#rot in debt asshole

[catofoldstones]

CALLED IT

knew there was something fishy about him when his tone-deaf book that was like chewing sandpaper and then shitting it whole didn’t even make sense

[johnwickb1tsch]

A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 6 by:

@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and now featuring @tammykelly

Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘

ALL CHAPTERS

Treedaddymcpuffpuff:

Bradford keeps you cuffed to this chair for a whole lot longer than you can stand. You’ve tried getting out, but only succeeded in cutting steel into your wrists and ankles, leaving bloody raw rings that sting and throb.

You’re not a medical professional by any means, but you know it just can’t be a good thing that your fingers and toes are numb and stiff and bloodless. Of course, maybe that’s in part due to the temperature of this room - the room that he has left you in to rot. 

No, not rot, it’s too damn cold to decompose. Freezing. Like the dead of winter without snow. And all you have is this little ripped sundress to protect from it. 

Bradford left you here bolted to the floor after letting you know that when you were ready to give up information on Tex and John, you could just say so and it would end. 

You won’t. You won’t give that asshole the satisfaction. But, god, you’re cold, thirsty, listless, unable to flex your fingers without hot pain shooting up your arm. And really, you don’t know much about your boys, anyway, right? Except for what the inside of John’s house looks like and the brand of the sometimes too strong cologne Tex uses that makes your nose crinkle up and your toes curl. Little stuff. Would revealing that hurt them?

Of course it would. Of course these government parasites would latch onto every little detail and use it to smoke your boys out. You keep your mouth shut, your eyes on the table. You want to bawl, sob, scream, but make a solemn vow not to give Bradford anything except a blank glare. 

You don’t know how you actually manage to fall asleep like this, but a cold bucket water wakes you up,  screaming and thrashing, handcuffs cutting deeper into your flesh, blood in the water pooling at your feet. 

“Wakey, wakey,” Bradford tells you. “Time to go watch Tweedle Dee and Dumb die.” 

“Fuck you,” you try to say, but the chatter of your teeth and violent tremor of your muscles make it impossible to form coherent insults. 

Four of Bradicks goons manhandle you into the trunk of a car, and, honest, you do try and fight, kick and bite and scratch while they uncuff you from the chair only to string you back together again.

Before Bradford can close the trunk of the SUV, you look up at him and ask, “why?” 

He flicks damp hair off your mouth in an almost fond gesture. “You’re insufferable, anyone ever tell you that?”

You manage to find the gumption and roll your eyes at him. “Yeah, bigger and badder men than you, agent fuckwad.” 

He slams the trunk down, leaving you in the darkness. And whoever the driver of this car is does not go gently into this good night. They make sure you roll around and slam into seats and knobs and handles and acquire some nasty bruises.

The next time you see anything, it’s bathed in the white fire headlights of a car army. You feel the need to fold in on yourself, cover up the welts and bruises and wet, shredded, clinging dress. You didn’t even bother to put underwear on before you started rummaging through the kitchen, and now here you are half naked and shaking in front of a group of angry Russians with big guns.

A young man with a thick accent - you assume him to be the recent successor of the Nobokov Bratva - smiles and it sends ice through your blood. “Hank,” he calls, like he’s seeing an old friend. “How are you?” 

“Fuck off, Igor. Where are they? And before you go into some fucking Russian monologue about debts and consequences, know that we have a time limit here. I don’t come out in 3 minutes, the agency lights your boys up with c4.” 

Igor’s grin turns wider.

The body with the black hood over its face is one you intimately recognize. Your fears are only confirmed as the hood gets torn off and Tex’s bloody, bruised face is revealed. 

You make a desperate, croaking sound, and try to go to him, but Bradford pulls you back by the scruff of your neck. You’re pathetic. A pawn in a game. A speck of dust hiding in a corner that can’t even save itself from the vacuum. 

“His buddy gave him up,” Igor explains. “Turns out John Wick isn’t that tough when you pin him against a hundred men and his only ally.” 

Bradford nudges his gun into the air. “We had a deal, Igor. Both of them. And my wife.”

Igor clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed. It reminds you of John. You feel hot tears spring down cool cheeks. Tex. That fucking bastard. Of course he would sell John out. You should have expected it, but your heart still aches. 

