#or pulled or jammed... or slashed through the heart

[yiirlzsinked]

[singularattitudeofasafetypin]

Convalescence

Chapter One

Masterlist | Chapter Two

Summary: On a dark and stormy night, reader comes face to face with a man she never thought she’d see again.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: description of serious injury, fear, anxiety, ptsd

A/N: I miss the era of Winter Soldier recovery fics and I’m back on the Bucky Barnes train again so I thought I’d write one. This happens maybe a day or so after CA:TWS and the helicarriers debacle. Hopefully gonna be a bit of a series. Hope you enjoy!

Please don't copy my work

Thunder boomed behind the blackened sky as rain battered the pavement. Wind howled and groped at your coat. You desperately pulled it close about your figure. The street barely visible from under the hood. It must be almost midnight.

“Alpine!” Your voice fell mute against the gale. “Alpine!”

You clucked your tongue, praying the small scruffy cat would hear and come to her mama. No soggy feline appeared. Defeat was beginning to seep through your shoes with the rain. After one final “Pss pss pss!” You yielded to the weather and made to turn back.

A scuffle in the alleyway stopped you.

It was pitch black down there. The shaded outline of a few dumpsters and nothing more to be seen. A sensible place for a young woman to venture? Not usually, but beneath your unassuming facade, this particular woman could more than handle a few inebriated thugs. Still, you didn’t feel like dealing with that tonight.

Another clunk in the shadows at the end, then a shuffle… then a grunt of pain.

You hesitated.

“Hello?”

No one answered. You tried again but nothing except the rain replied.

Curiosity made you step closer and immediately freeze when you looked down at your feet.

Fast dissolving in the torrential stream of water was a dark, spreading substance. It blossomed over the wet tarmac in a sickening familiar pattern and in the dim light of a distant streetlamp, it gleamed red.

Wary and ready to defend yourself, you crept into the darkness.

The wind dropped instantly.

Laboured breathing, rasping and shallow became audible under the downpour. Movement had ceased. Whatever… whoever it was, was too weak to fight anymore.

You reached the end and peered around a dumpster and gasped.

A man, the outline of one at least. Slumped against the wall amongst the rubbish as though he’d been discarded too. He was motionless and didn’t seem to see the woman standing over him. You fell to your knees and tried to feel for his wounds to stem the blood flow. He groaned unintelligibly but you didn’t stop until your fingers found the cold, hard surface of metal where his left arm should have been.

Your heart stopped.

It couldn’t be!

Revived with frantic urgency, you felt for his right arm and threw it over your shoulder. Sounds of protest, pain, or fear escaped him, you couldn’t tell which.

“Stay with me soldier!” You murmured, “Stay with me sweetheart!”

*

Making it up the stairs to your apartment was a damned miracle. The Winter Soldier was little more than a deadweight, fading in and out of consciousness and growing paler by the minute. You jammed the door closed with your elbow and all but carried him over to your ratty old couch.

You flicked on a lamp in the living room, then the big light as well before running to grab the first aid kit.

Well, there was a little more than first aid in there.

His jacket was punctured and slashed to bits, you had to cut part of it away, but beneath was a sight worse than you could’ve imagined. Bullet wounds, deep knife gashes you’d anticipated, but bits of glass and shrapnel! Some still sticking out of his skin!

You swallowed back bile and forced yourself to focus. You tried to ignore the whimpers of pain that passed his lips, the way his face contorted and his body flinched even while passed out. Blinking away tears that blurred your vision, you kept working.

Hours slipped by as you eased debris from his flesh and stitched the broken wounds as best you could. What little skin had been spared was already mapped in white webs of scarring. And then there was that awful seam between flesh and iron.

Your hands dripped with crimson by four in the morning. The floor littered with blood sodden cloths and half unravelled bandages. You pressed the back of your hand against his forehead and breathed a sigh of relief.

No fever.

But he was shivering so you collected an armful of blankets and angled his neck carefully to place a pillow beneath it. You imagined his face softening, just a bit.

Even though there was no sign of infection, you dug through the cupboard, crushed up some antibiotics and helped him swallow them in a glass of water before clearing away the mess you’d made. Your stomach turned when she looked down at the bloodied bowl of metal and glass and you threw it away fast. The bowl too.

Dragging yourself back to the sofa, you collapsed next to it. The smell of metal still lingered on your hands and stained her fingernails. That wouldn’t be going away any time soon. And you were so tired.

Your eyelids drooped lower and lower and your head tilted to rest on the cushions just next to the sleeping soldier’s feet.

*

Fighting. Then Falling. Then Drowning. Then Running. Hiding. Bleeding. Dying.

His eyes flew open, stinging in the bright yellow light. His chest felt hollow, empty and ached. Oh, it ached!

He gasped for breath, scrambling to sit up, to free himself from the heavy sheets that bound him like a dog in a burlap sack.

“Bucky?”

The sound of a person, completely unfamiliar to him, frightened him even more. He half tripped over himself to curl against the wall, eyes wide and floundering.

He had to run, but where?

The person stood, their arms outstretched, right between him and the only exit.

“You don’t know me?”

It could have been a question? A statement? A threat?

He couldn’t tell.

He was trapped.

A rat in a cage.

“You’re okay!”

His heart was hammering in his chest. Ramming against bruised ribs and tugging skin. Strange, he didn’t remember stitching himself up. Nobody else would have done it.

Still, what did he remember anymore?

“You’re okay,” the person said again. A woman. Still with her arms outstretched but they didn’t seem to be blocking the doorway.

He scanned her body again and again. Grounded weight distribution, she wouldn’t move easily, obviously trained in at least two forms of martial arts, but somehow she didn’t seem outwardly threatening.

She just stood there. In place. Watching him. And saying the same thing.

“You’re alright,” she sank to her knees, coming to rest at his eye-level but keeping the distance between them. “I found you in the alley. You were injured.” She spoke methodically, one small piece of information at a time. She explained what she had done and told him he probably needed to have a drink soon to get his fluids back up.

The soldier didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

He just stared.

She stood up slowly and his haunted eyes followed her to the small kitchenette, the cupboard, then the sink, then back to him again. She knelt down, still at the same distance as before, and leaned forward, pushing a glass of water halfway toward him.

He looked at it for a second then snapped back to look at the woman again.

“For you,” she said, shuffling back to her original position.

When he didn’t do anything, she tried again. And again. A touch of desperation entered her voice the fourth time. “Please drink it. It won’t hurt you, I swear!”

She looked away then. Down at the ground and her hair fell over her face. When she met his gaze again, her eyes looked glassy. She sniffed quickly and stood.

“I’ll be right back.”

You stumbled to your bedroom, pulled the door to and clutched a hand to your heart. Silent tears streamed down your face. A chasm had opened inside you and for just a moment, you let yourself fall.

The moment elapsed, pulling yourself back into composure, you stepped outside again. The soldier was still in the same place, eyeing you with guilt and a kind of fearful anticipation. Curled against the wall.

The glass stood in exactly the same spot, not a fraction off centre.

But it was empty.

You picked it up and looked back at the soldier whose eyes filled with dread. At the corner of his mouth slid a tiny, transparent droplet. He stared at you like a child caught by an easily violent parent. Like he was awaiting a blow.

But all you did was offer a small smile.

***

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought, I will love you forever! See you in the next part! 🫶🏻

Chapter Two

[trashcanfanfics]

Savior

"You're hurt." You could hear the ragged breathing even over the phone. He huffed out a small laugh. You bit back the urge to snap at him. This was serious, you didn't even know where he was.

"I've had worse, trust me. Just a typical mugging but the guy got a lucky shot." His casual response made your blood freeze. He was shot?

"Shot?" Worry filled your voice and your thoughts immediately went from being worried and angry to worried and panicked. "By a gun? Where are you?" You were already standing and grabbing your keys, shoving your feet into your shoes. He let out another wheezing laugh. You were getting sick of his nonchalant attitude.

"I'm...I'm not shot, just a slice." He breathed in deeply. "I'm at my place, taking care of it." You were grabbing your first aid kit, thanking every star that you were paranoid enough to buy an army grade one. Out the door and into the elevator.

"I'm on my way." You didn't give him time to answer as you hung up and stepped out into the car park. Quickly getting into your car and driving as fast as you could.

You arrived to his apartment building and basically threw yourself into the elevator, jamming your finger into the button. Your leg bounced with every second. What if he bled out before you got there? What if he was already unconscious? Why did you hang up the phone? The elevator dinged and you rushed to his door. Cursing as you riffled through your keys to find the right one, your thoughts drifted for the worst. Finally , you thought as you got the door open and rushed into the apartment.

"Jason?" You called out into the empty living room. You made your way to the bathroom. "Jason?" You pushed the door open to see him on the lip of the tub, blood covering his hands. His shirt was off and he was pressing gauze pads to his side. You rushed in and moved his hands quickly and gently.

"It looks worse than it is." He was still trying to make light of the situation. "You didn't have to come, I was handling it." You looked to his blood soaked hands and the bloody paper towels surrounding his feet. He noticed your gaze and you looked back at him. You sighed, part of you horrified by the fact that this was his blood. The other part was busy controlling your hands, which were going through your first aid kit for the peroxide.

"Hold still." You grabbed a few paper towels from the roll waiting on the toilet and splashed some of the peroxide on it before gently wiping the blood away from the, still bleeding, wound. He hissed as it made its way to the slashed skin. "Sorry." You really were. Your heart clenched at the thought of him hurt, but this needed to be done. After the blood was cleared and the soaked gauze pads were removed, you could see it wasn't that deep. It didn't even need stitches, which you thanked everything for. You let out a deep breath.

"See? Not that bad." He tried to ease the tension in the air. It didn't work. At least not for you. You scowled and tossed the paper towel into the trash bin. He called your name and you refused to look at him. He called you name again as you reached for your own gauze and gently covered the wound with it.

"Arms up." He complied to your demand and you grabbed out your own gauze pads, placing them on the wound. He hissed again and you let out another muttered apology. You dug around in your kit and pulled out wrapping gauze.

He called your name again. "Look at me, please." He said it so softly that you had to listen. You looked up at him, frown still in place. He reached up to touch your face then thought better of it, his hands still covered in his own blood. His own blood. "I'm fine, it's really not the worst I've had, I promise." That was the worst thing to say to you right then.

"That's not the point." You glared at him, frustration tears filled your eyes. How can he not see what that it didn't matter? That this happening to him was still bad? "It shouldn't have happened in the first place." He looked down at that and you started to wrap the gauze around his chest. The only sounds after your comment were the scissors cutting the wrapping gauze and securing it to him. You grabbed the peroxide again and more paper towels.

"I thought we were done with that." He's really trying to alleviate the tension. You poured the peroxide onto the towel and grabbed his hand, gently cleaning the blood from it. "Oh..." He sounded like he didn't think you would help him clean up. You grabbed his other hand and started cleaning it.

"I wish I was there. I could have saved you." You mumbled, more tears spilled over. You sniffed. "You're always saving others." He grabbed your face and leaned in to gently kiss you. He pulled away slightly, you could still feel his lips as he spoke.

"You save me every day." He gave you another kiss, a deeper one. "Thank you."

[thepinkpanther83]

And They Were Roommates (Pt.11)

Chapter Eleven: “Airing Out Dirty Laundry”

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter Ten: “Side B Confessions” Next Chapter: Chapter Twelve: “Redemption, Bras, and Burnt Toast”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Eleven: “Airing Out Dirty Laundry”

Two weeks later.

The house was quieter than usual.

Not in a bad way… just different. Lately, Eddie had been gone more often than not, caught up in long rehearsal nights and last-minute jam sessions at Gareth’s garage. Something about an upcoming show being “Corroded Coffin’s redemption arc,” as he dramatically put it while stuffing gear into the back of the van three days ago.

You hadn’t seen much of him since.

Which left you... here. Folding laundry on the couch like some kind of semi-domestic goddess-slash-awkward-roommate, humming along to the mixtape he left in the stereo, probably by accident. Or maybe not. The third track was one you’d mentioned liking once, offhandedly, in the van.

You didn’t think he’d remember.

You balanced the laundry basket on one hip and made your way down the hall, sweeping past the bathroom and into his bedroom without much thought. The door creaked like it was tattling on you. You wrinkled your nose at the state of things… piles of crumpled clothes on the floor, half-full water bottles on the nightstand, crushed beer cans and snack wrappers strewn about, socks that had definitely been there since the Nixon administration.

"Gross," you muttered, scooping up a t-shirt that smelled like fabric freshener and Eddie.

You bent to grab a rogue pair of boxers and socks under the bed when you saw it… just a tiny corner of something, peeking out from under the mattress.

That… was different.

You stared at it.

Then glanced back at his door.

Then back at it.

You weren’t snooping, exactly. You were cleaning. Tidying. This was noble. Altruistic. You were helping.

You set the laundry basket down and crouched beside the bed. Gently, casually, like someone who had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, you pulled the mattress up an inch and slid the mystery object free.

A pile of magazines.

