Karen considered Abigail’s insights. The worst part was, so far as she was concerned, they were true. She did like Sean, even with his current competition.  He didn’t have Dutch’s way with words, or Arthur’s rugged physique, or Javier’s suave demeanor, but he was cute.

He liked to have fun, and he liked to make her laugh, and… well, he had his own charms. He’d certainly charmed her on his first day in camp, kissing her hand like she was a real lady, eyes sparkling as he bowed with all the clumsy grace of a court jester. And the way her name sounded on his tongue never failed to send a shiver down her spine— or maybe it was the way he said it, all reverence and awe, as though the very sound of it made the angels sing….

Of course, he wasn’t without his faults. He was brash, overly familiar with everyone, and liked to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted. But he made up for it by being a good drinking partner, and it wasn’t long before others began making snide comments about him being her boy. Karen had tried to ignore them, waving off the accusations with a laugh. There was no way in hell that she had any interest in Sean MacGuire, of all people! She had believed it, too… until the night she caught herself staring at him across the campfire, admiring the freckles scattered over his cheeks like stars in the sky. To her horror, she found that she desperately wanted to kiss him, to count every last one with her lips instead of her fingers.

The unbidden thought was quickly followed by curiosity, her liquor-addled mind wondering if more of those enticing freckles might be found hidden under his ragged clothes. She had immediately stumbled over to stick her entire head in the communal washbasin, sparing no expense in an effort to sober up before she did something dumb. Sober Karen did not want to imagine all the places Sean might have freckles.

Drunk Karen, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He finally kissed her months later, a clumsy gesture that felt more like he was second-guessing himself in the moment. It would have been sweet, had he not immediately tried to stick his tongue down her throat. She punched him, he laughed, and that was the start of a new game: one that neither of them really knew how to play to full advantage. Fighting and flirting, the lines blurred so that it was sometimes hard to tell which was which. Still, peppered in between were moments so tender that their memory was enough to make her heart flip-flop in her chest.

There was that one handsy night in the dead of winter, before the fire that had driven them down from the Northern Grizzlies. Sheltering from a blizzard in an abandoned homestead, hiding out in the barn once John and Abigail’s latest argument grew too loud to ignore. He’d followed to check on her, and what started as a joke ended up something else entirely. His hands had been cold and his lips so, so warm; had Hosea not wandered into the barn to check on the horses, she might have let him under her skirts right then and there.

Then there was Jenny’s birthday party at the lake, everyone gathered around the campfire after an idle day spent splashing and drinking. She’d sidled up to him after the night grew chilly, soaking up what warmth she could from his sunburnt skin only for him to put his arm around her shoulders and draw her flush against his side. He’d leaned over and whispered that he loved her, his breath flavored with cheap whiskey, and she’d found herself wanting to believe it.  

And most recently, that utter fiasco of a night in John’s tent. It was a scenario she did not want repeated anytime soon… or ever, for that matter. She’d gone and cried on him, the kind of drunken sobbing that makes a person look hideous no matter how beautiful they are. And then he’d started to cry too, just as loud and just as ugly, and then they were crying together and— God, how humiliating! She had hoped beyond hope that they’d both be too drunk to remember what happened, but the shy glances he sent her way the next morning spoke otherwise… as did his later attempts to speak with her.

She had tried to throw him off the scent completely, claiming that she’d secretly rejoiced at his absence, but he only laughed at her. And it had been true—at least partly. She hadn’t cried for him, hadn’t let herself mourn him when there was still hope, however slim, that he was alive in the world. Sean always manages to wriggle his way out of trouble, she told herself, on the nights when sleep was an impossibility. Sometimes she even let drunk Karen daydream about counting freckles, once he returned.

Sometimes… sometimes sober Karen daydreamed about it too, even though she would rather die than admit it.

She eventually spotted the man himself near the hitching posts, talking to the O’Driscoll—to Kieran, she corrected herself. Mary-Beth had taken up the annoying habit of lecturing anyone she overheard calling him anything but his name, all but insisting that they should be trying to help him integrate himself into the gang proper. It had surprised her to see Sean attempting to talk to the boy, especially after nearly breaking his nose with that violent headbutt. But more than once she’d found them sitting together by the fire, Kieran speaking in his halting, hesitant way, and Sean listening for once in his life.

Kieran nodded, unhitching Ennis from the post and leading him off. Sean watched them go, smoking the last of his cigarette before flicking the remnants into the scout fire. He turned on his heel, hands in his pockets and a tune on his lips as he made his way back towards the main camp. Lifting his eyes, he caught sight of her on the bank and immediately brightened. 

“There she is!” he crowed, sauntering up with a crooked grin. “Prettiest outlaw this side of the Grizzlies.”

“Not that there’s much competition,” she grunted, fighting the urge to step back as he crowded her personal space. “Are you leaving?” she asked instead, peering over his shoulder to where Kieran was now attempting to saddle the skittish horse.

“That I am, that I am. It’s some job Bill’s been going on about for ages now. Something about Grays and security detail,” he shrugged. “I just let it go in one ear and out the other. Doesn’t matter much to me, long as we get paid.”

“Who all’s going?”

“Him, me, Micah, and Arthur,” he listed off on his fingers. “Fine lookin’ bunch we’ll make, eh?”

“That seems like a lot of firepower for guard duty.”

“Drunken bastards want the best of the best, I suppose.” He shrugged again, clearly unphased at the idea.

“Ooh, tough guy.” He caught the teasing lilt to her voice and winked, smile lifting high enough to show the new gap in his teeth.

“You know me— always laughin’ in the face of danger. Still, I wouldn’t say no to a kiss… for luck, of course.”

Karen hesitated. Normally, this was where she’d yell at him for having the nerve to ask for something so stupid. He’d steal a kiss anyway, she’d stomp off in a huff, and he’d shout some cheeky remark that had her chuckling even as she tried to keep a straight face.