You look at John, and he looks back, only able to keep one eye open because the other one is swollen shut. He winks at you, and even though the grin on his face is a weaker version of what it usually is, you know for a fact that this is not John Wick. Oh. Oh.

“Hank,” Igor continues, “do you really need Texas Johnson if you have John Wick? Baba Yaga? How many confirmed kills under his bloody belt? Oh, it must be in the thousands now, eh John?” Igor kicks Tex on the hip, making him grunt in pain. 

You glare at the bastard son, and he turns his wicked smile on you. “Ah, this one has fire, and I hear she likes being kidnapped. Maybe I’ll kidnap her for a while before I kill her.” 

Bradford gets a ding on his walkie. “Yeah?” 

Something about moving in and securing the target and cutting losses, and Bradford sighs. 

He pushes you forward, and you land on the wet gravel face first. “My wife, Igor.” 

“Oh, yeah, you know you really should have just called her yourself, Hank. These chicken shit assholes didn’t even go to the trouble of actually taking her. They used ai technology to clone her voice.” Igor chuckles. “Don’t worry, we all make mistakes.” 

“Fucking bastard,” Bradford - Hank - spits at Tex. 

You raise your head to look at him, see his handsome face maybe one more time, and Tex Johnson is scowling, seething, an animal that only gets angrier the more you beat it.

Just like how John’s rare smile unnerved you, Tex’s glare does the same.  You’re not sure how it happens. You’re not even sure you’re alive - not after fire tears through the sky and shakes the ground and busts your eardrums open. But Tex is not in handcuffs anymore, and he’s wrapping his arms around you. Gunshots, screaming. One minute you’re in the dirt - the middle of a war zone, and the next you’re cradled against something solid, broad and warm, watching the ground zip by.

You touch your saviors cheek, feel the rough blood caking his facial hair. If you’re dead, this is heaven. Because Tex has got you and you somehow know that he’ll die before ever letting you go again.

“Where’s John?” You ask.

“I missed you too, rattlesnake.”

Johnwickb1tsch:

You are hiding behind a boulder with Tex, his steady arm around your shoulders, holding you upright, if you’re being honest. Bradford’s unkind methods of keeping you immobile rendered your limbs into an unreliable fucking mess.

One last distance to cover, Tex claims, before you reach your getaway vehicle, and with any luck, freedom.

You hurt everywhere, and all you want is to go home.

“What was that, rattlesnake?”

You realize you accidentally said that part aloud, and you sigh, banging your head back against the rock. How insane is it, that your idea of home now is a soft bed with Tex and John wrapped around you?

You should be enemies.

You should be fighting this tooth and nail, trying to find your own escape that doesn’t involve Bradford, the Bratva, or your assassin Beaus.

But the fact is…you don’t want to, anymore.

The system that was supposed to protect innocents like you instead fucked you royally, exposing the true corrupt underbelly of the way the world actually works. You’re beginning to grasp that it’s all a construct to keep the little people like you in line. The elite need a complacent workforce, after all. And that makes you question everything else you’d ever thought was wrong, or right, or something in between.

Tex is looking at you intently, even through his swollen eye, a warmth in his gaze that makes your insides melt. Fuck it. You all might die today. Maybe you should tell him. “I said—”

A hail of bullets cuts you off, Tex shoving you down nearly into the ground. He returns fire with a pistol he picked up from a dead Russian, and you press your hands over your ears, already half deaf from all the explosions and gunfire. Apparently the FBI had descended on the Bratva in what they thought was an ambush, and John…John was killing everyone.

You’d seen a glimpse of it from a distance while Tex had been pulling you to safety. The absolutely savage beauty with which John killed. It was like watching a vicious deadly dance, the artful way that man could seemingly effortlessly unalive a group of armed and dangerous people was a sight to behold.  

“I know it’s you, Tex!” rises a hoarse voice from the darkness beyond.

“What’s it to ya, Bradford?” answers Tex, checking his clip to see how many shots remain. He frowns at the one bullet he has left, and he slides it home back into the gun with a menacing click. racking the slide to feed it.

“Slick trick you two played. Well done.”

“Thank you kindly!” Tex looks down at you, making a jerking-off motion with his hand and rolling his eyes. It makes you giggle quietly to yourself, winning that heart-stopping devil-may-care grin.

The fact that the two of you can joke at a time like this probably means you’re both half insane. You’re probably in shock, which is your excuse. You’re afraid Tex doesn’t have one.   