Of course.

But not just any magazines.

Your eyebrows shot up.

It was one of those vintage, glossy, high-contrast kinds with dramatic shadows and red lipstick and titles like Obey in bold gothic font across the top. Tasteful, you’d call it. Still smutty. But, like… aesthetic smut.

You turned it over, snorting a little at all the pages dog-eared at the corners. But that wasn’t all.

There were more.

Tucked neatly beneath that top one- more magazines, yeah, but also a few polaroids. Torn-out ads with pictures of women from lingerie catalogs. A notebook page with smudged sketches and what looked suspiciously like... lyrics, perhaps?

Your pulse kicked up a little.

You knew you shouldn’t be looking.

But you also knew curiosity had always been your most fatal flaw.

You see more, you lean closer and tug at the corner peeking out further from beneath the mattress. What emerges is…a very well-loved issue of Playboy, heavily dog-eared.

You blink.

Then you flip it open.

“Jesus, Munson,” you mutter, biting back a grin as you scan the glossy pages. There’s a very naked woman draped over a motorcycle, pouting at the camera like it owes her money.

You flip to the next dog-eared page.

Then another.

And another.

Your smirk fades a little. Huh…

All of them… look kinda like you.

Different enough, sure- but it’s there. That similar hair, similar build. A couple have the same exact dimple in their cheek when they smile. One is even wearing a leather jacket just like yours.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, heart hammering in your chest, not sure if you’re flattered or freaked out or kind of, horrifically, turned on. “Eddie, you absolute freak.”

You fan through a few more. Same pattern. You find another mag. Then another- each one hidden like contraband. One is practically falling apart from how many times it's been opened. You're holding six when you realize how much time has passed.

You freeze when you hear it.

The unmistakable creak of the front door opening and slamming shut.

Shit.

Keys hit the bowl by the door. Boots stomp on the mat.

Shitshitshit-

You panic, fumbling the stack of magazines like a guilty teenager, trying to shove them back under the mattress, but they won’t go in evenly- pages bend, one cover snags, the whole stack spills out like smutty confetti across the carpet just as Eddie walks in.

“Hey babe, I-”

He stops dead in the doorway, hand clutching the frame.

You’re on your knees next to his bed, surrounded by half a dozen porn mags, blushing so hard you think your skin might peel off.

There’s a long moment of silence.

“…I swear I wasn’t snooping,” you blurt, holding up your hands like you’re under arrest. “I was cleaning! Doing laundry! And your sock was under the bed, and then I saw a corner, and- I didn’t mean to, I just… it was there!”

Eddie blinks. His face slowly shifts from confusion to something caught between horror and absolute mortification.

“You… oh my god! Those weren’t even alphabetized,” he says, voice an octave too high. “I was gonna organize those- wait no, that’s not the point, why were you… how many of those did you-”

You’re laughing now, high-pitched and helpless, still trying to shove the stack back into its hiding place. “Literally all of them, Eddie. Every single one. You’re a walking cliché.”

“I’m a man, sweetheart!” he shouts, face beet red, arms flailing. “A man with needs! And a very specific taste apparently!”

You squeak, holding up one particularly dog-eared centerfold. “She looks just like me.”

He groans, dragging his hands down his face. “I know.”

You gape. “You knew?”

“Yes! Okay? It’s not like I planned it… it just… happened! And then I couldn’t not notice it! And then I didn’t wanna get rid of them, because what if you saw them and- oh my god, this exact thing happened-” He walks into the room looking around nervously.

“Eddie,” you cut in, trying not to laugh. “You are sweating. You’re literally sweating.”

He gestures wildly toward the door. “Do you want me to just leave? Let you finish sorting through my shame in privacy?”

You snort, finally managing to collect the stack and sit back on your heels, holding it against your chest like a shield. “No, stay. I want to hear more about your filthy little crush on me.”

Eddie flops onto the bed beside you with a dramatic groan, flinging an arm over his eyes. “This is it. This is how I die. Crushed under the weight of my own embarrassing libido.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You know this means I’m gonna make fun of you forever, right?”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you at least wait until I’m less turned on?”

You blink. “Wait, are you-?”

“Obviously, yes! My spank bank is in your lap right now and you’re sitting there blushing like one of the centerfolds in Virgin’s Monthly.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you both burst out laughing, loud and breathless, the awkwardness giving way to giddy absurdity.

“You’re such a menace,” you say fondly, tossing the magazines onto his bed and rising to your feet grabbing the laundry basket.

Eddie grabs your wrist before you can walk off. “Hey.”

You glance back at him.

He’s still a little flushed, but there’s something sincere behind his eyes now. “You finding those? Not the end of the world.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Even though I know your types now?”

He smirks. “You’re my only type.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away.

He tugs you down onto the bed with him, the magazines scattering everywhere as you yelp and land half on top of him. His arms wrap around you, warm and solid, his laughter vibrating against your chest.

"Seriously," he murmurs, voice dropping into that low, rough tone that makes your stomach flip. "You wanna tease me about my very specific taste in women? Fine. But don't act like you don't love knowing you're the only one I think about."

You swallow hard, suddenly very aware of how close his lips are to yours. "That's... a bold claim."

Eddie's smirk turns wicked. "Prove me wrong."

You don't. Instead, you kiss him… slow, deliberate, savoring the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten in your shirt like he's afraid you'll pull away.

When you finally do, he chases your lips for half a second before catching himself, blinking up at you like he's dazed.

"...Okay," he breathes. "So maybe I was a little obvious."

You grin, pressing your forehead against his. "Just a little."

Eddie groans, rolling you both over until he's hovering above you, his hair falling in messy waves around his face. "You're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

"Nope."

He exhales, defeated but smiling. "Worth it."

Then he kisses you again- deeper this time, hungrier, like he's making up for lost time.

You're definitely not complaining.

His hand curls possessively against the small of your back like he’s anchoring himself to reality.

The kiss deepens, lazily at first, like you’ve got all the time in the world to explore each other. You taste mint and beer and Eddie. His other hand slides up your spine, fingertips pressing through the fabric of your shirt as if he’s trying to memorize every vertebrae.

When you pull back, it’s only because your lungs revolt. His eyes are half-lidded and glazed, a little dazed, lips kiss-swollen in the best way.

"Okay," you whisper, nose brushing his. "You win."

"I always win,” he breathes, smug and wrecked. “Even when I lose. That’s the trick.”

You laugh and nudge his chest, but you don’t move to get up. The laundry is long forgotten. The magazines are a sad pile on the floor, the kind of mess that might’ve mortified you in another lifetime- but not here. Not with him.

Because somehow, this feels like the most natural thing in the world… sprawled across his bed in the middle of the afternoon, tangled up in each other, surrounded by the evidence of his deeply embarrassing, very horny crush on you.

“What now?” you ask, voice soft.

He shrugs beneath you, eyes never leaving yours. “Now I never leave you alone in my room again.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely was,” he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You saw everything. I mean, you’ve been in the literal trenches of my shame. You dug through the archives, sweetheart.”

You press your cheek against his chest, grinning as his heartbeat thumps just a little faster. “And yet… still here.”

Eddie exhales like that fact both bewilders and humbles him. “You’re unreal, you know that?”

You hum, content. “Yeah. But you’re the one hoarding porn of women that look like me.”

“God, you’ll never let that go.”

“Not in a million years, Munson.”

And he doesn’t even fight it.

He just laughs again- loud, happy, helpless, and kisses the top of your head.

Eddie’s got a dish towel over his shoulder like he’s running a five-star kitchen and not just manning the stove in a Crue t-shirt with a questionable hole near the hem.

He’s in a mood, too- flipping grilled cheese like he’s auditioning for a cooking show only he knows about. “Alright, sweetheart, you handle the laundry whites, I’ll handle the culinary cheddar. Lunch will be served in-” he checks a clock that isn’t even there, “-fifteen minutes or less, or your meal is free.”

“You know this isn’t a pizza place, right?” you say, hauling a basket of mixed laundry toward the hallway.

He just smirks. “Not yet.”

You roll your eyes and disappear down the hall, muttering something about “delusions of a Lunchables king.”

Once inside the laundry room, you set up shop. Shirt sleeves pushed up, detergent cap filled, you’re halfway into the familiar rhythm before your brows start pulling together.

Socks. Shirts. Bras. Shirts. Hoodies. Towels.

Huh…

You frown, reaching deeper into the basket.

Where the hell are all your panties?

You rifle through it again, like maybe they’re playing dead at the bottom, but nope. Not even the ugly ones with the sad elastic and cartoon ghosts. Gone.

A confused laugh slips out. “That’s... weird.”

You check the washer drum. Empty. You check under the basket. Just lint and a rogue dryer sheet.

Okay, now it’s suspiciously weird.

You pad back to the kitchen where Eddie’s plating up sandwiches with a flourish like he just nailed a Michelin-starred flip. “Voilà. Lunch for the lady of the house.”

You give him a look.

He gives you one right back. “What?”

“Not to derail your Frugal Gourmet moment, but I’m missing some... articles of clothing.”

He blinks. “What, like socks?”

“Like panties.”

He pauses. Very still. Like a raccoon caught rifling through a trash can.

“Panties?”

“Mm-hmm.” You cross your arms. “And not just one or two. Like, several.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then two.

Then Eddie shrugs, completely unfazed. “Okay, first off, I deny everything. Second, I demand photographic evidence that they ever even existed.”

You deadpan. “Eddie.”

He holds up his hands in mock defense. “Look, maybe they’re hiding. Maybe your panties have unionized. Ever think of that? Revolting against the tyranny of the spin cycle?”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re an idiot.”

“And yet, somehow, still not in possession of any of your underwear that doesn’t belong to me.”

Your eyes narrow. “Are you saying you are in possession of some that do?”

He gives you a wink that is far too smug for a man standing next to a sandwich and a spatula.

You groan. “Unbelievable.”

“Hey,” he says, stepping closer, voice softening with that boyish grin that always spells trouble. “If it was me, I promise I’d only keep the cute ones.”

You smack his arm, but your grin’s already giving you away.

Eddie pulls you in tight to his side, he leans into the contact like you just handed him a gold star, smug and satisfied. “You hit like a girl,” he says, nuzzling his nose against your temple for a quick second before pulling back to inspect your expression. “Mmhmm. That’s the grin of a woman who knows I’m trouble but still lets me cook her lunch.”

“You’re trouble, alright,” you say, hopping up onto the counter opening a drink. “Someday I’m gonna figure out how exactly.”

He snickers at that, hands braced on the counter beside you. “You keep trying, sweetheart. Just don’t be too shocked when you realize I’m a puzzle you’ll never solve.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t cheat at puzzles.”

Eddie grins, but there’s a flash of something behind his eyes. A flicker of mischievous panic. Because he knows damn well there’s something you haven’t figured out yet- and he’s on borrowed time.

Eddie waits until you’re humming to yourself in the hallway, sorting lights from darks, before he makes his move.

He slides into his bedroom like a man on a covert mission, already dropping to the floor beside his bed. The cardboard box is still there- his secret stash of your underwear, tucked carefully under a stack of old guitar magazines and one very dusty D&D Monster Manual. He opens it just enough to check that the contents are still safe, gently adjusting a pair of pale blue cotton ones like they’re a damn crown jewel.

He shouldn’t have kept them.

He knows that.

But there’s something weirdly comforting about having them- his favorites, the ones he always noticed in the laundry, the ones that smell just a little bit like your fabric softener and a lot like you.

He presses the lid back down, glancing over his shoulder like you might appear at the doorway. "She’s suspicious."

Time to relocate.

With practiced, quiet movements, he slips the box into the back of his closet, under a pile of flannels and the blankets he stole last winter and brought with him when he moved in. If you find them there, he’ll deserve the death glare. But if you don't?

Well… then maybe he gets to hang onto this silly little hoard for a while longer.

He shuts the closet with a gentle click, then straightens his shirt and slinks back into the hall like nothing’s happened at all.

“Babe,” he calls casually, “you want me to make you another grilled cheese for round two or are we committing to cereal crimes for lunch?”

From down the hall, you call back, “Grilled cheese, obviously. You think I trust your cereal ratios?”

Eddie snorts. “You wound me.”

But his grin stays as he walks back to the kitchen- because for now, the soft cotton treasure trove is safe, and you’re still none the wiser.

Eddie’s halfway through buttering another slice of bread when he hears you holler.

"Uh, Eddie? Can you come here?"

He freezes mid-spread, eyebrows lifting. Something in your voice- it’s not urgent, but it’s got that “I did something kinda dumb” flavor he knows all too well. He tosses the knife in the sink, wipes his hands on his shirt like it’ll help, and heads toward the laundry room with the casual swagger of a man unaware he's about to live through a wet dream in 4K.

And then he sees you.

Half of you, anyway.

Your ass and legs are sticking straight out of the dryer like some cursed fairy tale where the princess gets trapped in a Maytag. Your upper body is wedged deep into the drum, feet kicking slightly as you grunt and curse under your breath.

Eddie blinks. Then stares.