Give him a chance, Abigail’s voice scolded in her mind. She had said to call his bluff… but was it a bluff? If you want him to start courtin’ you, that is. Is that what she wanted? What if Abigail was mistaken? What if he laughed at her? What if he thought she was pathetic? She was nothing more than a sad, lonely drunk playacting the part of a lady. How could anyone see her as she was and find something worth wanting?

She searched his face, thinking quickly. If she truly wanted this, there would be no better time to test the waters. Was she willing to take that leap and accept the consequences… whatever they might be? Sean’s smile fell as he waited, a nervous undercurrent to his laughter as he braced for the blow that, in his experience, usually followed a brooding silence.

“C’mere, then,” she finally murmured, holding out her hands for him to take. Sean didn’t move, eyes darting from her hands to her face and back again, as he if he didn’t quite believe his ears. She rolled her eyes, reaching out to snag him by the belt and drag him closer. He staggered forward, eyes wide and jaw dropping, a high-pitched yelp skirting past his parted lips. For lack of a better word, he seemed to stall completely.

Is this all it takes to shut you up?

Karen ran her hands up his torso, tracing the pattern of his vest, counting every button on his union suit. They crept their way up the column of his neck, stopping only to cradle his jaw. His heart was racing, pulse fluttering against the heel of her palm as she tugged at his face none-too-gently, yanking him even closer. His cheeks were rough beneath her fingers, unshaven stubble catching on her callouses, but she found that she didn’t mind. Rather, she wondered what it would feel like against her bare skin, on the soft rise of her stomach, between her thighs—

She couldn’t even blame drunk Karen for that one.  

“What’re—” The question was muffled, his voice squashed under the force of her grip. She silenced him with little more than a touch, brushing their noses together and tasting the coffee and tobacco on his breath. His eyes fell to her lips, hungry, and suddenly she found that she wanted nothing more than to wind her arms around his neck and let him have his fill.

Instead, she lifted onto her toes and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. He tried to turn his head, to kiss her properly, but she pulled away with a smirk.

“There,” she said primly, delighting at how the tips of his ears burned as red as his hair. “A lucky kiss.”

“That was hardly a kiss,” he croaked, somewhat breathless despite the fact that it was hardly more than a peck.

“It was a lucky kiss,” she repeated saucily. “Make it back alive, and you can have the rest.” He smiled at that, one of the lopsided little expressions that she so loved to hate. Leaning forward, he gently butted her forehead with his own, gazing deep into her eyes. Her heart gave a traitorous little thrill, hammering against her sternum loud enough that she swore he must have heard it.

“Karen…” His hand lifted to cover one of hers, holding it fast against his cheek. “You know, I l—”

“Hey, Irish!” A grating voice cut in, more than enough to jolt them apart. “Quit with the moony love shit and let’s go!”

“Fuck you, Micah!” Sean swore, his voice sharper than she’d ever heard him speak before. He gave her hand a fleeting squeeze, regret and rage warring in his eyes as he went for his horse. Micah trotted past on Baylock, making loud smooching noises and laughing obnoxiously when she flipped him off.

“Grow up, bastard!” she shouted, knowing all the while that it was wasted breath. Bill and Sean followed on his heels, the latter offering a small wave as they rounded the bend and galloped out of sight. Karen sighed, one hand on her hip as she listened to the sound of hoofbeats against the packet earth fade to nothing. It was only a matter of time before that old hag Grimshaw would force her to work, but she wanted to linger, to preserve what was left of the moment, somehow.

She was no closer to an answer for the question she feared most to ask, but it seemed to be a step in the right direction. Maybe Sean could be mature, when the situation called for it. Maybe he could be serious about something, for once in his life.

And maybe… maybe she could love a man without risking a broken heart.

[artaxlivs]

Wyatt's Odds

Chapter 1 - "Seven". *spoilers for the book below the line*

My pa told me that a man’s life flashes before his eyes the moment before he dies. I never argued because, sure, that sounds probable.

But I doubted the odds. After all, how would he know? Him still being alive and all.

Now, in what is to be my last moment of life, I would put all my money on that bet.

My life, short and uneventful as it was, plays across my mind like a propos reel.

Reminding me that the odds were definitely NOT in my favor.

Even though they should have been.

*

I woke up with the knowledge that this would be my last Reaping. And, as the youngest of the Callow boys, I’ve never had to put my name in for tesserae so there are only seven slips of paper with my name on them. My birthday is just two months from now so it’s the last time I’ll have to wake up on this day with dread. 

Some of my friends have forty or fifty slips of paper with their names in that bowl. My mind is exhausted from trying to nail down the odds over the last few weeks. Especially with that element of chance that always seems to factor itself in without my permission.

“Wyatt?” My mother calls through my door and when I don’t answer, she follows it up with, “You awake in there? Your dad wants to go over the numbers one more time before he heads out.”

Of course he does. Wants all the odds all lined up so he can start the early betting before the train with its kidnapped children even leaves the station.

Huffing, I call back, “Yup, gimme a minute and I’ll be out.” Because if I don’t, pa will just come in here and make me go over numbers right here in my bed.

I put on my only nice pair of pants. A hand-me-down that has been handed down through all five of my brothers so the hems are long since patched with another material and both knees have a big rectangular patch that makes them look like it’s done up on purpose. My shirt is soft from years of washing. I don’t bother with my jacket yet, though it’s elbows sport the same style of patches. Ma says it makes me look distinguished. Like anyone in the Seam could ever actually look distinguished.

She says some nice girl from the Seam is eventually going to notice how nice I look with my hair neatly combed.

I hope not.

I’ve never really noticed a girl that I cared to notice me back.