“Give me the girl and I’ll let you go!” offers Bradford, winning an incredulous scowl and a shake of the head from Tex. The FBI agent sounds haggard. Desperate. Tex hopes he can take advantage of that. He peers around the boulder and squeezes off a single shot.

This is answered with a full-on barrage, and then the clicking of an empty gun. “Fuck,” you hear off in the distance.

“Stay here,” Tex mouths silently at you. You shake your head, clinging to him, desperate not to be left alone in this chaos. Gripping your chin none too gently, Tex kisses you hard, stealing your breath, and your senses. His hand possessively runs up your thigh, to your bare ass, squeezing you with his fingers maddeningly close to your center. With a devilish glitter in his eye he licks his fingers, whispering, “Keep that warm for me, darlin’.” He renders you into a befuddled little puddle of molten desire, then disappears into the night.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!

You hear more gunfire, then grunting, the sound of flesh striking flesh. You dare to peek out from your hiding place to see Tex and Bradford fighting with fists, grappling on the ground. Tex gets the upper hand, straddling the FBI agent. Between punches he snarls, “Did I—” punch “hear you,” punch “lay hands” punch “on my woman” punch “over the phone?” punch “you piece” punch “of pig-fucking shit?”

By the time Tex is done with him Bradford can’t give an intelligible answer, just groans with excruciating pain through broken teeth and bloodied lips.

Tex spits on him before standing, and delivers a kick to the man’s ribs for good measure. Bradford grunts again, coughing blood. You run out from behind the boulder on shaky legs, and Tex loops his arm over your shoulders again, pulling you in the direction of your escape route. You’re not sure who’s leaning on who more now.

You look back at Bradford one last time—and see he’s pointing a gun in your direction, specifically, at Tex’s broad back. “Tex!”

You don’t know why you do what you do. It just happens, and you are throwing your weight with what little strength you have left against Tex’s body. “Wha—”

It seems simultaneous. The report of Bradford’s last shot, and a searing pain in your side. It burns, and you whimper in Tex’s arms. He’s shouting something at you, maybe your name, or bawling you out for being stupid. Your ears are ringing, and you watch as though through a tunnel as John—dressed in a black western-style shirt a-la Tex—emerges from the shadows, and shoots Bradford in the head.

“What fucking part of keep her safe and I’ll do the rest did you not understand?” snarls John, going to his knees beside you, his laser-like stare fixed on your side.

“I was!” protests Tex, equally as worried as they examine you. “Goddammit, woman, why did you do that?”

“Shut up,” you manage weakly, winning yourself a grin despite everything.

John produces a black handkerchief, folding it and pressing it to your wound. It hurts. “Keep pressure on it. Time to go.”

They help you to your feet—but your legs aren’t really working. You almost fall again, but Tex hoists you in his arms. “I got you, honey. You’re ok.” You’re not sure who he’s trying to reassure more—you, or him. But you nestle your cheek against his collarbone, and your thought from earlier returns. Home.

Through heavy lids you are vaguely aware of the boys—your boys—loading you into some kind of 4x4 vehicle. As it starts with a mean grumble and you pull away with tires spinning in the dirt you pass out.

-----------------------------

Murmuring voices. A beeping machine. So annoying.

Hands on your side, pulling, prodding. You wish it would stop.

Voices speaking rapidly, not in English.

The bright flash of treetops and sunlight speeding past.

Palm trees. Blue skies. Birds singing.

Fingers sliding through your hair. “You’re gonna be fine, sweetheart. Promise.”

Promises, promises, promises.

When at last you wake, you feel as though you’ve been dreaming for days.

Your vision focuses selectively. First, upon the sloping contours of a muscled bare back adorned with black ink. The chiseled cut of a bicep, and raven-dark waves of hair. Beyond that you see a gauzy curtain waving in the breeze, the shimmer of impossibly blue water just visible beyond. You hear waves, and the plaintive call of sea birds. You can smell salt on the breeze.

Oh. So you’re not dead. Isn’t that nice?

There is a furnace of a body behind you as well, a heavy hand upon the curve of your hip.

The warmth you feel, not just on your skin, but kindling in your heart…is a wonderful, damnable thing.

You lift your head a little, winning a grumble of protest from behind you.