Then blinks again.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “There’s no way this is happening.”

You twist a little, trying to back out. “My hair’s stuck, Eddie. Seriously, can you-”

But he’s already leaning in the doorway, arms folded, grin blooming like it’s payday at the sarcasm bank.

“Well well well,” he drawls, voice laced with pure evil. “Now where have I seen this exact scenario before?”

“Eddie.”

“‘Oh no, step-brother Eddie, I’m stuck!’” he mimics in a breathy voice, biting his lip dramatically. “You need help, sweet cheeks? Or were you hoping I’d come in here and ruin you?”

“I swear to god, if you make this into a porn joke-”

“Oh, too late. Way too late,” he says, already circling behind you like a shark that smells blood. His hand caresses over the back of your thigh, featherlight, as if just checking for ‘injuries,’ the bastard. “Damn shame I left the camera in the van. Missed opportunity.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I’m your asshole,” he says, hand slipping a little higher now, just enough to make your breath catch. “And I gotta say, baby, if this is a ploy to spice things up in the laundry room? I’m into it.”

You groan against the dryer drum. “I was just trying to get something stuck in the back. I thought maybe it was one of my missing-ow! Okay, seriously, can you help?”

He kneels further behind you, hands stroking gently over your hips like he’s evaluating how best to pull you out- or how much more teasing he can get away with before you kill him.

“Alright, alright. I’ll save you from the big bad dryer,” he says, leaning in to carefully untangle the lock caught on a jagged edge near the vent. “But just so you know, you’ve now fulfilled the fantasy of, like, half the internet. Congratulations.”

You mutter something incoherent, face still buried in darkness.

“The damsel in distress,” he says with a martyred sigh, like he’s really sacrificing something here. “But only because you’re cute, and I like my skin attached to my body.”

You squirm as his fingers brush your waist, as he reaches inside, trying to carefully free your hair from whatever demonic lint trap nightmare has decided to play jailer today. “Be gentle,” you mutter, voice muffled.

“I’m always gentle,” he says automatically- then pauses. “Well. Mostly gentle. Gentle-adjacent.”

“Eddie.”

“Okay, okay, I’m being good. Look at me, so helpful, so heroic-ow, dammit.” He yanks his hand back with a wince. “Okay, that’s sharp. What the hell is even in this dryer? Industrial teeth?”

“I think it’s part of the vent,” you groan, shifting again. “Can you just-ugh… pull me by my hips a little? Carefully.”

“Oh baby,” Eddie murmurs, hands already sliding to your hips, “you know I live for an invitation like that.”

You kick back at him, but it’s more affectionate than anything else. He just laughs, low and warm, and braces himself before giving a gentle tug.

And just like that- fwomp… you’re free, tumbling backward right into his lap with a yelp as he catches you both.

You’re panting, disheveled, red-cheeked, and glaring at him with everything but heat vision. Eddie, meanwhile, looks like Christmas came early and brought porn tropes with it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, brushing hair out of your face. “That was not sexy.”

“Speak for yourself,” he grins, arms still around you. “That was hot. I feel like I need a cigarette and a high-five from a pervy angel.”

You shove at him with a snort, but he keeps holding you, pressing a kiss to your temple with that maddening tenderness that always slips in when you least expect it. “You’re okay?” he asks quietly, just for a second, voice sobering.

You meet his eyes and nod, and he softens even more, nose bumping yours affectionately.

“Cool. Because now that you’re not stuck anymore,” he grins again, full menace returning, “I have so many jokes ready for later.”

You groan, shoving your face into his shoulder. “Please don’t.”

“Oh I absolutely will. ‘Dryer booty trap’ is going in the scrapbook, sweetheart.”

You laugh, because how can you not? He’s ridiculous. He’s awful.

He’s yours for the taking.

Damn intrusive thought…

Eddie chuckles softly, brushing a kiss to your temple. “For real though, you sure you’re okay?” He asks while examining your hair for any damage.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Just humiliated. And slightly concerned you’re gonna try to reenact this next laundry day.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, running his fingers through your hair and giving your butt a playful smack, “we are absolutely reenacting this next laundry day.”

Once you're upright again, you shoot him a flat look. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”

He grins, smug as hell. “Nope. Not in this life or the next. Might even put a warning label on the dryer.”

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you against him, and noses at your neck. “Now come on, lunch is getting cold. And after that little dryer escapade, you owe me- big time, for restraining myself.”

You raise a brow. “Oh yeah? How so, exactly?”

He smirks. “Emotional damages. Trauma. Being denied the full ‘stuck-girl’ experience.”

You shove him, but it’s half-hearted. “You’re unbelievably dumb.”

“Mm, but you love it.”

Unfortunately… you really do.

And damn it, he knows it.

Later, when the sun starts to dip, Eddie finally peels himself away to help you actually finish the laundry. You work together like a well-oiled machine… he folds terribly, you refold when he’s not looking, and he hums along to background music with a casual ease that makes your heart ache.

You tuck the last of the socks into his drawer and turn to see him standing there, arms crossed, watching you like you hung the stars just for him.

It’s domestic. It’s absurd. It’s real.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be tagged! And to which fandom. (Bayverse TMNT, Vegeta, Eddie Munson).

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55

Masterlist

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 55

Part 1 Part 54

Alright, tell me what’s going on with you.” Dr. Owens says, smiling down at Will all genially. Steve doesn’t trust it. “Tell me about this episode you had?”

Will shifts his eyes over to Steve, looking guilty and small. Steve reaches out across his own bed to grab Will’s hand, squeezing lightly until he turns back to the doctor. “I was on Mirkwood–” he starts, shifting his eyes toward Steve guiltily before darting them back. “I heard this noise, and it was like I was back there.”

“What were you doing on Mirkwood, honey?” Ms. Byers asks, eyebrows furrowed as she holds onto Will’s other hand.

Will’s eyes shift again, transparently guilty as he says, “I was just with Steve.” When Ms. Byers looks his way, Steve nods, and Will slumps bonelessly into his bed.

The doctor’s staring intently at Will’s face, like he’s trying to dissect every microexpression, looking for cracks. , the paper spitting out of Will’s machine, needle thing writing its squiggly lines at an alarming pace. “Did you see anything?”

Will looks down at his knees, bare beneath his tissue paper hospital gown. “No,” he says it quietly, almost ashamed. “I don’t think anything really happened. I was just scared.”

Steve squeezes his hand again. He lets his heart bloom when Will squeezes back.

“Alright,” Dr. Owens says, smiling that same untrustworthy smile, “thanks for sharing, kiddo.”

They’re shuffled out of the exam room in short order, left abandoned on benches in the hallway like children while Uncle Wayne and Ms. Byers have the adult conversations. Even though Eddie’s long learned Uncle Wayne will tell him word for word what he was told, Eddie’s still made a habit of pushing his ear against the door, catching snippets of conversation where he can while Steve and Eddie giggle at his antics.

This time, his face goes serious, dimples nonexistent with the straight slash of his mouth as he eyes the door like he’s going to wrench it open and start beating someone.

“Eddie?” Steve calls quietly, not wanting to draw attention to his sleuthing.

Eddie looks his way, face grim. He eavesdrops a few seconds more before slinking back over to Steve and Will, jamming his ass in the nonexistent space between them.

“What did they say?” Will says. Steve leans forward to look at him around Eddie’s big head. His eyes are big and wide. He looks scared.

“It’s all bullshit,” Eddie says, shifting on the hard bench. “I didn’t hear it all, but they said it’s gonna get worse because the anniversary of, uh, you know is coming up.”

He doesn’t look at Will when he says it, though. He’s looking directly at Steve, and Steve knows they’re both thinking of the same thing. The looming shadows, the thing he’s caught glimpses of, towering over buildings, eclipsing the sky. The way he’s there less and less as the days pass.

Eddie’d taken away his keys the week before, and it was supposed to get worse?

“–and we’re just supposed to pretend it’s not happening?”

Ms. Byers voice drifts through the door, high-pitched in her stress. Will’s shoulders hunch until Eddie wraps an arm around them and pulls him in. He holds his other arm open behind Steve’s back, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively until Steve leans in with a roll of his eyes.

Eddie squeezes them both tight enough Steve can feel it in his deep tissue and begins shaking them around like a dog with his favorite toy. “There! One big happy family!”

When Will starts laughing, Steve does, too. He can’t help it. There’s just something about Eddie Munson that makes him feel like he swallowed fizzy lifting drink and can’t get off the ceiling of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

But then Uncle Wayne and Ms. Byers walk through the door. Uncle Wayne looks as deadpan as usual, but Ms. Byers looks one second away from her head exploding.

“Is he serious?” she asks, running her hand through her hair, yanking it the rest of the way through when it gets stuck on a knot. Steve winces, scalp tingling in sympathy.

“Anniversary affects a real thing,” he says, looking down at all three of them with pensive eyes that settle on Steve a little too long for him to be comfortable. “It’s as good a ‘planation as anything, ain’t it?”

Ms. Byers sighs. She sweeps her eyes over all three of them, looking remarkably like Jonathan in that moment with the way her eyes go intense and seem to look right through you to the secret heart of who you are.

Seeming to come back to life, she hops up to them and holds out two hands. “Come on, sweeties, up we go!”

Will and Eddie take her hands without hesitation, and she begins to pull them up. Eddie’s arm stays around Steve’s shoulders, so he’s pulled up along with them. Ms. Byers almost falls with the combined weight of three growing boys before Eddie drops her hand, laughing sheepishly as he stands on his own two feet.

“Come on, boys,” Uncle Wayne says, leading the way down the hallway. “Some of us have got places to be.”

They all fall in line, hurrying out of the building they all hate. Steve doesn’t breathe easy until they're all packed away into Wayne’s truck and well into the forest. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and all that other shit Eddie’s always spouting off that Steve only pretends to understand.

Eddie rubs the pulsepoint of Steve’s wrist gently enough to make him shiver before taking his hand and letting them settle in the cramped space between their legs.

And miles to go before he sleeps, Steve squeezes Eddie’s hand.

Part 56

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect

[pixel-knights]

Fritz/Matthew one shot fic

I may not be able to draw, but I can write!! (debatable). So enjoy a short little Matthew and Fritz fic. posted here on tumblr, because I am not on AO3.

looking at my still not finished, multi chapter jam fic I haven forgot you baby…

The infirmary in Sasau wasn't anything special, a single room for the patients, clearly not designed for a tragedy like this. The room was helplessly filled with the wounded; those who were stable enough were laid outside. Not out of cruelty, but out of desperation. The two monks were doing the best they could. When Johanka, God may bless her soul, offered her help, they were more than happy to accept. Fritz was relieved that nothing happened to her. He would be lying when he said that they were close; she was more a friend of Theresa and Matthias than his. But still he was glad anyone made it out unharmed. Silently praying that Theresa, Matthias, and Henry made it as well. The two young men he hadn't seen during the attack; he had no idea if they even made it out of Skalitz. The last time he saw Theresa, they left her at the mines with her barely alive brother. Fritz was in no way a medicus; some may argue he was barely intelligent enough to think on his own, but even he could tell that Samuel wouldn't make it anyway.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Matthew stirring next to him, trying to shift away from him a little, without much success. „God, you are radiating more heat than the sun, Fritz. As if I wasn't sweating already,“ he mumbled. Fritz would have taken that personally any other day, but he could understand his friend. The room wasn't very big and was filled with hot bodies, plagued with fever. Causing a humidity in the room that made your clothes stick to your skin. They were only inside because Fritz himself developed a slight fever from the wound on his stomach; the slash on his temple was less severe but still stung every time a drop of sweat made its way to it. Matthew seemed to have no serious outside wounds, but he fell while they were running, unable to put much weight on his right foot, and his left side started to show a deep purple spot where he was hit by one of these savages at the mine, the same one that stabbed Fritz. Now surely in hell after Fritz put a pickaxe through his chest.

The other man's complaint about his body heat soon changed, however. Once Fritz's fever was gone and they were sure that Matthew hadn't hurt any organs, they were put outside. To make room for the next fever patients. Now Matthew was sticking close, trying to warm himself at night. Looking strangely content when pressing his back to Fritz's arm, causing the latter to flinch at the sudden coldness. An action that would earn them a quiet chuckle from Johanka and a raised eyebrow from the younger monk. But no one talked about it. Once they felt a bit better, they sneaked some met. The young monk, Elias, joined them. At first, it was lighthearted. The two Skalitz men are talking about childhood shenanigans. But then Elias made a dumb decision. He leaned closer to Matthew. „Your friend isn't the sharpest tool, is he?“ He said with a hushed voice. The other man's face turned sour at that. „Awfully rich, coming from a guy who has been here for a long time and yet still knows less about healing than a refugee woman who came here a few days ago.“It was something he did ever since they were children, getting short-tempered whenever someone insulted his friend's intelligence. A fact that made Fritz's heart swell. Sure, Matthew calls him a dumbass every now and then, but there is no bite behind those words. Fritz knows that; he also knows that he is a bit slow. But that doesn't mean that the words don't hurt him nonetheless. His friend knows that, so he defends him, even when it is being said behind his back.