In the kitchen, pa’s at the table with his softbound notebook open. Notebooks ain't cheap so pa takes some of the flyers and posters that the Capital sticks up around the district, cuts them to size and ma binds them into a book of scrap pages for him. She’s real good at it. Reusing string or thread to tie it all together in the fold. When a notebook is all filled up with numbers and ready to be destroyed, she soaks the old pages in water, crumbles ‘em up, mashes ‘em together and lays ‘em out flat to make the bind for the next book.

She told me once that it tickles her to use Capital flyers to hide illegal activity. And then to use the last book of illicit information to bind the new one. The rest of the town thinks ma has it rough, married to a bookie who’s setting bets for and against their own people but mama’s always been a rebel in my eyes. Both my parents do what they do to keep us all from borrowing against the tesserae. It might not be nice in everyone’s eyes but it’s kept us fed and out of the arena.

I do hate it though.

And I hate that I somehow developed whatever it is that makes me able to see all the probabilities. I’m not often wrong. Even if what I’m doing is wrong.

“Son, I just want you to look over the numbers again. Mable, who works the tesserae records confirmed you had everyone’s slip numbers right,” Pa’s finger graces the column of numbers. Most of the youngest in the Reaping have only one but a few have as many as five. Seven years I’ve been waking up to this and I’ve only got seven slips. How must it feel to wake up and know that your chances are greater than most everyone else’s?

I think maybe Pa is nervous. It's my last reaping and while the math should mean that the kid with 100 slips gets pulled before the kid with one, we all know it doesn't work like that. There have been for too many twelve year olds in the arena for that to be true. 

“Pa, they’re as close as we can call, some things are just up to chance,” I tell him for the fourth or fifth time. Every year there is a margin of error that goes to chance for the Reaping. For the last day, people have been betting on which kids will get reaped. It's horrible thing to bet on but it I think it helps them keep the reality and the horror of it at arm's length. “And I can’t give you the odds on every single district 12 kid in the arena. Not without at least seeing what happens in the other districts.” He knows this. I know it. Ma knows it. “After the Reaping today, when there are only forty-eight kids, we’ll watch the tribute video and I’ll calculate everyone’s odds for ya.”

My least favorite part. I don’t make up the odds. It’s simple math. Well, complex math that’s simple for me. There’s nothing I can do to change any of it, even if I wanted to. So it shouldn’t matter who does it, or how I feel about it. Because it’s just numbers. No empathy or sympathy. Just the odds.

When my father finally closes up his book and heads out, my ma puts a plate in front of me, staying close with her hand on my neck, “I’ve waited for this day since you were born,” she says, kissing my temple, “the last Reaping Day for my last baby.” I hear her whisper a prayer under her breath, though to who, I’ve no idea.

It’s only by concentrating on the odds that I’m able to eat my breakfast. I clear my mind of everything else, the day, the people, my parents, and just watch the numbers in my mind as they group together and build and fall.

*

There’s enough time before the Reaping to do a few things - if I had things to do. I don’t, though. Instead I wander around, watching other people do the things they have to do before the Reaping. Most everyone seems to be either in a hurry or no hurry at all. 

At the sweet shop, Merilee and Maysilee are working, smiling at customers like this won’t be the last day in the district for four of their kids. Between the two of them, twins have just ten slips in the bowl. No tesserae for either of them and they’re just sixteen. Most of the merchant kids have one slip per year. Doesn’t mean they never get pulled though. Just last year a fifteen year old merchant’s son was Reaped. I gave him 20 to 1 odds. He died the first day.

Neither of the twins has very good odds if they get Reaped. I’d reevaluate after the training but even without looking at the other tributes, I’d put them both at 36 to 1 odds.

After watching the shop bustle for a few minutes, I dip inside. I don’t much like sweets but I’ll get a peppermint stick for my ma. Tucking it into my breast pocket, I nod my thanks to the twin working the counter. Pretty sure that one is Merilee. She purses her lips but nods back. The Reaping tends to even out the ground for all of us - at least on the morning before. 

After a little while longer of people watching, I meander down to where we check in. 

Every year is the same, front row is the twelve year olds. Probably to get their innocent little faces in the propos of the stage activity. Get their shock and fear. Their tears. Though all of our parents try to teach us to hide it - don’t let the Capital use you like that. Don’t show emotion. That’s what my pa taught me and my brothers at least. Used to be there was one of us in every section. Being stair steppers like we are, each about a year apart. Now it’s just me, in the back, watching as the rows fill up, girls on one side, boys on the other. Everyone in their Reaping Day best.

Peacekeepers line the stage and line the sides of what is very much a holding pen, reminding us that there is nowhere to run. That we must walk to our fate with whatever dignity we can muster. I imagine that the shock of hearing your name is enough to move you through the motions. 

Drusilla takes the stage, she is somehow still alive even though she continues to look like someone stretched skin over a skeleton and pushed it onto the train each year. This year she’s in a hideous yellow military getup. Her voice grates on my ears but I hear the first name clear as day, Louella McCoy. I don’t know her personally. But I know her odds. Thirteen, small, from the Seam so her nutrition isn’t great, probably never even swung something small as a hammer in her whole life.

I watch, detached, as the girl steps out of her row, drawing herself up and pushing her shoulders back, chin up as she marches to her certain death. Her name was in the bowl on six slips of paper. Less than .005% chance of getting Reaped. Odd don’t matter in a fishbowl though. 

She takes her place next to Drusilla and stares at the ground. Whatever fight she’d had going up seems to have deflated.

Drusilla reaches into the girl bowl again with her claw-like hand. Two girls and two boys from every district this time. Forty-eight children. Whatever odds we all had of going home instead of to the Capital today, were cut in half by this development. 