Then you notice dark eyes shining from behind the curtain of that mop of hair on the pillow next to you. “Hello, beautiful.”

“John?” Your voice sounds like you swallowed a cup of borax, like you haven’t spoken in a week. You reach out to touch him, and find that even that makes your side ache.

“Next time,” advises your assassin boyfriend no 1, kissing your fingers, “Just let Tex take the bullet.”

“Hey,” grumbles Tex from behind you, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “That’s not nice.”  

__________________

Sweetwolfcupcake:

Things are slow at first. You remember you were thirsty--parched, to be precise, you drank around a jugful of water and you remembered that everything ached. Especially your side. Left shoulder.

How lucky, you think cynically, could have been your spine cord.

Then, Tex gave you a pill, and you were awake enough to eat before you fell asleep again.

This time, you are more aware, more coherent, and surprisingly far more tolerant of the pain. Or maybe it is the painkiller in your system. Whatever, the pain is not a bitch on your shoulder, on your whole body anymore. The bed is soft, it seems like it's late and you are wide awake.

You are alone in the room, you notice. Although (surprisingly), it is a little bit disheartening, it helps you to think. Process things, finally after the storm is over and it has left a silence behind.

So, your life was pretty normal, and then you became an accidental witness to a crime, you were whisked away by the two assassins who were paid to kill you and somehow they decided that you are interesting enough to be kept alive and to be taken for themselves. You are practically dead for the world. They faked it. No one is coming to get you. The one person you thought was on the right side, turned out to be the villain in your story.

Now, coming to Bradford--- asshole showed his true face, the fuckling system failed you, your moral beliefs, your perspectives, everything has toppled down, turned into ashes and through this wasteland, emerge these two handsome assassins who eerily look exactly the same and harbour similar affections for you.

Also, you are falling in love with them.

With your brain in survival mode, you had not even properly registered the torture Bradford put you through, and the dangerous situation he pushed you into. Heck, you barely understood anything before pushing Tex away and taking a bullet for him.

You don't understand where you stand, where your relationship with them stands. But if they are willing to risk themselves to save you. It might just mean something.

You don't feel the tears streaming down your face, not until a few drops land on your hand. You are finally processing. And of course, you are at the brink of ugly crying.

If someone advised you to ugly cry a few days ago, you might have rather held things up within, bottled it all up, gulped it down and raised your chin instead.

But now, you think of it as the only way. You need to let it all out. Too much has happened. Too much has changed too soon. So you allow yourself to ugly cry, not counting the ticking of the clock, not heeding to your pain, not even hearing the door open with urgency.

"Hey, hey, hey--what's wrong, what's wrong?"

It isn't Tex's panicked voice that pulls you out of your deep dive into your own pit of loss, confusion, and misery, but rather his touch, his hands cupping your cheek.

Funny how a few weeks ago, you would rather take any possible escape route to slip through their clutches, and now you can recognize them by their mere touch.

Through the blur of your tears you can see his worried expression, especially his panicked eyes. You feel the bed dip beside you and fingers running through your hair.

"It's alright, let it out, let it all out."

John's voice is steady and soothing as he tries to comfort you. He is much better at deciphering and handling your situation, you assume.

"Does it hurt?" John asks, wiping away your tears. You look up to meet his concerned gaze. But there is something else in it-- something dark, sinister. "What did he do to you?"

You instantly know that he's speaking about Bradford. His thumb rubs against your sore wrist. So, he knows... Of course he knows. Your eyes flicker between your wrist and his eyes. His burning orbs that let you get a hint of why is he so feared in the underworld.

But you have no energy to elaborate any further, you have no energy to even reply. You just shake your head and look away. Lips still quivering, eyes wanting to be, ironically, anywhere but on them.

Tex mutters something under his breath that sounds more or less like a snarl, but you're too far gone to care. You feel John's fingers back on your hair, but you don't look his way. His touch is comforting, yes, but you can't bring yourself to acknowledge that.

Too bad because it is the softest Tex has sounded so far. Nothing is teasing or mean about him at the moment. You would have teased him for the panic in his voice, but you just can't bring yourself to care. It doesn't even occur to you to pass any comment.

Everything that has happened has finally dawned upon you, and you have at last acknowledged it. It's all too much, too bad, and you feel yourself spiraling. But deep down, you know. You somehow know that they won't let you fall into the abyss.