Matthew's sharp tongue clearly hit a nerve. „Hey! I was only joking; no need to get personal,“ the young monk snapped back. „Why are you getting so worked up about it?“ a pause, then: „Is it because he keeps you warm at night?“ A remark made by an alcohol-loosened tongue. Referring to the fact that Matthew sticks close to his friends heat at night, but with an insinuating undertone. Making the other man freeze for a moment with disbelief. Now that didn't sit right with Fritz. Getting up so fast that he shoved the table back into both Matthew and Elias. His fist making contact with the pale monk's face, he yelped. Matthew didn't join in, but he also did nothing to stop the other man. Just looking on as his friends hit the frailer man over and over again. The tumult alerted Johanka, who ran towards them, her voice shrill. „Good heavens, Fritz! Stop!“Others came to help, and soon the two friends found themselves sitting outside the inn with a nice little debt on both their backs, no groschen, and no place to sleep now. "I'm not going to put out for you just because you defended my honor. Just so you know." Fritz gave a halfhearted laugh at his friend's statement, who flashed him a crooked smile.

They fell silent for a while, not sure what to do now. „It was kind of nice.“ Matthew began, and Fritz gave him a confused look. „Reminiscing about our childhood,“ he continued. „We never really did that.“ Looking at his hands now, pressing into a bruise there. „Mhm, I guess we never really had a reason for it.“ The other man agreed. A smile made its way to Matthew's face as he looked at him again. The kind of smile that made his heart race just a little faster. „You used to collect the teeth of the kids you roughed up.“ A chuckle escaped Fritz's mouth as he remembered it. „You made a necklace out of them and gave it to me to cheer me up when I lost another fight. Do you remember?“ Groaning embarrassedly, Fritz hid his reddening face in his hands. Of course he remembered, but he didn't think his friend would.. Matthew struggled to put on body mass as a child, so he often lost when the other boys started fights. This changed once he had a growth spurt, but they didn't know that yet. So he thought sharing his trophies would cheer his friend up. Matthew looked so happy back then, smiling and holding the necklace as if it were a holy relic.He would be lying when he said he did it without ulterior motives. Truth be told, he liked him more than a friend, even back then. Seeing him so happy at something Fritz made for him made his heart skip a few beats. „I still have it“ He kept it? This made his heart race even faster, filled it with hope. Looking at the other man he found that his face turned sad. „well, had it. Now it's burried somewhere in the ashes of my home...“ He fell silent again, Fritz didn't know what to say. So he only put a comforting hand on the others shoulder.

Henry made it out alive; Fritz couldn't have been happier. He found them a job, settled their debt at the infirmary, made peace between him and Elias, and even helped them with foreman Thomas. The bastard. Throwing him into the river like that, he could have drowned if it weren't for the others who pulled him out. He shook from the cold water as well as with anger as Matthew patted him down with a rag. Henry, ever the peacemaker, tried to resolve everything with words. But when that failed, he had at least joined them during the brawl between them and Thomas. Neither Henry nor Matthew were very happy about this outcome, but Fritz was thrilled with it. Looking at the broken teeth on the floor, the aftermath of their fight. A thought crossed his mind: stuffing the teeth in his pocket before joining his friends again. Things settled at the mill, but Fritz still found plenty of time to get his fill of flying fists at the tavern. Making sure to pick up every tooth he could find. Once their work at the mill was done and they were on the road again, he added the teeth of poached game to his collection.

They sat around a fire at the edge of a forest somewhere between Sasau and Talmberg. Making their way to an inn, they heard they had a well-paid job waiting. Fritz shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the teeth in his pocket, now strung together by a thin cord. Matthew noticed it. "Are you okay? Ate something funny?“ He asked, slightly concerned. The other man cleared his throat nervously, earning him a curious eyebrow raise. „I...I've...got something for you.“ He began, stuttering a bit. "You better not burp into my face again.“ That managed to loosen the tension in Fritz's shoulders a bit. „Oh, come on, that was once!“ He laughed. „No, it's not a burp.“ More nervous again, he finally pulled out the string with teeth from his pocket. „Here,“ he said quietly. The necklace was in no way perfect; he made do with what he had. His friend stared at the gift, face unreadable. „Well, you looked kind of sad when you told me that you lost the one I made as a kid, and I thought...you know...forget it… That was a stupid idea...this is dumb. It was cute when we were kids, but now—“ His stammering was stopped by the other man putting his arm around his neck. Pulling him into an awkward half hug, as they were still sitting next to each other on the floor. A soft whisper touched his ear: „Thank you.“ With that, Matthew pulled back again, taking the necklace out of his hand. Admiring it awhile in the glow of the fire. "...Did you wash the teeth?“ He asked hesitantly, and Fritz chuckled and nodded. His friend let out a relieved sigh before putting his new jewelry around his neck, tucking it into his shirt. Making sure he would not lose it. Silence settled between them again, but Fritz could still hear his heart beating in his ears. „Soooo...you gonna put out now?“ He asked in an attempt to lighten the mood, trying to get rid of this weird energy lingering between them. But he immediately froze when he felt the other man's fingers brushing his lightly. Looking at his friend, he found him flashing him a less than coy smile, head slightly turned to the side. Heat traveled both up and downwards as Matthew started to lean into him.

[creepinonmen]

On a sweltering evening at Laguna Coffee Company, 22-year-old Paxton Morgan carved through his shift, his teal t-shirt fused to his lean, sweat-soaked torso with a slick, cottony vice, the fabric’s soft weave straining over his rippling muscles, glistening with rivulets of perspiration that carved jagged trails down his chest like molten wax. His bell-bottom jeans, a vivid cobalt blue, clamped his hips with a rigid, denim stranglehold, the coarse threads shredding his thighs with a gritty, sandpaper rasp, the flared legs thrashing with a heavy, fabric-laden drag that roared like a tempest against his calves. In the shadowed corner, a middle-aged man with hands like cracked, sun-baked leather felt the smooth, frigid grain of his chair’s armrest biting into his palms, his gnarled fingers quivering with a feral itch as he devoured Paxton with his gaze. This sociopathic serial killer’s senses erupted with a savage memory of the 1970s—Bo Duke’s snug jeans slithering across his grainy TV screen like a serpent in his youth, the brittle, yellowed pages of library books on John Wayne Gacy and William Bonin disintegrating under his fingertips like ash, their tales of unrestrained slaughter of young men like Paxton igniting a dark, textured inferno that scorched his soul.

Over the next days, the killer stalked Paxton, the jagged, pebbled crunch of gravel pulverizing the worn rubber soles of his sneakers like crushed bone, the coarse, gritty sand of the beach path flaying his feet with each step, his hands clawing the rough, frayed edge of his jacket until the fabric gnawed into his flesh. On the chosen night, a thick fog engulfed him, its damp, velvety tendrils coiling around him like a living shroud, the sodden fabric of his clothes suffocating his skin as he parked his rusted van, its flaking paint crumbling under his touch like dried blood. The side door’s rusted metal edge gouged his palm with a jagged, flaky slash as he wrenched it open, the hinges’ gritty resistance grinding his knuckles raw with a banshee’s wail. Inside, the crinkled blue tarp gleamed with a slick, waxy menace under his boots, its plasticky surface slick with a chilling sheen, the handcuffs’ frigid, smooth steel searing his calluses with an icy brand as he unhooked them, the rope’s bristly, knotted fibers slashing his skin like barbed wire, and the duct tape’s tacky, adhesive surface gluing to his fingers with a viscous, tar-like pull as he prepared.

As Paxton approached, his boots slammed the asphalt with a thunderous, rubbery impact that shuddered the earth, the key’s jagged metal edge slicing his soft palm with a crimson nick. The killer waited, his heart hammering a frenzied, pulsating war drum against his ribcage, the damp fog’s clammy tendrils choking his sleeves with a wet, suffocating weight. When Paxton turned to unlock his car, the killer erupted, his sinewy forearm clamping around Paxton’s throat with a tight, leathery vise, the boy’s warm, pulse-throbbing skin slithering against his bicep like molten silk over steel, his limp body collapsing under the killer’s coarse, iron grip as he hauled him into the van. The tarp’s slick, plasticky surface slithered under Paxton’s cheek with a greasy, serpentine glide as the killer flung him face-down, the fabric’s crinkled texture shrieking with a dry, papery scrape that echoed like a death knell, the side door’s slam detonating through his bones with a hollow, metallic thunderclap. The handcuffs clicked around Paxton’s wrists with a cold, unyielding snap, the metal’s smooth edges carving into his tender flesh with a sharp, icy gash as he stirred, a groan rumbling from his chest like a subterranean growl. The killer jammed a musty rag into Paxton’s mouth, the stale cotton’s rough, dusty texture shredding his tongue with a sandy, abrasive scour, then wound duct tape around his head, the adhesive’s tacky pull flaying his skin with a stinging, velvety slash that left a raw, weeping trail, muting his cries into a muffled, guttural roar.

Sitting behind him, the killer crushed Paxton’s trembling back against his chest, the heat of their bodies colliding in a sweaty, satin-like inferno that fused their skin together, the boy’s frantic heartbeat battering his ribs with a rapid, fleshy pulse like a caged beast’s thrashing. He yanked a thick plastic bag from his pocket, its crinkling, brittle surface slicing his fingertips with a jagged edge as he slipped it over Paxton’s head, the plastic’s smooth, clingy texture suctioning to his face with a wet, adhesive smack that sealed his breath in a suffocating embrace. Paxton’s legs thrashed, the flared jeans scraping against the tarp with a harsh, burlap-like friction that rasped like a saw on wood, his boots pounding the van’s walls with a leathery thud that boomed like cannon fire, the soles’ smooth leather scuffing the metal with a rough, abrasive grind that gouged jagged, bleeding scars. The killer held firm, feeling the boy’s struggles wane, his body slumping with a final, shuddering collapse against his chest, the bag’s removal leaving a clammy, filmy residue on his hands like the slime of a predator’s lair as he drove off, the van’s wheel’s gritty texture vibrating under his grip with a shuddering, bone-rattling hum.

In the garage, the concrete’s cold, porous bite lashed his boots with a gritty, stinging scour as he dragged Paxton—his breaths a ragged, wheezing rasp that rasped like torn flesh—into the house, the floorboards’ splintered, woody texture splintering under their weight with a creaking groan that split the air. Tossing him onto the bed, the springs shrieked with a sharp, coiled resistance that twanged like a tortured harp string, the mattress’s dusty, nubby surface prickling Paxton’s skin with a thousand searing stabs. The killer’s fingers clamped the Polaroid camera, its plastic casing slick with a greasy film that oozed under his touch, the flash’s heat branding his palm with a blistering sear as it captured Paxton’s terror-stricken face in a blinding, volcanic burst. Ripping the duct tape off, the adhesive tore at Paxton’s skin with a raw, velvety yank that left a stinging, peeled-raw gash, his pleas vibrating against the killer’s ears with a desperate, trembling wail that echoed like a banshee’s cry. Bending Paxton over the bed’s edge, the killer’s rough, calloused hands clawed the tight jeans down, the denim’s stiff, threadbare texture rasping with a gritty drag against his thighs, the fabric snagging on the coarse hairs of his legs with a tugging, tearing scrape as it peeled away, exposing the cool, goosebumped flesh beneath, quivering under the killer’s gritty, sandpaper-like grip. The rope garrote’s coarse, hempen fibers bit into Paxton’s neck with a gritty, blood-warm abrasion that burrowed into his windpipe like splintered bone, the tension sending a shiver of rough, jagged texture through the killer’s hands. With a brutal, savage thrust, the killer raped him, the bedframe’s splintered wood creaking with a tortured, fibrous groan that splintered the air like cracking timber, the mattress’s lumpy surface shifting under Paxton’s weight with a gritty, grinding crunch. The killer’s hands seized Paxton’s hips, the boy’s skin slick with sweat and fear, the friction of their contact raw and searing like coarse, burning sand, his muscles clenching involuntarily around the killer’s hard cock, the rigid, pulsating heat driving into him with a forceful, velvet-sheathed thrust that intensified the killer’s sensation with each grinding, flesh-rending push. The rope’s texture tightened further, the fibers cutting deeper with a jagged, tearing bite that drew blood, Paxton’s gasps turning to a wet, choking gurgle that vibrated against the killer’s palms with a slick, mucous-like tremor, his body’s final spasms sending a ripple of coarse, spasmodic friction through the act like a storm’s fury. The killer’s climax erupted with a guttural, primal roar that tore from his throat like a lion’s bellow, the release a hot, pulsing surge that flooded against Paxton’s trembling form with a sticky, searing torrent, the boy’s life draining in a final, sodden rattle that faded into the mattress’s dusty, threadbare weave like a dying echo. Stripping the limp body, the killer dragged it outside, the cool earth packed into the pre-dug hole with a heavy, loamy thud that compacted under his hands like wet cement, the soil’s damp, silty grit coating his fingers with a cloying, earthy smear as he buried Paxton, erasing the night’s tactile atrocities beneath a shroud of silence.