Drusilla lifts up the slip - Maysilee Donner. One of the twins from the sweet shop. She and her sister and another girl crush together in a hug, their blond heads dipping together as they hold tight one last time. When they pull apart I see the third girl is the March girl, Astrid. All three had the same odds. One less slip of paper than Louella McCoy, too. And Louella had one less slip of paper than me.

I breathe in and breathe out, my eyes following the steps of Maysilee Donner as she sets her jaw, squares her shoulders and mounts the steps to stand next to Louella. She does not offer comfort and the younger girl does not ask for it. Louella does follow Maysilee’s lead though and brings her eyes up, focuses them somewhere at the back over our heads. I feel a little shot of pride for her. Her odds recalculate in my head.

Drusilla steps toward the bowl with the boys’ names. There are more of them but not by much, one hundred and three more slips of paper in the boy bowl. There are more girls between the ages of 12 and 18 in the district this year but boys are more likely to be used in trade for tesserae. It baffles me, as the oddsmaker, to see that families are more cavalier with their sons’ lives than their daughters.’

The world goes silent as Drusilla pulls a single slip of paper from deep inside the bowl and then creaks out, “Wyatt Callow.”

It is true, what they say. Your body knows just what to do and propels you forward. I did not think about stepping toward the stage. I did not think about climbing the stairs. I did not think about standing where the Peacekeeper pointed. I thought only of the odds. One of the Seam boys has 108 slips of paper in the bowl and yet here I stand with only seven. Two months away from my nineteenth birthday. My mother’s last baby on his last Reaping.

There is something freeing about being sent to die. Nothing that I do from this moment on will be of consequence. I will go, I will fight, I will die. Even without seeing the other tributes, I know the odds are stacked against me. And rather than wanting to cry. I sort of want to sigh in relief. At least it’s over, right?

“Woodbine Chance!”

His name is in the bowl 48 times, .03% chance of being called. Out of all of us, the highest odds of being called. I look down at the boy section just in time to catch movement. He’s running. I’m just forming the thought of where does he think he’s going to go? When there’s a loud crack and his head snaps forward, blood splattering on everyone around him. My shock stills any reaction I might have had and then a woman is screaming, Drusilla is yelling, the Peacekeepers are shouting, and there’s a struggle as they try to stop the woman as she tugs Woodbine away from them. 

His mother. Begging to see him one last time. Please. Just don’t take him.

But they need to. Drusilla is shouting about a five minute delay and to hurry up and get this mess out of here.

I just watch. Detached. I’m no longer alive. What does it matter?

A girl breaks away from the girl section, one of the Covey girls. Lenore Dove. She’s always singing those songs that get her in trouble, bringing about her own rebellion one song at a time. Ma tried to convince me to court her when she turned sixteen this year but she’s been hung up on the Abernathy kid since they were too young to know what courting was. 

Plus, I just don’t see the attraction. To anyone really.

The Peacekeepers are pointing their guns at Woodbine’s mother and one of them has his hands on the girl, trying to drag her off when Drusilla yells, “Just shoot her!” And the Abernathy kid, Haymitch, suddenly comes to life, stepping out of line nearby, going to grab his girl. My brain whispers, “2 to 1 odds Drusilla decides to replace Woodbine with Haymitch.”

Sure enough. That’s what happens. 

She insists that we do the entire boys Reaping over and I am still shocked enough that I don’t even say anything, just climb back down the steps and take my place again. My face is frozen in that shocked expression which is probably just fine for the propos. Then she’s calling Haymitch’s name and he’s standing next to me, even more shocked than I am since he didn’t even get Reaped.

Everyone else starts filing out, free to go home and back to their lives and I look to where my pa, face ashen, is leading my ma to the front. She’s already crying, barely looking where she’s going, trusting pa to lead her to her last baby for his last goodbye.

We don’t get to say goodbye though. Maysilee either. Drusilla has decided she’s too angry about the mess the Peacekeepers made and she demands we leave immediately. I get one good look at my parents over my shoulder before a Peacekeeper is shoving me away from the life I’ll never get to live.

***follow it here on Ao3 because even though I have a stack of fics to write, I decided that this is what I should be doing. Blame Suzanne Collins. I'm going to.

[katyawriteswhump]

the power of love part 7 (steddie, stobin, steve whump fic)

Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

(also on AO3 here)

Chapter Seven

Eddie POV

Steve insists on being pathfinder lead for the next hour. 

Eddie’s gotta admit—following Steve, as he thrashes his way through the undergrowth, is the best entertainment that banishment has provided yet. Steve’s tight-fitting pants don't do any harm. Goddammit, the perspiration patches on Steve’s shirt make Eddie sweat even harder than Steve is.

“You need the fedora hat,” calls Robin, “and you’ve totally nailed the junior Indiana Jones look.”

Steve smirks over his shoulder. “I was channelling that guy out of Romancing the Stone.” 

“Michael Douglas? No way as hot.” Eddie flashes his best flirtatious grin with ever greater confidence. This afternoon, Steve has begun returning them. “Stick to Indy, man.”

By the time they reach the logging camp, however, they’re all beyond exhausted.

Eddie’s feet are raw with blisters, and Robin’s been complaining of the same for the past hour. She limps through the door of the first cabin they come to, which fortunately turns out to be a bunkhouse. She throws down her pack then throws herself onto the bottom of one of two sets of bunks. Steve collapses onto the other lower bunk and appears to fall instantly asleep.

Eddie considers crawling up onto one of the top bunks and seeing if sleep takes pity on him.

He doubts it would. The choppers were a stark reminder of the nightmare reality snapping at his heels, and he’s wired as hell. He begins to unpack their supplies. Robin, having taken a moment, sits back up.

“We should check this place out,” she whispers. “There must be a clean water supply somewhere, maybe a generator. Definitely canned food and that kinda stuff, for when the loggers come back in the autumn.” 

“I guess it’ll make a change from cardboard-flavoured cereal.”