Tammykellly:

- a flashback-

You feel like you are one of the dead doves, forever frozen in a cage that is deafening loneliness and drug-like need for love. Love that’s gonna give you purpose to keep waking up. A visceral need to love and be loved. Love with a price tag of $2.5 million.

Sofa cushions bend under your weight, before you take a sip of your tea. You notice birds fly in the distance, across the dawn sky. You can’t remember the last time you woke up before the sunrise. But this sunrise feels cold and almost menacing. As hot water makes contact with your throat, your chest tightens, as you think of how those little creatures can fly anywhere they wish to, almost always together, in a flock. Your gaze shifts to the water, trickling across the porch outside the panoramic windows, and a tiny squirrel, running around the backyard, bringing food to its nest, before a cat comes to catch it. You feel a sigh, escaping your mouth.

You lean back, listening to the sound of silence. When you’re alone, the peaceful world inside the house is so otherworldly mundane in the sense that you’ve never known before. Your ears take in the distant sound of the washing machine in the laundry room, loaded up by one of the boys, who, you’re sure, are out and about by now. Your eyes notice the dim blueish hue of the living room, that’s connected to the kitchen and the terrace, the misty colour of which seems to have bent the glass, separating both worlds. Two worlds, divided by the bulletproof glass. One world - mocking you, the other - keeping you away from it.

You try not to notice a lump in your throat and burning sensation in your eyes. You don’t bother to wipe a tear, running down your cheek, before placing the cup on the designer coffee table. For you don’t think you should hold anything right now, when, in fact, you can’t hold anything in at all. Your arms wrap around your body, bringing you anything but warmth - a reminder that you’re alone, so utterly alone, no one will see you’re inside this glass house, built by your captors.

But what you don’t know is, the walls have eyes. The walls have ears. And shadows in between the walls hide secrets, spilt by the devils. One of which is watching you with his intense obsidian eyes just around the shadowy corner, letting you cry your heart out, for he knows some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. Yet. He’ll make sure to be your comfort, but for now, he’s just an observer, for he guesses he’s the reason why your cries fill the space. John’s gaze takes in your broken, lonely shaking form, as you’re holding yourself in the middle of the sofa. A tiny smirk curls up the corners of his lips.

The code that is you turns out to be so easy to crack.

You wake up on the couch in the living room from the warmth that touches your skin. The cold blue of the early morning has been replaced by bright yellow midday sunlight. You hear clinking in the kitchen and steady steps towards you, as you stretch. A cup of hot tea appears in front of you, as if it’s been waiting for you to wake up to taste it. Your eyes lock with jet-black chocolate ones, warmth radiating off them, making you feel more cozy and relaxed than the soft cushions you’re sitting on and the scent of your tea.

You feel the sofa fabric dip beside you, a warm body now sitting next to you. John smiles at you: “Change of plans, princess, you’re spending the day with me”. You can’t help but return the gesture, before quickly touching your puffy cheeks and dried up tears. “Oh, what a delight”, - you sit in a way your body is facing his, “what’s Tex up to?” John watches you throw one arm on the back of the couch, taking it as a sign to slightly lean in closer.

He says: “You’re here with me and asking about him?” The warmth of the teacup plays on your fingers again, before it touches your lips that hold a reminiscent scent of toothpaste you’ve used in the morning: “Y’all are like two peas in a pot. One can’t go without the other”. John quirks an eyebrow, seeing you freeze, your mouth slightly open upon realisation. He darkly chuckles but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes: “Cowboy has really gotten to you, hasn’t he?” He can’t help but notice how adorably innocent your wide eyes gaze up at him, still in shock you’re picking up Tex’s manner of speaking.

John lets you place the cup back on the coffee table, and you feel his large hand around your wrist, pulling you closer. “Get over here. Now”, - he tells you, his muscular thighs now in between yours, the thin layer of your silky pyjama shorts doing absolutely nothing, apart from making you feel the harsh fabric of his jeans. He feels your arms loosely wrap around his neck, never breaking the eye contact, letting you study him however much you want, akin to a shark, showing its fins through the murky waters, before disappearing into the depths of the unknown.