[livslunaticdamiansdisciple18]

Last Shot at Survival! WWEXTWDXOC

Chapter/Chapitre Un (1)

Warnings: Mature themes, Violence, etc.

Word Count: 530

A/N: This is a crossover fic that I thought of while watching The Walking Dead last night I hope you all enjoy it. Let's get into it.

Marissa Cole Bentley is your name.

Marissa Cole didn’t think today would be anything but normal. She was down to her last few canned goods at home, and the trip to the grocery store was supposed to be quick—grab, pay, leave.

The fluorescent lights in the store flickered as she moved down the aisles, her boots lightly scuffing against the linoleum. Marissa adjusted the crossbow strapped to her back. In a world this crazy, she didn’t go anywhere without it anymore.

It had started slow. A few missing persons reports. People disappearing from small towns. Then came the videos—people biting other people. The government said it was “contained.”

It wasn’t.

Marissa was tossing a bag of rice into her basket when she heard the first scream.

Spinning around, her heart racing, she saw the front doors of the store wide open. A woman was dragged down the sidewalk, clawing at the ground. Blood smeared across the glass doors.

Walkers.

The store erupted into chaos. Shoppers abandoned their carts and ran. Marissa ducked behind a shelf, her instincts kicking in. She reached for the crossbow, loading it quickly. She peeked over and spotted a group of people—four of them, cornered near the deli section, trying to fend off the growing horde pushing into the building.

Her eyes widened as she recognized them.

Roman Reigns. Seth Rollins. Liv Morgan. And Drew McIntyre.

“Are you kidding me?” she muttered under her breath. Of all the days to meet WWE Superstars…

A Walker lunged at Seth from the side. Without thinking, Marissa raised her crossbow and fired. The bolt whistled through the air and hit the Walker square in the skull. It crumpled instantly.

The wrestlers spun toward her, stunned.

“Move!” she shouted, motioning them toward a nearby stockroom.

Roman didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Liv’s arm and dragged her with him, while Drew and Seth followed, fighting off Walkers with whatever they could grab—a steel deli tray, a broomstick.

Marissa pulled her hunting knife from her belt as another Walker got too close. She ducked low, slashing its knees first before driving the blade into its temple. Blood splattered across her face, but she didn’t flinch.

Once everyone was inside the stockroom, Marissa slammed the door shut and jammed a metal bar through the handle.

Everyone was breathing heavily, adrenaline running high.

“Who the hell are you?” Drew asked, his Scottish accent thick with disbelief.

“Marissa Cole,” she said, wiping blood from her face with her sleeve. “And you’re welcome.”

Roman stepped forward, sizing her up. “You know how to handle yourself.”

Marissa cocked her head at him, cocky. “Better than you, apparently.”

Seth laughed under his breath, shaking his head. Liv, wide-eyed but steady, asked, “What are they? Zombies?”

Marissa loaded another bolt into her crossbow. “I don’t know what they are. But they don’t stop until you destroy the brain.”

Drew swore under his breath. Seth ran his hand through his hair.

Roman nodded, grimly accepting it. “Then we fight.”

Marissa smirked. “Damn right we do.”

Outside the stockroom, the groans and scratching of dozens of Walkers filled the air, and Marissa tightened her grip on her weapon.

The world had ended. And this was just the beginning.

-I hope you guys enjoyed this! I had fun writing it. I love you guys so so so so so much. <33333

[criticalrolo]

who wants to read about Hal having the worst day of his life! Arty and Halion's first meeing (Arty belongs to @actionsurges, thanks for letting me bounce my guy off of yours)

dissonance || Halion & Arty, 2.6K

Hal can’t see. 

That’s not exactly right – his eyes are open. All his eyes are open. The world is completely flooded with ultraviolet light that blocks out everything else around him. There must be something out there beyond the all-consuming radiant light, but it’s so bright that his head feels like someone has reached in and squeezed his brain in a vice-like grip that just won’t let go.

And then there’s the screaming.

It’s a constant, high-pitched shriek echoing in his mind. For a moment, he worries that it belongs to Elwa, that she’s being hurt somewhere. But as it goes on, it sounds closer to a child’s voice, desperate and terrified. The sound reverberates around him, pitching and rolling and coming from all directions, but always at that same agonized pitch. Covering his ears does nothing – it takes him a while to remember how to raise his hands up to find them, and when he finally does the screaming almost seems to intensify. 

He starts to wonder if it’s just one voice, and how it can go on for so long without stopping for air. The longer it stays at the same pitch, the less it sounds like screaming, and the more it sounds like singing. A chorus of voices, in perfect unison, tuned to the same piercing note forever. 

He’d try to fall to his knees, if he could remember how. He’s gone completely blank except for the constant, overwhelming need to make it stop.

Distantly, a handful of words trickle into his mind. Maybe their sound waves are just different enough to register underneath all the noise, he’s not exactly sure, but he thinks he hears the words “what did you do,” a laugh that sends a bolt of adrenaline through him, and “replacement.” The scream rolls on, and he wonders if his ears are bleeding. Or if he still has ears at all. 

Something shifts in the light. It’s not that he can make out any details – more like he can see a shadow where the light used to be more intense. It’s vaguely humanoid in shape, although it towers over him by a full foot at least. The light still blinds him, but he thinks something like an arm reaches out to touch him.

His mind locks onto the movement like a rabid dog clamping down on a limb and refusing to let go. Something instinctive at the base of his brain says that stopping the shadow goes hand in hand with escape, and before he has time to register what he’s doing, he’s lashed out at the shadow faster than even he thought possible.

He must be holding something in his left hand, because he rams it through the shadow with all the strength he can muster. 

Something beats underneath his breastbone, around the intersection point of the Y-shaped scar carved into his chest. He remembers – Lady Seryan pushing her hands into the incision, pulling at his bones from the inside out, and his own faint voice gasping out the oath she’d drilled into his memory while the room lit up with otherworldly light. Whatever lives inside his chest is thrashing wildly, spreading out beneath his skin, racing down his arm and driving into the shadow. It staggers backwards, giving Hal an opening to jam his right hand up as well to let even more energy pour out of him.

The shadow twists, in pain or in shock, and then brings its other limb around to smash into Hal’s torso like a hammer.

The ongoing scream pulses, pounding in time to the beat of the thing crushing his heart. Hal’s head is spinning violently as he reels back, trying to duck when the shadow swings again and getting caught in the side for his trouble. He makes a sound halfway between a shout and a snarl, like a feral animal, and tries to go for the thing’s legs. He thinks he slashes it in the hip, sending out a surge of energy as he does his utmost to destroy this thing before it’s too late. 

Something whispers he’s done enough damage to kill most things in the universe, but… not enough for whatever this is. 

The shadow pulls itself free from where Hal tried to cut it in half, then grabs him around the middle. Hal jolts, terrified, as the shadow grapples him and pins his arms in a mockery of a bear hug. He writhes in the thing’s grip and grabs onto its thigh, trying one last time to smite it out of existence, but the shadow doesn’t even seem fazed. Hal tries to twist away, and it grabs the back of his skull. Before he can try anything else, it bashes his head into something solid with a sickening crack.

Hal goes limp in the shadow’s arms. Suddenly everything, even the cacophonous screaming and blinding white light, seems very far away. Underneath the screams he can hear enraged shouting that sends a shudder through him. The screaming twists and roils, coming at him from all sides, so he’s not quite sure he hears the quick “sorry!” before something smashes into his head one more time.

This time the world goes dark and still.

He wonders what Elwa would do if she was here. 

When he starts to come back around, the only high pitched ringing he hears feels natural instead of otherworldly. His eyes are closed. Just his two eyes. He spends a moment drifting in the comparable quiet before he realizes the ground is swaying beneath him because he’s being carried.

He jerks forward automatically, writhing and trying to escape.

“Woah – hey, stop, stop! You’re okay!” The arms holding him clutch him tighter.

He blinks, trying to clear his blurry vision enough to figure out what’s going on. A face swims into focus above him out of the dark. An absolute giant of a man has him hoisted in his arms, carrying him bridal style without breaking a sweat. He has shaggy brown hair, heavily scarred facial features, and green gold eyes that won’t quite meet his. Hal realizes it’s because the man is looking at the scars carved into his own face, like he’s searching for something. 

“What – ” Hal croaks, barely gasping out a sound before he’s doubling over again, choking on some strange dark fluid that bubbles up his throat and splatters out against the giant’s chest. It joins an assortment of deep red stains on the man’s coat, and Hal realizes that he is covered in blood. 

A foggy memory surfaces of an enormous shadow he’d repeatedly tried to hack to death. Hal feels the blood drain out of his face as guilt coils like a snake in his gut and starts to burn. 

“Did I hurt you?” he mumbles thickly, trying to figure out how the stranger holding him is still standing at all, and why he apparently didn’t finish the job killing Hal.

The stranger smiles, just faint enough to make the scar cutting through his top lip twitch. “Hey, it’ll take more than a few hits to kill me. I’m fine.”

He’s still coated in blood, sweat, and whatever black substance Hal just spit all over him. Hal sluggishly raises his hand and presses it over the man’s heart. Something tugs in his chest, and he feels the dredges of magical energy pass like sludge through his veins as he tries to heal the man up as much as he can in one burst.

“Oh, you don’t have to – you definitely should save that for yourself.” The man shifts to carrying him in one arm so he can pull Hal’s hand away. “You’re gonna need it if you’re gonna get out of here.”

Hal’s mind goes blank in a terrifyingly familiar way. “Get… out?” The words rattle around his skull and for a second he can’t even process what he means.

“Yeah, I’m getting you out of the Kennels. You do want to leave, right? You don’t want to stay here with Seryan, or whatever’s left over of her by the time we’re finished.” The man looks blatantly concerned, and his fingers flex tighter where they’re gripping his arms and legs.

Hal’s stomach spins like he’s in freefall, even as the stranger's arms stay locked tight around him. He hasn’t entertained the idea of leaving this place in what feels like years, but now that he’s heard the words it’s like he can’t parse anything else. He stares up at the man – his rescuer – with wide eyes and gives him a nod. He doesn’t trust his voice not to shake if he tries to speak as he’s seized by the almost physical presence of the idea of escaping. 

“Oh good, that’s going to make this way easier,” the man says, clearly relieved. He comes to a stop by a window. Glancing out through the frosted panes of glass, Hal can see it’s late at night, moonlight barely peeking through the heavy grey clouds of mist that cover Metrol. They are also somewhere close to the top of one of the remaining vermishards, several hundred feet high. 

Hal abruptly realizes he hasn’t seen the sky in years and barely stops himself from swaying as the man sets him down on his feet. His knees threaten to buckle, and fortunately the man grabs his shoulders to help him balance as he pulls himself together. 

“You all good?” he asks. Hal nods silently.

“Great. You were casting spells earlier – you have anything left in the tank that’ll get you down to the ground safely from here?”

Two nerve points on his back between his shoulder blades blaze hot at the idea of finally unfurling up high in the air like they were supposed to. He nods again.

The man unsheathes the weapon holstered at his side. Hal tamps down the instinctive urge to fight or run that flares to life and keeps himself stock still while the man shatters the window with his lance sword. 

“Once you get to the ground, keep yourself hidden while we finish this here, and then wait for me to come find you. We’ll be keeping everyone pretty distracted. If you need help, look out for members of the Unbroken. That’s the resistance movement I helped start in Metrol. You can tell them that Artorias sent you.” The man – Artorias – is searching his face for something. It takes him a moment to figure it out.

“...I’m Hal. Halion,” he says.

“Good to meet you, Hal. And…I’m sorry about this.” Artorias gives him a tired smile, and Hal wonders what on earth he thinks he has to be sorry for. “You should get out of here. I’ll see you on the other side!”

And then Artorias is running off, sprinting back towards the faint sounds of fighting drifting in from down the hallway, still only half healed and coated in blood.

The wind is howling through the broken window. Escape smells like smoke and iron from the fight behind him and the city below him.

Smoke, iron, and ozone as his wings flare to life with the sound of a thousand screaming (singing?) voices in his head and he leaps into the open air.

He’s never flown higher than ten or twenty feet. The ceilings in the basements of the Kennels weren’t high enough for Seryan to experiment with taller heights. Hurtling through wide open space is immediately far different, and for a heart-stopping second he can’t figure out how to angle his flight feathers to slow his fall at all. He whirls in the air, the wind blowing past him at a shrieking pitch, before he snaps his wings open wide and pulls himself out of free fall into a sharp descending glide. 

He’s done it. He’s out, he’s free, he –

The flash and shock wave of the explosion hit him before the sound, punching the breath out of his lungs and sending him careening wildly through the air again.

He gasps, struggling to flap hard enough to pull himself upright, but managing to twist back around to the vermishard, because he has to see what just happened. He turns just in time to see the billowing tower of smoke expelled from the gaping hole that used to be the top of the vermishard, and a tall figure in a long bloodied coat plummeting towards the ground with no way to slow his fall.