“God, I know, right! I’d literally murder for some Count Chocular right now.”

They split up to search the various cabins. Eddie hits the jackpot first, in the guise of a crate of bottled beer. 

“Seriously?” says Robin, when she meets him outside the bunkhouse. Eddie sits on the beer crate he’s dragged out, taking a well-earned rest. “You’re gonna get buzzed?”

“You got it in one, sister.”

He doesn’t feel the need to justify this—I saw Chrissy butchered in front of my eyes. I’ve spent a week on the run from the cops. I BASICALLY DIED IN A WHIRLWIND OF EVIL KILLER DEMOBATS. And now I’m on the run again, with Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, and I’ve fallen stupid hard for him. Oh, and there’s a small but real possibility he’s been flayed. Or something else freaky along those lines.

Robin hasn’t quit scowling at him. His smile is the first overtly false one he’s bothered with for a while:

“Forgive me, Robin. I’ve reached the point where, to quote my sweet old Granny—there ain’t nothin’ fuckin’ like it for me nerves. ’Course, she favoured hard liquor.” He offers one of two bottles he’s gotten out to Robin. “Want one?”

“I’ll stick to the cardboard cereal.” Her scowl lessens, though she remains deadly serious. “Look, promise me you won’t give too much to Steve.”

“Why?”

“What kinda pea-brain question is that? Despite the super-commando act, he’s still struggling, it’s totally obvious. Getting trashed is not gonna help.”

“Yeah, but… he’s improving, right?” Her slight wince betrays that, once again, they’re thinking the same thing. Perhaps Steve’s getting stronger, because he’s getting closer again to Lover’s Lake, Hawkins, Vecna, the Hive-Mind, and yet… “You know our little worst-case scenario, Rob? I’m still not buying it.”

The wind rustles the nearby trees. In sync, Robin’s hunched shoulders soften a little. “Me neither. Hand on heart, if Steve had a link to that evil shit, any at all, I’d sense it by now. Although… Was it just me who thought it was weird when the choppers came over, and then it suddenly clouded up?”

“Yeeeeaah, that really was just you. I was too busy eating dirt and shitting myself.” Now he thinks about it, mind, it was darn convenient.

She shrugs. “I guess I’m super-paranoid that way. I literally spent my Middle School years spotting aliens everywhere.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Then I realised they weren’t aliens. It was the Fae all along.”

“You sure it wasn’t dragons?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Her laugh sounds as manic as his latest crazy smile. On the other hand:

“Maybe Steve really is getting better naturally,” he ventures, “and the set-backs are because he’s been overdoing it. I mean, yeah, we keep an eye out for anything cuckoo, watch for connections, make sure he takes rests, but… Time heals, huh?”

“Not always.” She purses her lips, veering straight back into scary mode. “Steve doesn’t like people to know, but since his second major concussion, he’s not supposed to drink. Of course, he does sometimes, but—”

“Message received. I’ll just have the one—for medicinal purposes, ’kay?” 

“Please yourself. Then wake Steve long enough to put our own bedding on those disgusting bunks. I don’t wanna be bitten to death by bed bugs.”

Robin stomps off toward the camp generator. Eddie is executing the important business of prying the top off his beer, when Steve appears, leaning in the cabin doorway. “Why did you both let me… Hey, is that beer?”

The top pops off with a treacherous fizz. “Uh, no?”

“You’re a useless liar.” Steve closes in. His messy, sleep-mussed hair renders him totally edible. 

“You got me.” Eddie darts his tongue nervously across his lips. “This indeed is the amber nectar of the Gods. You want some?” 

There’s a skewed logic behind Eddie’s offer. If he told Steve he couldn’t drink, like he was his mom or something, Steve would probably get mad. He opts to play a good cop, bad cop routine with Robin, who… 

Eddie glances toward the generator.

She’s not there. If bad cop isn’t gonna show, then he needs a Plan B.

“I guess I’ll have one.” Steve stretches to take the bottle. 

“Just gonna test it. Been here a while.” 

Eddie takes a glug, splutters it out across dusty ground. “Oh man, it’s worse than cat-piss.” He’s only slightly exaggerating. “There’s a reason those lumberjacks left this garbage behind.”

Steve yawns into the back of his hand. “Gonna be honest. I’m not supposed to drink anyhow. Long story.” Ooookay. That went easier than predicted. “Got any water left?”

“Yeah. By my pack.” Eddie hurries into the bunkhouse, and Steve follows. It’s the last bottle, so he hopes Robin’s busy locating fresh supplies. Though that proves the least of his worries.

Half a minute later, he’s sitting on the edge of a bunk, thigh-to-thigh with Steve. They pass the bottle of water and a bottle of beer between them.

And being this close to Steve, now Steve seems so much better? Exchanging chitchat about how long they can hideout here, and if any of them have the skills to hunt a deer or something?

It sends tingles up and down Eddie’s spine.

The way Steve looks at him underlines exactly why Steve was angry last night, when Eddie “assumed” he was straight. Eddie suddenly can’t look Steve in the eye. Trouble is, he then can’t stop staring at Steve’s mouth—those shapely, slightly chapped lips, moist and glistening with water and bad beer.

Then Steve blindsides him with: “Do you honestly think you died, Eddie? Before I did the CPR?”

“I dunno, Harrington.” Eddie squirms on his butt, all kinds of defences flying up. “It was like a dream. Apart from that, it wasn't a dream. It was a place, and Dustin was there, and Robin was there, and you were there, too.”

“Wow. Seriously?”

Eddie cackles out a mocking laugh. “I’m misquoting ‘The Wizard of Oz,’ dude.”

“Oh.” Eddie glances sidelong. Steve appears… oddly crestfallen. “It’s just… You know, I said when I get hurt, I feel like I come back different each time. I mean, I don't know if it's true or not, but... I never knew you before... and I know you now and... and…” Steve fluffs his hair. “Jesus, I’m blabbering.”