And it works, for you’ve been caught by his mesmerising charm, as you notice how pretty he can be from up close, so serenely majestic, wrapped up in your arms, his energy never letting you fully escape him. You run your fingers through his raven hair, mixed with silver strands. You can’t help but feel stuck in the emanating jet-black radiance of his eyes, that you discover have many colours you haven’t seen before.

And that’s how you learn darkness has different shades and they all taste like John. You lean down to kiss him, which he reciprocates without missing a beat, bringing you closer to the whirlpool that might drown you one day. You play with each other’s power of will for a while before you have to pull away for air.

“You taste like oblivion”, - you whisper against his lips. “What does that mean?”, - he replies, a curious glint in his eyes and his lips eager to feel yours again before you let him relish your sweet flavour once more. You pull away slightly to look him in the eyes, watching him study you. You simply state: “It means there’s no way out”, watching a smile appear on his face again, as his hand travels to the back of your neck: “You’re going to be a good girl for us, right?” You don’t reply. For it’s not about the possibility of the fall anymore, but the depth of the crash.

Playful midday sunlight slowly grows into early evening specks of light, splashed across the living room that you’ve been in and out of. Your crying session in the early morning seems like a distant memory, replaced by conversations with John and slow afternoon sex.

Could this be a dream come true?

You can’t help but look over at John, feeling his magnetic gaze on you. Instead of feeling stiff like you often would under his intense dark eyes that emit power and control, you choose to embrace this new feeling of being seen. Moments turn into long seconds, passing through the slick of time in between the kisses.

“Baby”, - John calls you quietly. You hum in response to his lips against your neck. “I want you to fuck me”, - he tells you before looking up into your eyes, that strong threatening flavour of power and attraction catching you deeper in its web.

“Huh?” - you can only manage to get out of your mouth, that might hit the floor at this rate. Strands of hair fall across the man’s face, as he tilts his head, his hawk-like eyes testing the limits of your self-control. He doesn’t wait for you to continue: “Fuck me, before I change my mind”. You don’t even try to hide the possibilities flashing through your eyes from him, knowing exactly what he expects of you.

Behave, be a good girl. It’s all just a game.

You lean down to kiss him, before dragging your lips across the sensitive skin of his throat. “If that’s what you want, sir”, - you lick up to his jawline, before his palm finds its place on your cheek. “Is this what you want?” - he questions and you believe he sounds genuine. For the first time, he watches a playful and almost cunning sparkle appear in your irises. He doesn’t believe the sound of your voice when you tell him: “I want you to beg”, which makes him smirk. Your fingers inch closer to his pubic bone and nether, as you expectantly look at him, at last, giving him the taste of his own medicine.

“Please, fuck me, babygirl”, - John calmly asks, though swallowing, when you wrap your hand around him. Now it’s your turn to return the smirk. “You gotta do better than that, sir”, - you begin to pump him harder, watching his chest rise and fall a bit deeper, as he twitches against your skin when you swipe your thumb across the most sensitive part. It’s so satisfying, seeing a man like him cracking down because of you. A little rattlesnake pinned against a serpent.

“I need you to fuck me”, - his breath becomes a bit more shallow, “now. Please”. You line him up before starting to painstakingly slowly sink down on him, not breaking the eye contact that makes you both feel like the house of glass is about to burst into shards around you. “As you wish”, - you kiss him and bite his lower lip, seeing the way his eyelashes flutter, when you close the distance between your bodies in one move and feel his full length inside of you.

John’s hands grip your thighs, but you don’t move, his questioning eyes find your teasing ones. “I told you to beg”, - you whisper, “so be a good boy and fucking do as you’re told”. You add: “Sir”, for good measure. John’s fingers sink deeper into your skin, both of you knowing it’s gonna get bruised later, which makes you involuntarily clench around him, receiving a guttural hiss from him.

“I want you to fuck yourself on me so hard that the only thing you’ll remember is how to scream my name”, - John’s tongue collects the sweat, dripping down your chest, as you slowly move your hips, both of you feeling every part of the other’s body in the most delightfully hot sense possible. His hands guide you to increase your speed, which you cannot get ahold of controlling anymore. You feel John’s breath on your face: “And you’re gonna do, as you’re told, princess”, he sucks your lower lip and kisses you hard, which earns him a moan from your lips against his mouth. John looks up at you, his eyes filled with brooding darkness that holds a promise of a tsunami, something so primal you dare not to even attempt to overpower. “Yes, sir”, your shuddering breath barely escapes, before his lips hungrily find yours again and you feel yourself move against him, without his hands on your hips, as if your only purpose is to please him.