Hal lets out a choked moan as he realizes what’s happened, and blindly takes off after the figure, but without anything to slow him… Artorias drops out of sight towards the ground within a second. 

Hal can’t breathe. He’s hovering in the air, wings pumping hard to keep him in place, and he can’t breathe. If the sound of alarms from the ground and Queen’s Guard searchlights pointed up at the sky hadn’t shocked him into movement, he’s not sure he would have remembered how to move.

No one could have survived that fall. Certainly no one already battered half to death by a failed experiment lashing out blind against a hand that tried to help it.

Hal lands in a dark alley, touching the ground outside the Kennels for the first time in years.

“What did you do?” Elwa shrieks behind him. Her hands shove into the back of his neck, grabbing him and digging in her nails into his skin. He staggers, wanting nothing more than to sink to his knees and let the ground swallow him up.

“You killed him, you monster, you killed him,” she moans. “He gave you the chance to get out of hell and you killed him!”

“I know,” Hal says hoarsely. He spits out more of the black bile still coming up his throat. There’s no way he lived. He’s dead and it’s his fault. 

“You can’t go to the Unbroken now. You killed their leader. They’ll kill you too and you’ll deserve it.” Elwa’s nails are like claws, piercing through the skin of his back. 

“I know.”

He can’t go to the Unbroken. But he can’t stay here, either. The sirens are starting to ring in this sector, and already he can see lights turning on inside windows as people start to investigate what’s going on outside. Soon this whole street will be swarming with Queen’s Guards, and no matter how heavy he feels inside, he will not be returning to the Kennels in any capacity whatsoever. 

He turns towards the maze of dark alleys behind him, and runs. 

[novankenn]

Coco's Search for a WAIFU or The Purgatory of Jaune

= Sixteen = (Master Chapter List)

Jaune was still upon his bed, silent and immobile. His eyes closed as he allowed his mind wander, seeking the answers to the desires of his heart. He was finding little of use, but he continued on, searching for a direction to follow. As he continued to meditate, the final bell of the day sounded.

The instant the classes let out, Beacon's halls became choked with the crush of students trying to make their way to Training Room One. Word had passed through the student body, and not a single one wanted to miss Nikos and Adel going at it. One a champion and THE strongest of the first year combatants. The other, infamous in her own right, but arguably one of the strongest second years.

The conflict made all the juicer by the whispers that it was about a boy. It was made even more unreal when rumour mill finally made it know, who that boy was. Jaune Arc, the weakest and worst student in all the history of Beacon. Some scoffed at the notion, but it didn't dissuade them from trying to get a seat.

It didn't take long for the bleachers and the observation room to be filled to capacity, while on opposite sides of the central sparing ring, the two women in question faced each other.

Yang: As agreed. This is a SPAR! First to bring the other into the red wins. Are we synced?

Velvet: (Standing besides Coco) Yes.

Nora: (Standing next to Pyrrha) Yep.

Yang: Standard rules apply. You will give quarter if asked. Also, as agreed, I have the authority to stop this SPAR at any point I see fit. So you will listen to my instructions when given. Understood.

Pyrrha/Coco: Yes.

Yang: Everyone out of the ring. (Yang steps back out as the protective barrier is raised.) BEGIN!

Gianduja spun up as Pyrrha ducked to the side and covered herself with Akouo. A hail of dust rounds tore up the floor and slammed into Pyrrha's shield. She grunted from the impact of the absolute body shaking force, that threatened to push her backwards. Digging in her heels, she pushed forward, using a slight tilt of Akouo to deflect the rounds over straight-up blocking.

Coco adjusted her aim, but something felt off. It was like her weapon was heavier than it should be. She struggled to keep the stream of rounds aimed at Pyrrha, but she found herself deviating. Gritting her teeth, she pulled against the force that was pulling her aim off.

Still hunkered down behind her shield, Pyrrha inched forward, closing with her opponent. Seeing that Pyrrha was pushing to get into melee range, Coco activated her semblance, instantly increasing the power of her rounds. The sudden added intensity caused Pyrrha to waiver. Gritting her teeth, she pushed against her shield and dove to the side, out of the line of fire.

Coco twisted on her feet, pivoting about to bring the tidal wave of rounds to bear upon her opponent.

CLICK! CLUNK!

Coco: SHIT!

With the stream of rounds gone, Pyrrha launched herself forward, Milo in spear form chamber to strike. Dropping her more than likely jammed gun, Coco dodged to the side, moments before Pyrrha's strike could land. Rolling to her feet, Coco counter-attacked. Pyrrha weaved away from Coco's punches and swapped Milo to sword form. Using Akouo for cover, she spun about in a low slash.

Coco saw the rapidly approaching weapon and kicked out, catching the blade with the sole of her boot and surprisingly knocking it from Pyrrha's grasp. Even though she was shocked at the force Coco had delivered with that kick, Pyrrha didn't hesitate to let the force of that strike help reverse the rotation of her attack.

Coco staggered sideways as Milo skittered across the floor. The edge of Akouo having smashed into her side. Coco shook off the hit and threw a flurry of punches and kicks, forcing Pyrrha to dodge, weave and block. Spinning about, Pyrrha attempted to once again strike Coco with Akouo's edge, only to have the fashionista intercept the strike.

The force with which Coco latched onto Pyrrha's shield and then ripped it from her grasp was something she had not expected from Coco. As Akouo clattered across the ground, Pyrrha retaliated. Throwing her own combos of kicks and punches, that forced Coco to cover up.

Pyrrha knew now she was faster are probably more agile, while Coco was much more gifted in the physical strength department. But Pyrrha knew other things as well. Strength did little if you were on your back. So instead of continuing to throw strikes, Pyrrha pulled a shoot. Driving her shoulder into Coco's gut, Pyrrha scooped her legs and drove her backwards into the floor.

Pyrrha: (Raining blows down on Coco's covered up head) Someone like you shouldn't be anywhere near Jaune! You're a selfish, manipulative cunt! Why would someone as shallow as you ever notice someone like Jaune?

Coco knew she was steadily loosing aura, but she really didn't care at this point. She just had to fight back. To give as good as she got, and make sure the Invincible Girl remembered her. Thrusting up with her hips, she interrupted Pyrrha's storm of punches, and in that short moment Coco grabbed Pyrrha's flowing locks and dragged her head down into the path of an elbow.

Coco: Fuck you! You self-righteous coward! Pathetic simpering bitch!

The onlookers were rather shocked as the spar devolved into a full on cat-fight as the weapons were forgotten, and skills were abandoned. The two women now rolled about, hands tangled in each other's hair, fists falling and striking without precision, and screaming obscenities at each other.

Coco: I know what I did was fucking wrong, you cow! But at least I did something! I got his attention! I made him notice me! All the while you cowered in your little fucking corner like a pussy!

Pyrrha: You would know about pussy, wouldn't you! How many did you dive, dyke, before you found out you needed cock?

Coco: You fucking slut!

Somehow, both combatants managed to break free of the other and roll to their feet. Gasping for breath, they wasted not a second before latching on to each other again. Hands grabbing hair, and closing upon throats.

Yang: Enough! I'm stopping this spar!

Neither woman paid Yang a lick of attention, as they continued their assaults upon each other. With a wave of her hand, others rushed the ring, and forcibly separated the two. Even then, they continued to struggle, spitting vitriol at each other.

As the audience slowly filtered out, those left, team RWBY, CFVY and the remainder of JNPR stayed behind. Keeping the pair of enraged women as far apart as they could, physically.

Yang: (Struggling to held keep Pyrrha contained) We need Jaune! These two are not going to stop without him stepping in!

Nora: (Also assisting in keeping Pyrrha away from Coco) He should be in the dorm, right, Rennie?

Ren: (Trying unsuccessfully use his semblance to alleviate the pure rage in Pyrrha) Yes. He should be there.

Yang: Rubes! Go get Jaune!

Ruby moved away from those holding down Pyrrha and vanished in a blur of rose petals.

Yang: (Shouting over her shoulder towards the ground, trying to control Coco) We're getting Jaune!

Velvet: Is that even a good idea? They're fighting over him!

Yang: We have to try! When he gets here, Ruby can go for Goodwitch!

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Batshit on the Battlefield (Short)

Islanzadí wouldn’t say she liked to fight. The unhinged aggression and feral unpredictability of open combat such as the pitched battle she was currently in set her teeth on edge, felt inherently wrong after being taught to value life as the elves were. She could understand the drive and fire of defending others, defending her people, but after the adrenaline and gore was washed away, the queen was always left with a sour taste in her mouth.

Her blade slipped effortlessly into the torso of the man to her right, flashing under the sheet of blood as it slashed up and out his shoulder. His giggling took on a wet gurgle, and with a disgusted twitch of her lip Islanzadí lopped off his head on the backstroke. These Painless soldiers were a hassle only due to their tenacity and numbers. Their press prevented her from wielding Gungnier as she normally would, so blade it would be.

To be completely honest, Islanzadí despised combat this close. Gungnier kept most opponents at bay a nice five or six feet away from her, left her room to breathe and deploy magic without quite as much worry about timing as bladework did. 

Ah. Timing. 

An artillery shell impacted mere meters away. Islanzadí pitched forward, the blastwave breaking her stance just enough to throw her towards one of the Painless. In the half breath of her moment of weakness he was on her, using her momentum, turning her, pulling, pushing her down, his shattered sword raised as he followed her towards the ground. 

Her wards would take it. But it didn’t stop the surge of fear, of instinct, of a heart stopping glimpse of her own death and–

A wild screech bloomed from her right. A dark form, screaming and snarling, slammed into the Painless above the queen. A crunch of bones heard just through the cacophony of feral rage, a fount of blood, and the mess of a man was catapulted several meters, his attacker going with him. The knot of man and fury carved a furrow through the throng, knocking over Painless and leaving a twenty foot path of clear ground.

Islanzadí was on her feet in an instant, bounding after them, determined to watch her, entirely unnecessary, savior’s back while they disengaged from the giggling corpse. 

Disengaged was…not the right word to use, however.

Arya was pulling her sword and half her forearm from the soldier’s destroyed ribs, face streaked with gore and a wild fire in her eyes unlike Islanzadí had ever seen. 

“That’s!” Arya slammed her hand against the giggling man’s throat. His windpipe crushed, the incessant cackle turned to a wheeze. “My!” The young elf let him go and, in a single sharp motion, jammed her blade forward in a direct chop, severing the still smiling head at the neck. “Mum! Jackass!”

Islanzadí couldn’t tear her eyes away. Even with the battle raging around them, everything else felt distant. 

The woman in front of her didn’t…didn’t feel like her daughter. Lithe, armor clad, blood splattered, the young elf rose from the mess of shattered bone and pulverized muscle she had left in the vague shape of a man. Pitch black hair braided and swaying with her movement, the shift of her weight back as she stepped away, swiped the gore coated blade of a dead king clean on the blended spidersilk of her combat pants and turned. 

Arya always had a fire in her eyes, bright and glimmering with wild energy and fierce determination. But this woman. This woman held an inferno in her eyes, an emerald blaze of unbridled feral spirit and an unmatched delight of freedom, the freedom of a place and time where everything else was cast away, stripped life down to attack, defend, protect, survive, fight. 

It reminded Islanzadí of the dragons of old. The untamed joy the majestic creatures vibrated with during and after flight.

How…how could this woman. How could she be the same daughter Islanzadí had–

Arya caught Islanzadí’s eye. And beamed.

Islanzadí’s breath caught in her throat. 

That smile. 

The way her eyes crinkled at the corners. The absolute glow, radiant and carefree. She saw Evandar there, in that moment. 

And she saw, in those bared teeth, the double canines and the exuberant lift onto the balls of her feet, a little elfling with skinned knees and bark in her braid. A stoat skittering over her upturned hands and up her arms, over her shoulders, onto her head. Grateful to the scrawny little spitfire that had defended its burrow after tolerating it following them around for the entire afternoon. 

And then the battlefield returned, and it was the queen of the elves, her wildchild daughter, and the chaos of war.

Arya bounced on her toes, still smiling. It took on more of her wild exuberance. “Good fight!”

Islanzadí nodded slowly. “Good fight.”

With the reciprocated proclamation Arya whirled around. “Come on, Glen! You’re too slow!” 

The medic trotted by Islanzadí. He turned as he passed, danced backwards on the balls of his feet with the casual fluidity of a man used to navigating the uneven and chaotic terrain of open battle. His dual shortswords tilted out as he put his hands up in an apologetic shrug, giving Islanzadí a somewhat helpless but no less wild grin before half falling, half twisting back around again to join his kindred companion. 

They tapped vambraces with a satisfying clack and bounded off into the fray. Islanzadí watched them go for a moment longer, felt her lips turn up when Glenwing offered up his metal forearm and Arya leapt up, braced her foot against the proffered step and was launched above the mass of struggling men and women with an exuberant whoop.  