“Nah,” says Eddie. “You sound like you’re getting somewhere.” 

Compared to the meltdown my brain is having.

“Okay, well, here it is. I like you, Eddie. I really like you.” 

Eddie half wants to flee for the hills. He fixes on a beetle scuttling across the dirty floorboards. “Dude, you sure you’re not in love with Wheeler?”

“I… I… No!”  Steve doesn’t sound angry, only bewildered. “Yeah, I believed that once, and maybe I was. I guess she fitted in so many dreams I’ve had of my future, and I owe her a lot. But now I’m with you, and…” Their eyes finally meet. Steve’s earnest warmth sends a brutal shockwave through Eddie. “I know this seems fickle, but…” His gentle laugh is too much. “Who knows? Perhaps it’s because Nance has never been dead. Or, near dead. You know, we’ve gotten that in common, right?”

“Riiiiight,” Eddie says, stupidly, then, “Screw it, I like you too, Stevie. I really like you.” 

They fling their arms around each other, and tumble into the kiss.

For Eddie, the sensations are like no make-out session before, such is the hunger that zings between them. Eddie’s so blown away, that the brush of Steve’s lips seems to kindle an actual crackling, electric friction..  Damn, the boy can kiss! 

Eddie’s gotten a semi already, fingers threading up through Steve’s hair, toying at the nape of his neck. Steve does amazing twisty things with his tongue. Gnng! You wanna kill me again, Baby? Even the scrape of Steve’s shallow stubble totally unhinges him.

They work the kiss with their whole bodies, striving to get beyond close, as if they could slide beneath each other’s skin. Eddie can’t help wondering—can they get each other off, before Robin gets back?

Then something changes.

He senses Steve gasp, then moan into Eddie's mouth with something other than dumb teen passion. His arms, clinging around Eddie, falter and slip away.

“Stevie?”

Too late. Steve crumples against Eddie, totally senseless. 

“Steve?” squeaks Eddie, struggling to stop Steve slipping to the floorboards. “Robin! ROBIN!”

Part 8

tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

[summer-nights19]

Replaceable part 2

Someone asked about part 2 in the comments of part 1 and I thought it was a pretty good idea, so here we are.

Hope yall Kise stans enjoy :3

(Lmao I don't even simp for Kise; this was initially meant to be about Aomine, but I thought Kise's personality would fit the plot better)

As soon as you finished typing out the message, you hit "send" without a second thought. You knew that if you stopped to contemplate your decision, your doubts would start creeping in. Breaking up by text was a shitty thing to do- everyone knew that. As someone who valued respect and openness in relationships, you never thought you'd find yourself dumping someone by text, but you just couldn't bring yourself to care anymore. Caring had drained all the beauty from your life in the past, rendering it a series of painful, monotone events. You reread the message as you waited for his reply

"It's over between us,"

The truth was that it had been over long ago and you'd just been unwilling to realize that. Instead, you'd kept going, convincing yourself that Kise truly was trying his best, that it was just a rough patch and that it would get better. You felt pathetic thinking about it now as you tried to stop the tears, to push the pain back into that remote corner of your heart, to become functional again. It wasn't working- an emptiness had taken over your body along with the heartache, leaving you simultaneously dejected and exhausted.

You finally stopped trying and let the tears flow freely, your entire body shaking as you sobbed. No matter what you tried to distract yourself with, your mind seemed intent on reminding you of what had once been.

You saw Kise, bothering you in the school library as you studied for a test, bombarding you with questions and stupid jokes. That afternoon he likely followed you to your classes and when you were running errands after school, keeping an endless stream of easy conversation going. Even then, you'd been forced to admit that spending time with him was something you truly enjoyed.

You saw him by your side as you walked home, his arm entwined with your own as he told you that you were the only person he truly felt at home with. That you meant everything to him.

That he loved you.

You saw him introducing you to the basketball team, a proud grin on his face as he called you his partner. He was always your biggest supporter in those days, helping you in whatever way he could and letting you know how well you did every time you succeeded. It was something you'd come to rely on more than you'd realized.

You saw him in a white button down and nice trousers as you sat at a fancy restaurant for your 1 month anniversary and talked about anything and everything before spending the night out at the disco, laughing together as Kise spun you around and lifted you up on the dancefloor.

You saw him cuddled up next to you in your bed, his face buried in your neck as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear and kissed you. In those occasions, you'd always wear one of his shirts, which you'd later "forget" to give back. The smell of his cologne had felt so comforting, like he was holding you in his arms.

All those moments that you had held close to your heart for so long, as well as the indescribable euphoria that had defined them flashed before your eyes like a film you longed to forget. Your phone buzzed and you picked it up, wiping your eyes with the back of your sleeve. Kise had replied.

"Probably for the best. Committed relationships aren't for me,"

You didn't say anything back, merely picturing him typing that while surrounded by adoring fan girls who bombarded him with enough praise to inflate his ego to unreal levels. You decided not to tell him that, just six months ago, a committed relationship had seemed like exactly what he wanted. That he'd forgotten all his flirting and groupies to build something with you, and you alone. That he'd found as much joy as you did, if not more in doing it before suddenly deciding to do a one-eighty.

It was clear you hadn't satisfied him. For wgat felt like the thousandth time in your life, you hadn't been enough.

Wiping your eyes again, you clicked on the camera roll app and started to scroll through the endless sea of photos of you and Kise. Each one you saw tore at your heart a little more as it released a memory you'd suppressed. There were enough photos to fill an art gallery, and enough memories to fill a lifetime. Kise really had become the centre of your world.

How would you ever be happy again ?

How could you possibly get over someone who'd made you feel such things ?