As the sound of sloppy kisses and moans fill the living room, you don’t care to pay attention to the way John takes in your sweaty form that he knows is desperate for him, while you pick up the pace, his hands placed loosely around your waist. His eyes lazily roll over your body, down to where your skin meets one another, his chest filling with pride and joy that he is the one making cracks appear all over the essence that is you and everything about you.

With every thrust and love bite, you feel yourself lose the control and further tangle in the triangle of devilish delusions, daunting dreams and dangerous desire. With every deep kiss from John, you let go of your position in the Devils’ game and succumb to the faceless decay, akin to a house of cards eaten to ashes by the flames of pretense and a masquerade of hopes. John’s arms pull you closer to his heated body in a possessive embrace, every fibre of his being titillated by the thought of you. For, as you and John cross the joint everlasting limit, you become the incandescence of a fire and the event horizon of all consuming oblivion.

- present -

You get off Tex, his arms still wrapped around your body, the AC blasting on both of you, as you watch the Seychelles sun grow closer to the horizon. Tex kisses you sweetly, making you smile against him: “What was that for?”, you lean back to take a long look at him. “Nothing”, - he replies cheekily, putting a loose strand of hair between your ear. “It’s never nothing with you”, - you chuckle, basking in sunset light, letting Tex stare at your magic after sex glow. You lay your gaze back on him, as he asks: “Is this how you see me?” You feel the warm sunlight lick your skin, as you put your silky dress back on, still careful around the almost completely healed bullet wound, still not used to seeing it on your body. You sit back down: “I don’t know, you tell me. We are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal”. You and Tex watch the ocean waves sparkle under the setting sun, cloudless sky turning more orange and pink with each passing moment of silence between you. You feel a small sigh leave your mouth, thinking about what happened months ago, hoping the sentimental softness for the two men would slip away from your heart with specks of dust.

The more you think about it, the more you begin to sense your blood flow through your veins, your cheeks painted with blush not just because of the sun and the sex.

First, months ago, there was a flood of tears and denial. Now, anger takes the stage, setting up the diverse uncanny possibilities for a deal with the Devil.

You clench your jawline and let it go before saying as softly as you can: “Hey, listen…uh…I gotta talk to you about something”, from the corner of your eye, you can vaguely make out Tex turn his head to face you, as you keep the ocean and palm trees in your direct view, “It’s been bothering me for quite a while and I know it might seem like a silly little thing to you, but it matters to me a lot”.

You finally look at him, choosing not to divide your attention on the way his eyes and skin beautifully glow under orange sunset lights. “Okay, lay it on me”, - Tex tells you in a soft voice, as you pace your breath, so as not to give into the temptation of letting him see right through you.

“It’s about the day I got kidnapped and shot”, you watch Tex stiffen.

“Why didn’t you give me something to cover myself up?” - you question, tilting your head, watching Tex’s eyebrow twitch.

“What are you talking about?”, you hear his deep voice.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you”, - you tighten your jawline again for a split second, “you saw I was literally butt ass naked and you didn’t even offer anything to cover it”. A shuddered breath from the man next to you enters your personal space, as he replies: “There wasn’t enough time”. You raise your brow: “But there was plenty of time to touch me, wasn’t there? You just didn’t care enough, did you?”

You calmly watch him search your eyes, though the smile you have put on reflects none of how you feel. For how you feel is far from letting his hand brush against yours. Your hand slips away onto your thigh, while Tex apologises: “Listen, I’m sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened. All I could think about was saving you”. You stop yourself from clenching your fist, sending an unkind smirk his way.

“Oh, you want a cookie? Having to save me is nothing to be proud of. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place”, a cushion next to you dips, as the man shifts, while you continue: “and, Tex, I was so fucking scared I thought I was out of my mind”.

You poke his chest: “Admit it, you see me as nothing more or less than a plaything”.

Tex seizes the opportunity to snatch your hand, which, in turn, makes you flinch, as he smiles: “That’s not true. You’re my woman”, you shakily wiggle your hand out of his grasp, crossing your arms, chuckling, unamused: “Yeah…I heard when you were punching the life out of Brad”, your voice full of sarcasm and venom, “well, guess what, Tex Johnson, you don’t let dozens of blood thirsty men watch your woman’s private parts”.