The queen shook her head slightly in amusement. Gungnier darted out, impaled a charging man up through his exposed soft palette as he laughed and screamed in challenge. With a firm yank the slender spearhead retracted back to half staff, spun easily in her hand to block an oncoming blow from the other side. The two young elves had cleared enough space for her to wield the weapon again. 

As Islanzadí slid back into the focused zen of attack and defend, kill and live, the faint smile on her lips never faded despite her dislike for the activity. Brom’s description from years ago echoed in her mind, and she had to stop herself from shaking her head again. 

‘Batshit on the battlefield, indeed.’

[toomanyf4ndoms7]

Slash/Match: Jennifer Check:

Play style: While she might look a typical top of the hierarchy school cheerleader, Jennifer is far from that. Using her charms and demonic abilities, she gets what she wants one way or another.

Special attacks:

(Grab gives 20% drain energy.)

Levitating: Jennifer levitates into the air, can swoop down and bite the opponent. (Gives 25% drain energy.)

Heart-pulse: Jennifer activates a field of damage over time, that gives her drain energy from the opponent’s health.

Missed me: Needy charges by with a wooden stake, but Jennifer moves out of the way and the stand hits the opponent if they don’t block. Jennifer says “Aw, nice try.”

Show some spirit!: Jennifer pulls out a pair of cheerleading flags and does a series of swipes at the opponent bedside jamming them against the opponent’s temple. The swipes themselves don’t do much damage, but the final hit does a good amount for a single attack. (Each landed hit gives 2% of drain energy.)

(UNLEASHED) After enough “drain moves.” Jennifer has the option to unleash her succubi energies to enhance her special attacks and higher defence. This only lasts for a limited time and she will be weaker for a time once it runs out. You can also use a portion of it to recover lost health, but only if the bar is below 100% full.

Super move:

Low Shoulder: Jennifer swipes a flag at the opponent’s eye. If it hits, the screen goes black, before the opponent is alone in a secluded band room. Jennifer waves them off before slamming the door. As the opponent is attacked from behind the door, Jennifer redoes her lipstick and winks at the camera.

Slasher move: (Finishing move.)

Check Out: Jennifer slowly walks up to the opponent and sinks her teeth into them, draining their life away as they wither. When it’s done, she pulls away and wipes her lips with a satisfied smirk.

Killing blows:

Grab: Only in unleashed mode: Instead of simply biting the opponent’s neck, Jennifer tears out their neck and bites their head. After a moment, she recovers and clears her throat. “Sorry, cravings.”

Show some spirit!: The final hit jams the flag ends through the opponent’s temples, killing them.

Ending:

“This place has been a dream come true. So many souls to feed on, to keep me beautiful as ever. But I have to admit, I was getting a little homesick. Even with these fancy new powers.”

(Shot of Jennifer walking through bloody streets, looking a little lost.)

“But then, I saw a lonely girl in a white dress. She looked so upset, so miserable, and then I learned she was meant to go to prom.”

(Jennifer sitting beside Carrie, half listening.)

“Prom, the perfect place for teenagers to let loose and dance the night away. AKA: my perfect buffet. “

(Shot of Jennifer grinning to herself before transitioning to her being all friendly to Carrie and opening a portal back to her reality.)

“So, I decided to join Carrie back home, to ensure she has the best day she can, and that I have a perfect supper buffet.”

(Final shot is of Carrie being crowned prom queen while Jennifer is behind the curtain, surrounded by drained corpses.)

@ohbee-whatcanyoube

[notchainedtotrauma]

From My Patreon: My Favorite Bits Of Fiction I Wrote As  Emotional Responses to Songs

0:00-0:27: Rushed silhouettes, floating buildings, she was heaving and panting through the streets, the screeches and profanities watery, damp against her head, intent on running. She had established a rhythm she could lock herself in and yet always about to miss a beat, slow down and collapse. The backstory was both arid and sinister. Still, in her mind, she remembered the blood soiled bed like muted faces as silent witnesses, fingers sticky with blackberry jam, her body burrowed into her. Bits and pieces doused with that summoning song, the continuous soundtrack of something she couldn't hold together yet.

I tightened against the slipperiness of the wheel, waiting for May to say something, at long last. It wasn't their lithe body, slumped against the back seat, the unremarkable outfit, a mundane stud uniform, but the hushed collection of glares, their  knuckles tense inside their lap. We weren't quite sure of each other, as long as we'd worked out our siblinghood together, the slurry of kisses, the gut bursting laughter, the unceremonious nonchalance. And still, a crevice. And maybe we left each other, in some ways. The passenger side unceasingly wounded; eyes shrunk and blinking, bleached with anguish, her pleats an act of self admonishment. I could sense the belt slash into her chest and her head lolling from side to side. I took her to sever her trailing rope of confessions. They trumpled on her for so long and with such horror that she was here and there, a mind airless in poisonous water. I sped up, because there was no one, and nowhere, and I wanted her through the window, eyes wide open, even.  

I had hovered above the sinister mapping of the hospital, looking for a reward yet to be named, stung with the viscous trickle of hand sanitizer, and how did I end up here, and why did I remain. I could craft the series of flashing images; the hard metal chair, the glassy borders, and the cop, or the detective, or whatever, reaching down my throat for the scene of the crime. The hospital had been closed for a while. I wanted to remain there forever. I wanted to let sickness carry me even as I was holding sickness at arm's length.  

3:48-3:49: I didn’t ponder on violence often; I dutifully ripped, smashed, folded, clawed, worked away at thick flesh, waiting for the blood to spill, for a crease through the face or bruised arms. Every day, I labored on the push and pull of foreign bodies, of interlaced voices, my hands woven through their armpits, their eyes blinking, the mutilated geometry of their noses. And yet, ultimately, always this green fog, a film of bitterness in the mouth. He had barely glimpsed at me the first time, muttered “There”. I needed to leave; too much was happening, the unsettling sway of fractured hips, too much dried blood, something liquid and acrid coming up my throat. I had done the last of it.  

He wasn’t there. She wasn’t there either, crouched on the still damp couch, her eyes enormous and sharp. The screen before her, with its glut of movement and sound, people sizzling everywhere, and her not following the thread, having lost the story halfway through the needle rattling her heart. She dashed out; she wanted to know midnight. She wasn’t dressed for any occasion; tattered sweatpants, a large cotton shirt. She trailed her hand across the bar, her nonchalant walk, hoping the moment would get caught in an endless loop.

The bacon and the plate beneath, looking at it, she was exhausted. She ignored what to make of all of this. She had been starved, and suddenly not. Two hours of damp showering, not even a trickle, she yearned for the water bandaging her skin. What was she to do with that bacon, growing cold, the bars of greasy meat, dripping on all that white ? It was sinister, not to know what to do about food. Every morning, she dropped a pack of instant popcorn in the microwave with weary indifference, poured the syrup. Her life seemed, to her, regulated by the consistent reality of food. Or aimless sex. Everyday, there was the bed, reluctantly open, her wet thighs, her eyes, enormous, her ordinary orgasms.  

[brittlevalleyship]

Elon Musk Ditches Politics for Mars Dreams and Robotaxis

Okay, guys, Elon Musk is done with the political drama and diving back into what makes him, well, Elon—self-driving cars and colonizing Mars. After a wild year of throwing himself into Washington’s chaos, he’s had enough of the shade and is ready to chase his big, starry-eyed dreams again. This is the Musk we all know: the guy who wants to put humans on Mars and make your Tesla drive itself while you binge Netflix. But with Tesla’s rep taking hits and SpaceX facing some serious challenges, is he biting off more than he can chew? Let’s unpack this.

Politics Burned Him Out

Musk went hard into politics last year, dropping a jaw-dropping $288 million on the 2024 U.S. election and teaming up with President Donald Trump to run the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE—yes, like the meme coin). The plan? Slash $2 trillion from the federal budget. The reality? They’re looking at maybe $160 billion in cuts for 2026, and people lost it. Critics called him out for meddling, and Tesla’s brand got dragged—falling from #1 EV to seventh in desirability, with sales down 13% this quarter. One Tesla owner in Vegas posted, “I love my car, but I’m lowkey embarrassed now.” Meanwhile, a fan in Florida was like, “I’m buying more Teslas for Elon!” The man was caught in a storm, and it wore him down. “I’m stepping back,” he said recently, sounding like he’s ready to leave the political circus behind. He’ll still dabble in DOGE through Trump’s term, but it’s clear his heart’s elsewhere.

Robotaxis Are His Jam

At Tesla, Musk’s all about making cars that drive themselves. He’s hyping a robotaxi launch in Austin this June—think 10-20 Model Ys zipping around with remote operators just in case. “Tesla’s future is autonomy,” he said, eyes practically sparkling. Picture this: you’re chilling in your car, maybe watching a movie, while it handles the road. He’s also pushing the Cybercab, this super sleek, no-steering-wheel ride unveiled last year, set to hit production in 2027 for under $30,000. Sounds epic, right? But here’s the tea: Tesla’s Full Self-Driving (FSD) tech is under fire for crashes, and regulators are watching closely. Musk’s been promising full autonomy for a decade, and it’s still not here. Waymo’s already got driverless taxis in four cities, and Trump’s new tariffs on Chinese parts could mess with Tesla’s timeline. Oh, and older Teslas with Hardware 3? They’ll need pricey upgrades to go fully autonomous. Yikes.

Mars Is His Happy Place

Then there’s SpaceX, where Musk’s dreaming way bigger—Mars, baby. He’s got a Starship test flight coming up next week, and he’s planning to livestream a “Mars game plan” from Starbase, Texas. The goal? Send an uncrewed fleet to Mars in 2026 when the planets align, then get humans there by 2029. “It’s about keeping humanity alive,” he said, talking up a self-sustaining Martian city that could outlast Earth’s worst days. But let’s be real: Starship’s last test ended in a fireball, and NASA says even a 2040 Mars landing is a stretch. China’s aiming for 2038, so the pressure’s on. Still, Musk’s all in, joking about the risks like it’s just another Tuesday. “It’s the most exciting thing ever,” he grinned.

Why We’re Obsessed

This pivot is so Musk. His friends say he’s burned out from politics, craving the thrill of engineering challenges. Tesla’s stock is down 36% this year, and SpaceX needs Starship to work to stay ahead. But Musk? He’s got that unshakable vibe, betting on Tesla’s AI smarts and SpaceX’s hustle to make it happen. Fans are hyped to see him back in visionary mode; skeptics are side-eyeing his track record of late deliveries. Either way, he’s out here chasing robotaxis and Martian cities, and it’s hard not to watch.

Musk’s carrying big dreams—ours and his. “Civilization’s gotta stay strong for Mars to happen,” he said, and it’s like he’s reminding us this isn’t just about tech—it’s about humanity’s next chapter. Will he pull it off? Who knows, but I’m grabbing popcorn for the show.

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[tmntxthings]

∑一Heart to Heart Pt. 2。・゜・

author’s note: it was a close race in the polls but here we are ladies and gents! the sequel :D it has been awhile so i suggest rereading the first part if anyone’s confused, alsoooo i feel like this chapter is kinda all over the place but we posting it anywayssss here’s to hoping y’all enjoy xD

warnings: impending angst, multiple povs, fluff, female reader, cloaking brooch au, unedited, cursing

previous - next?

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Previously. . .

“Now give me back my cloaking brooch!! NOW!!” Missiles were firing as Leo finally undid the necklace. It was a miracle he could do so while in a full on sprint. His true form shifted back into view and Leo clenched the chain in his left fist as he pulled out an odachi with his right, slashing for a portal and shooting a wink at his enraged twin. “Buhbyeee~~” he cackled. Watching as everyone lunged for the portal. He wondered how the turtle pile felt without him as they all fell short to the pavement.

One week and a few days had passed by since then. You had almost forgotten about the encounter entirely. Though dark green eyes like those were hard to dismiss completely from your thoughts. It was your day off, Saturday, and you had plans. These plans had been months in the making. College was hectic, so getting a volleyball intramural team together was pretty tough. Everyone had different class schedules. Everyone worked whether it was internships or part-times. This was one of the first games of the season! It was imperative that all of your teammates showed up. Everyone had said they would. But they said the same thing for all the practices too. And let’s just say there was never a full attendance during any of those.

Your hopes were high despite what the past indicated. You were optimistic! It was two hours ‘til the game and you were out on a quick trip to a sports store. In your experience as captain for the past two years, one thing remained the same. Someone always, always forgot their knee pads. Literally the only thing they needed to remember. It was kind of ridiculous so you made sure to keep a spare. That was one of the reasons you were going, another was because your pair was getting a bit tattered. They had lasted through the practices but with the first game of the season coming up, you rather just get a new set while you were buying the spare anyways. Two birds, one stone.