These questions lingered in your mind, unanswered, until, conquered by a sudden impulse, you deleted all the photos and blocked Kise's number before you even had the chance to think about it twice. Not that he'd notice or care now. It was true that you had no idea how to get over him, or how long it would take for the pain to subside, but you were increasingly certain of one thing- you'd try your hardest to start fresh and distance yourself from this painful chapter of your life. If you just started acting like Kise was a stranger to you, maybe one day it would become true.

Masterlist

[kittenchancorruptionarc]

Derek wasn’t sure how much more he could take from Fox’s…strange fanbase. He didn’t mind stripping naked for his unhinged chat members, it fed into the pride he has for his body further really…but being forced to slice his wrist open?!

These people are fucking INSANE!

Good thing the beastkin kept an emergency first aid kit in his streaming room, as the blonde quickly grabbed it and tore into it as he took out some rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and gauze.

He got to work on patching up his wound, not wasting ANY time so he wouldn’t potentially bleed out. Thanks to Derek often being on babysitting duty for his siblings when he was younger, he’s got some decent first aid knowledge…

He sighed in relief after the treatment worked, despite the rubbing alcohol making him hiss and swear under his breath. But…

God, his wrist still hurt like a BITCH.

“You…you mother FUCKERS…” Derek spat at the chat, grabbing his scattered clothes as he sloppily threw them back onto his body “You’re all fucking PSYCHOTIC! Yeah…I’m fuckin’ done here. Thanks for the money though, assholes!~ Might get myself another car since my last one got totaled…stupid fucking cunt didn’t use her turn signal…”

He went to open the door to make his way back to the elevator, and to the waiting room and act like nothing EVER happened here. “Just make up some shitty excuse for the cut, sliced myself on the chair or somethin’…”

Before the bratty man could make his great escape, a silhouette had already opened the door and was glaring at him from the doorway, making his blue eyes WIDEN as his heart sank to his stomach. Judging that the shadowy figure was VERY short with noticeable fluffy ears on the top of his head…

There’s no doubt this was Fox. He’s been caught red handed.

Oh shit.

“U-Uh…h-hi!!” The bottle blonde stuttered out “I was just…c-checking this place out because I was bored! That’s all!”

“Hmm…” Fox’s voice BOOMED across the room “Really now? Because…” He started to walk closer to the other, effectively backing him up against a wall as he held up what appeared to be his cellphone in the boy’s face “I have evidence that says otherwise, Goffard.”

The older man’s clawed finger tapped on a random app icon as Derek’s activities on the stream are revealed to be archived, he quickly scrolled past everything he’s done including the forced self harm, the stripping game…everything. He turned pale, his pupils dilating, sweat beading down his face…

Oh, he’s SO FUCKED.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” Fox put his phone away and crossed his arms, looking unamused at the others actions. “Are you just going to stand there and cry like you ALWAYS do when you get caught pulling your bullshit? Hmm…or maybe…you’ll actually act like an adult take some responsibility for once?”

“Um…I…g-Well…” Derek stuttered before his flight response kicked in “Uhhh…THINK FAST!” He used his tanned fingers to pull back the beastkins suspenders and let them SLAP harshly against his nipple areas, making him let out a loud groan in pain and grab onto his chest as the other FLED into the hallway, the stench from the cells not even bothering him anymore as he was just focused on getting the HELL out of there as he ran and ran…

Before he felt a strong, familiar hand tightly grip onto his shoulder that made him stop in his tracks. When he turned, he found out that hand belonged to his father, Mr. Goffard.

Oh…

OH GOD NO.

“H…Hi dad!!!” Derek stuttered “U-um…I wasn’t doing ANYTHING!! Don’t listen to w-what that old fuck says to y-yo-“

“Can it, boy.” His voice was gruff, stern, you could tell he wasn’t having ANY of his sons bullshit today. “I already know what you’ve been up to in there. I’m not believing anything YOU tell me this time. Care to explain yourself?”

“W-WELL YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN SO GODDAMN LONG IN THAT MEETING! GOD, YOU ALWAYS DRAG ME HERE THEN EXPECT ME TO DO NOTHING! I’M NOT A FUCKING ROBOT DA-“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, DEREK!” He grabbed the boy by his shirt collar “YOU THINK THAT’S A DAMN PROPER EXCUSE TO STRIP DOWN AND SHOW EVERYONE YOUR-“

“GENTLEMEN, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE!”

Fox SHOUTED from across the hall, making his way to the arguing father-son pair as he tried his best to diffuse the situation to an extent. “I believe you’ve scolded your son enough, Mr. Goffard. Let’s calm down…” Derek’s father sighed and put him down, his son taking in deep breaths due to how his shirt collar choked him as his dad turned to the other “You’re right, sorry about that. You know I get…frustrated with him easily.”

“Mhmm, I’m very much aware of that. Let’s focus more on…

Deciding what his punishment shall be for making a mockery on MY livestreams, shall we?”

“Mm…good idea.”

The two towered over Derek, their eyes piercing into him as a nervous smiling formed on his lips.

“H…hah…oh I’m fucking SCREWED.”

EVENT END.

((I’ll let you all use your imagination on what Derek’s punishment is! I think it’ll be much more fun that way. Any asks that mention your own interpretation on his fate will be correct ;] ))

[hannahhook7744]

badun detective agency fluff where they just gotta help someone find their missing pet that accidentally ran away! Reza and some of his friends maybe! (Or maybe the entire agency? Hmmm)

Trigger warnings; missing pets, animal attacks, illness, and mention of death.

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

"I'm sorry, what?" Harry must have heard Hook wrong because there was absolutely no possible way—

"I said I need ya to find Gil's cat," Hook growled with frustration, thrusting a single piece of parchment paper into his face as his eyes shifted around the room. Refusing to meet his own.

Harry was too baffled to be offended and didn't even bother glaring at the older boy as he examined the sheet.