Keeping your pace as a quickened step, you got off the bus and made your way down the street. It wasn’t that far of a walk, New York was jam-packed with stores. And rats. You thought as one scurried in front of you. Holding back a scream, you continued on your journey. The mental clock in your head ticking as you finally reached your destination. The sliding doors whisked open for you, the cool air from the a/c immediately making your shoulders relax. “Alright, knee pads, knee pads..” you muttered to yourself. Most all-inclusive sport stores had a very small section for volleyball. It just wasn’t as popular. Football/soccer? Rows upon rows. Basketball? Baseball? Same thing. Little space was left for the rest of the odds balls. Including in your humble opinion, volleyball, golf, swimming, rugby, and ping pong! You knew this store well enough so you went for the quickest route. Straight through the four basketball isles and then—

You sped-walked right into someone. With a resounding smack as your nose collided into a chest. “Ow, shitttt! I’m sorry!” You apologized, super embarrassed and already trying to escape the situation. Just get the damn knee pads and get the fuck out! “That’s alright, are you okay? Sounded like you took the brunt of it!” Now you had only sidestepped to move out of the way. So when you heard his voice it was one that you faintly recognized. Which led to you lifting your head, turning it to the side and meeting those deep green eyes. “It’s you!” You stated in shock, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Ahhhh lookie here is this fate or what!”

Two rows deep in the basketball area, the bus stranger you had practically forgotten was here! “Something like that I guess,” you couldn’t help but agree. Out of all the stores in New York. Out of all the people and just the sheer luck of timing!? “Looking for more Hamato gear?” You questioned though you weren’t planning on sticking around for the answer. You didn’t have the time! Though the encounter was neat you had plans and the captain could not be late. “You remembered my favorite too? Have I been occupying your mind?” He sounded like he was following you with a smug expression. You kept your back to him, making your way out of the basketball section and into the small row for volleyball. “Hardly! I just have good memory,”

“Uh huh,” he hummed. Then he was walking right beside you. Stopping when you stopped as you gave him an inquisitive look. “Well I too seem to remember that night and some sort of a deal?? That pertained to..” he pointed a finger out to the sign that hung above them. ‘Volleyball’ That was right, you had said something along the lines of playing a match with him. “I don’t even know your name!” You started with your first excuse. “Easy, Leo’s the name, and you?” You shook your head. Walking ahead to the knee pads and looking at the sizes as you replied. “Pretty,” he said smoothly, continuing by your side and picking out a pair of knee pads. “Ah, look, todays not a good day I’ve-“

Your second excuse was interrupted by a vibration in your pocket. You grabbed for it, answering on the third ring. “Hello?” The phone call was one that you were hoping not to receive. One of your teammates canceling, and apologizing profusely. “It’s alright, thanks for letting me know,” you sighed. It seemed they weren’t feeling good, something about a headache or a stomach ache? You had tuned most of it out because you were watching as the bus stranger kicked off his shoes. He was trying to pull up the knee pads he selected but they were wayyy too small for him. The phone call ended and you couldn’t stop your laugh. “Too small dude,” and you handed him a larger size for him to try. The pair had hardly went up his calves.

“Thanks!” He smiled as he traded you. You put the small pair back on the shelf. Then it struck you. “So as you were saying? Todays..?” You cleared your throat as you kept staring at the pads. “Todays actually perfect, I’m down one player so if you’re free-“ he cut you off excitedly, “Heck yes!!! I’m totally free!! So this is like an official match?!?” He wanted all the details and he forgot all about pulling up the knee pads. You told him about intramurals, how it was a official game, one of the first this season. He was practically buzzing! You grabbed another pair for yourself and headed for the checkout. “But we gotta head there like now if we wanna be on time!” Leo had quickly shucked the pads off, put his shoes back on, and was bounding after you. “Can’t be late to my first game ever!!” He beamed and easily passed you, grabbing your free hand and tugging you along.

He let go once the two of you had reached the registers. He sure was forward, or maybe he was just easygoing? Both of you paid for your gear and then you were back out on the sweltering sidewalks. “Thank god this sport is inside,” Leo spoke up, swinging his bag that contained his purchase to and fro. “Yeah, the college gym has a pretty big facility. They have four courts altogether so we’ll have plenty of room!” The bus ride to said gym was filled with questions. He wanted to know the positions. Which position would he be playing? Who was the enemy team and were they any good? Among many other questions…

[🐢 Leo’s pov.💙 ]

Talk about coincidence! Now this was.. what his sixth time sneaking out with the cloaking chain? Yeah we’ll go with sixth, because honestly he lost count after the second time. Leo had convinced Donnie he had lost the cloaking device, and the purple brother had almost drilled him. Thankfully Raph didn’t condone murder so he was safe for now. Probably until Donnie finally figured out that the cloaking chain wasn’t lost and that it was in fact around Leo’s neck right now as he stretched out around a bunch of other college students. You had introduced him quite quickly before telling everyone to start warmups. Yeah. Donnie would probably choke him with said chain. Oh well, Leo planned on never being found out!

That lasted all but two days if you wanted to count the fact that Mikey knew… BUT he was swore to secrecy. Anddddd Leo was also sharing the chain with him when he wasn’t using it. So there! Anywayyys Leo was chatting it up with his fellow teammates, practicing bumping the ball among other volleyball techniques that he didn’t know the name of. All he knew was that he was good. Damn good. Because everyone caught oohing and ahhing which in turn inflated his ego so much that he could probably float all the way back to the lair later. But the compliments that mattered most came from her. From you. Because as he watched everyone else practice he could tell you were better than them all. Now it was Leo’s first day and all, but he liked to think he was right behind you skill wise.

That may just be his inflated ego talking though. Insert metaphorical shrug here. Now Leo would loveee to go into detail about the game. But let’s just say they won. He won. And sure he got a volleyball to the face more than once, but that didn’t matter! Nope a win is a win in his book. The rest of the team dispersed after celebrating, talks about the next game and when the next practice was. Leo had the dates in his mental calendar. He was totally on the team now. “Hey thanks for filling in!! You were great out there!” Ending your sentence with a smile. Leo beamed back, “No problemo, I’ll be your fill-in anytime!” Giving you a smirk and a quick wink.

Leo watched as you shook your head, completely unfazed by his antics by now. He had upped his game during the actual volleyball game. Once the team had a pretty big lead he had quite blatantly flirted with you. Who could blame him?! You looked absolutely divine with your hair up. Cheeks flushed from doing your best during the game. “I told you they didn’t quit! This was just a one time thing!” Rightttt, Leo wasn’t actually on the team. Though he felt like he fitted right in! Leo made a face, pouting, “So what happens when someone else bails hmmm?” You chose to ignore him, pulling down your knee pads to your ankles. Leo took this opportunity to creep forward silently, and when your frame moved to upright itself he watched as you jolted backwards. He closed the distance again, “C’monnn Captain, you know I’m the best player you got!! My skills slayed on the court, add me to the team! Please? Pretty please??”

Leo wasn’t above begging. And he kept up the charade until he watched your eye twitch, then you blew out a long winded breath before holding out your hand reluctantly. “Alright gimme your-“

Of course Leo wouldn’t let you finish! He grabbed your hand shaking it vigorously whilst saying you wouldn’t regret your decision. And thanking you in abundance. Then going a step further, pulling the hand he held to him, smiling brightly as you stumbled forward into him. Squeezing you into a hug and picking you up off the ground to swiftly twirl you with limitless excitement. “Woah, WOAH! Hold up- Wait- LEO!” He released you seconds later smiling sheepishly. “I was asking for your phone you dummy!!” Your face was a darker flush than before, hand still outstretched for his phone but you were no longer looking at him. Cute. Were you embarrassed? Leo thought so. Hehe. Cute. You were absolutely adorable.

“Ohhhh rightttt my number huh? Couldn’t wait?” He teased further. Enjoying himself throughly as you turned a shade darker. “I swear to god I’ll change my mind rig-“ Leo was quick to place his phone in your hand. Still smiling more to himself but decided he wouldn’t push his luck any further. The game has definitely brought the two of you closer. The whole team had to work together but with Leo’s skill level almost to yours, the two of you played really well with one another. It had bolstered his pride and confidence, making him a bit more insufferable than usual. “Here,” you handed him back his phone. He checked the screen, noting your contact was added with a volleyball emoji. He’d have to change that later. It was fitting but maybe something more blue?

“So what’s the plan now? Wanna go grab something to eat? I know this great pizza place!” You made a face and he almost did a double take. How could someone not like pizza?!? Until he remembered you worked at a pizza place. Rightttttt. “Or you know whatever you feel up to eat!” He amended. He wasn’t a picky eater. You were slipping off your knee pads finally, stuffing them in the bag that carried the spare. “Uhhh yeah I know a place, it’s pretty good do you like Mediterranean?” Leo blinked. That was a big word. A Donnie word. He just nodded along, he’d figure it out eventually! Turns out he did like Medtiranean-whatever-its-called!

From that point on Leo spent more time with you. He messaged you often, and saw you at least twice a week. The perks of looking human were immense. Leo found himself not wanting to share the cloaking chain with Mikey, but he was threatened on more than one occasion that said brother would snitch. Luckily Donnie was building another one, and the nerd definitely made sure it was known that Leo was not allowed to use it. Which was fine since he had his own. Leo felt like he was being conspicuous with how much time he was spending with you. Whether it be checking his phone at random or giving odd excuses to leave the lair. He thought he was being pretty smooth but Mikey had informed him that Raph and Donnie were getting suspicious.

He’d have to get them off his trail somehow. And no, he would not be spilling the beans or telling the truth. That was not an option. Lest he be choked to death remember?? Other than that things were going well for the blue turtle. He enjoyed the competitions and the practices. He enjoyed being able to go out topside and not worry about ninja-stealthing. Or wearing layers upon layers of clothes. Or acting like he was a cosplayer. But what he enjoyed most was you. And he was starting to think you liked him too.

.

[bullet-prooflove]

Postcards: Horacio Carrillo x Reader

Tagging: @616wilsons​ @mysun-n-stars​  @xmoonknightlyx    @nessamc  @crazy4chickennuggets

With Love from Madrid.

The first postcard wasn’t signed but you recognised the writing, his looped scrawl reaching out over eight thousand miles until it reached you in Columbia. The picture was vivid, an art deco version of a landmark that you had no reference for. Still, it was beautiful in its own way. Primary colours that reminded you of the Columbian flag. Horacio’s way of maintaining some link to his homeland. You stuck it to the fridge with one of the circular magnets you used to leave notes to yourself.

The second one came at the end of a bad day, one with bloodshed, violence, and death. You’d gotten slashed across the face during a raid, Connie had managed to patch you up, but it would scar, she had informed you. From cheekbone to jawline, you would carry the indentation of La Quica’s knife for the rest of your days. It was a small price to pay compared to the alterative. You wondered what Horacio would think of it as you sorted through your mail and discovered the postcard. Spanish words written in red blocky letters, all centring around the heart in the middle.

My life is here, but my heart is yours.

It had been six months since you had laid eyes on him, but those feelings hadn’t resided. You still thought of the nights you spent wrapped up in his sheets, his warm hands caressing your skin as made love to you by the night of the moon. Your fingers itched to pick up the phone, you longed to hear his voice, the smooth whisper of Spanish in your ear.

You read the third on the balcony whilst smoking a cigarette. A vintage image of Madrid in sepia, the colour leeching out of it. It was different from the others, darker, you could sense his pain over the slant of his handwriting. You wondered what had happened that day that had led him to this image.

It took me an hour to get to know you and just a day to fall in love, but it will take me a lifetime to forget you.

He missed you, the same way that you missed him. It had been a little under a year since his reassignment and the way you felt hadn’t changed. You still thought about him every morning. The way he smiled when he sipped from his coffee cup savouring the taste. The brush of his hand when he passed you a cigarette. The way he kissed you, like a man starving for oxygen, like every time would be the last.

“Cute postcards.” Pena said, one day when he stopped over at the apartment to pick you up. His fingers trailed over the laminated paper. “You got a friend out there? A boyfriend?”

“I don’t ask about your private life Javier.” You reminded him, snatching your gun up from the kitchen table and jamming it into the holster.

“Hey, I was just showing an interest.” He said holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You gonna shoot me for it?”

You picked up your badge and clipped it to your belt, alongside your weapon.

“I know exactly where your interest lies.” You reminded him, looking pointedly at the crouch of his jeans.

Javier rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips.

“You act like I’m some sort of dog.”

“If it barks like one.” You shot back, shrugging into your jacket.

“You hear the news about Carrillo?” he asked you, grasping the apartment door and holding it open for you to step through. You heart stopped in your chest, the air rushing out of your lungs as he pulled the apartment door closed behind you. “He’s going to be back in the country this afternoon, heading up Search Bloc. Looks like the gangs getting back together again.”

The final postcard was on your desk when you arrived at Head Quarters. It was of brilliant blue skies and plush hills, the trees in the background painted with hues of evergreen. It was beautiful, the two of you had been there once upon a time, a rare quiet in the storm. A private place where Horacio went to think. The moment your eyes had locked you’d known how he felt, the two of you had spent the afternoon making love on a picnic blanket amongst the grass.

8pm, he had written on the back.

You had the time and of course you knew the place.

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