It had a nicely done ink drawing of a white cat with an eye patch covering its left eye and the word 'Lost' above its head. A drawing that was frankly too nicely done to be drawn by Uma (who was only good at drawing sea and pirate related things) or Gil (who wasn't the best at drawing things that weren't egg or weight related).

Harry glanced at Hook over the poster, subtly, studying him for a moment as he wondered where Hook had gotten the drawing from. Only to pause when he spotted a quill in Harry's coat pocket, ink smudges on his fingertips, and an ink splatter on his shirt.

It didn't take a genius to deduce that he had cut out the middleman and drawn it himself so that Gil's supposed cat could be found quicker. Which brought him back to one of his other many questions...

"Since when does Gil have a cat? "

Harry had never heard of the LeGumes having any pets other than Gaston's hellion of a dog that sent shivers down his spine every time he came across it after the summer of shortages and sepsis a few years back.

No one had ever mentioned a cat.

And Gastin hated cats.

He chewed on his lip, annoyed by the information he was just now finding out.  The information which was completely contradictory to what was common knowledge.

It didn't make any sense.

Harry hated it when things didn't make sense.

"He's had the damned thing for a fortnight and it doesn't leave the ship for obvious reasons," Hook replied looking miserable.

"How long has it been missing?"

"Since this mornin'. Sunshine asked me to look after it while he watched mini-sunshine and he won't be back till Monday, and I took my eye off of the blasted little welt for five minutes and now it's gone—"

Harry put a hand up to silence him, already sensing that his nickname buddy frenemy was about to blow a fuse.

"Alright Alright, chill. We'll find the cat before Gil gets back. What's its name?"

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

"Who names a cat, Patchy?" was the first question that his team asked after he and Jace debriefed them on their newest case.

Harry wasn't surprised in the slightest that it was Reza of all people who asked the question.

"Really, Re, that's the part you focus on?" Yzla sighed, resting her head in his lap. No doubt exhausted from the emotional reunion between her, Zevon, and their family the other night.

Harry really wished she had stayed home and rested instead of answering his call on the walkie. But after 9 years of working with her, he knew better than to try and send her back home when they had a case. No matter the circumstances.

"What? It's a valid inquiry!"

Eddie rolled his eyes from the beat up bean bag chair in the corner, sipping on a slushie he somehow managed to get his hands on. Hermie was halfway asleep in his lap, playing with the zipper on his jacket.

"What else would he have named it? Anophthalmia?"

"Anything would have been a more suitable name than 'Patchy'! It's undignified!"

"I highly doubt Patchy is insecure about his name—"

"You cannot say for sure that he is not!"

"I'm sorry, which one of us has a cat?"

"You're not special, Eddie. Yzla has a cat as well—"

"I never said I was—"

"Guys can we please not fight—

"Stay out of this Jace!"

Jace let out a long suffering sigh from beside him and Harry couldn't help but think that just maybe his cousin didn't get paid enough for this.

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty—” 

“Are you expecting the cat to answer you back?” Reza asked, looking at Eddie as if he had lost his mind. 

Eddie ignored him and kept calling out for the cat, hoping they’d find it soon and relatively unharmed—while also trying very hard not to think of his and his mother’s own cats back home. He couldn’t stand to think of them scared and all alone, and possibly hurt or worse. It hurt too much.

He hoped Gil wouldn’t even notice Patchy was gone. At least until they found him. He had enough to worry about without adding this on top of it.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty! Come out, come out, come out wherever you are!”

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

Harry rested his chin on his fist from where he sat atop a rock. Eyes cold and calculating as they scanned the area around them for clues.

Jace could practically hear the gears turning inside his head. 

He wondered if it would be inappropriate to make a joke about being happy that his cousin was actually using his brain for once instead of just throwing himself head first into their investigation before deciding against it.

They couldn’t giggle (or fight): They were at a crime scene. Well, if the last place one saw a missing pet counted as a crime scene. 

Either way, they were on a case. It wouldn’t be right to giggle when Gil was at home watching his sister—completely unaware that his beloved kitten had been lost by his best friend. Who was probably somewhere freaking out about the fact that said beloved kitten was probably, maybe dead.

Jace was torn away from his thoughts by a long, loud, tired sounding sigh that originated from his cousin. Who was now pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated at their lack of progress.

Like always.

“Now if I was a cat, where would I wander off to?”

Jace bit back a groan. Just knowing that they were most certainly gonna require a first aid kit when they got back to base because of whatever Harry was about to do.

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

"Hermie get down from there!" Yzla called out, cringing at the sheer height of the tree Hermie was in.

"Relax, 'Zla! I'll be fine. I'm an acrobat, remember?" Hermie replied, her voice airy. Head in the clouds and not a care in the world. 

"Being an acrobat won't save you from a broken neck!"

"You worry too much!"

"Hermie, I'm not kidding–"

Yzla could hear the frantic thump, thump, thump of her heart as Hermie grew smaller and smaller in the air. 

Was this what it felt like to have a heart attack?

"I'm fine—AHH!" 

SNAP. 

SNAP. 

CRACK.

SNAP. 

"HERMIE!" 

Hermie plummeted to the ground, branches of the thin tree just barely slowing her descent in time for Yzla to sprint over and catch her. 

The beating of her heart was almost deafening now. 

Hermie gave her a sheepish look, holding up a very scared kitten. The exact kitten they'd been looking for.

"Found him!"

Yzla said nothing, giving her a death glare. Far from amused and still too terrified to be in a celebratory mood.

"I'm banned from field work for the foreseeable future again, aren't I?"

Yzla nodded as she slowly began the track back to their base. Still carrying Hermie and the kitten. 

At least Hermie wouldn't be alone in her field work ban, since knowing Harry, he'd probably gotten hurt too and far worse than her.