Tex doesn’t reply, so you continue: “and it’s not even the fact that you didn’t offer your clothes to cover me that makes me mad”, you inhale slowly before looking into his eyes, illuminated by something more than sunlight. “It’s the fact that you further took away my dignity by touching me. I felt so exposed, so vulnerable and hurt”, your voice raises slightly, your fingers digging into your skin, “and you took advantage of that. You just wanted to show off, didn’t you?”

Suddenly, you feel Tex’s hand on your throat, his breath on your lips, your heart pumping so fast you think it might jump out and spill into the waves of pain when you hear the man’s growl: “I’ve been so good to you for the past few months. We traveled everywhere you wanted”, he makes you lock your eyes on his fiery ones, “Why? Because I care about you”. His jawline dangerously plays under the skin, as he tells you lowly: “Be careful with your words now. Or you’ll pay for it”.

You quietly laugh, earning a look of confusion: “I already did, I fucking took a bullet for you”.

Tex watches your eyes narrow, as you smirk, the fire in your stomach adding fuel to the way you spit in his face, mirroring the growl of his own: “Do you really think a bird forgets how to fly once you lock it in a cage? The thing is, toys break. You don’t wanna see me at a breaking point, do you?”

You feel like you can breathe again, as Tex leans back, saying: “What are you talking about, y/n?”

You lean closer: “You don’t fucking know me, Tex. Neither of you do”, you let yourself drown in the couch cushions, for it’s Tex’s turn to laugh this time, his words and self-indulgent voice punching holes in your soul, as you try your hardest to stop the burning occur around your watery eyes. “We know everything about you. Your background, your family, who are all dead, you got no friends. We know your hopes and dreams, how you like your eggs and pancakes in the morning, how you like your tea in the evening and what you look like when you’re sound asleep. We know what helps you feel better when you’re on your period and how you look like when you’re falling apart because of our touch. Everything”.

You exhale sharply, as the cushion shifts under the weight of the man, when he gets closer: “Look, doll, I’m so sorry”, his voice so unbearably soft, sweet and apologetic you feel your stomach turn, “We are so sorry that it happened and we’ll have to live with that guilt forever. We’ll never let it happen, ever again”.

You slap his hand away, the boiling fire in the pit of your chest coming out sooner than you thought it would, as you scream: “Stop fucking saying that! I’m not your fucking doll!”

You feel tears pooling in your eyes and quickly wipe a fallen one, as you repeat in a low shaky breath: “You don’t know me”, before getting up in a swift motion and storming off, as Tex’s loud voice chases after you: “We never wanna lose you, Y/n!!”

Tex hears a click of the door lock, making him curse, feeling a strong presence behind his back, as it’s coming out of the shadows.

“Let her cool off. You know she doesn’t actually mean any of it”, - John sits down on the couch, handing Tex a beer bottle, which he opens with his bare hands, saying: “Yeah, didn’t sound like it. She started crying, for fuck’s sake”, his voice frustrated and almost sad. The men look ahead at the ocean and palm trees, engulfed in flames of sunset lights. John exhales: “She’ll come around”.

Behind the closed doors, you don’t even understand yourself anymore, for you can’t recognise any of the pieces of who you’re seeing in the mirror.

Point of break when you got nowhere to run looks different on everyone.

They want a plaything? They’ll get it. You’ll get them hanging by the strings. Before they decide to break your wings, completely.

You continue to study yourself in the mirror. Maybe that lucid knife play was a prophecy, disguised as a dream.

The mask of sanity has slipped.

.

--------------

ALL CHAPTERS

[captainofthetidesbreath]

Curious about what every blurb on the CritRole Oracle of the Moon Instagram filter is but don't want to sit there rolling it until you get all of them? Well, I did that for you! Below, the cards are each listed as upright (blue label), then reverse (yellow label), and their names are all bolded. Couple of notes as well. This deck is currently and newly for sale in the Critical Role shop.

The Anvil: To forge. To strengthen. To gather what is needed. The Sword: To wield. A show of might.

The Eye: Divine inspiration. Contemplation. Higher realms. The Hand: Practicality. Labour. The mortal plane.

Moon: A glamour. A beautiful story the truth wears. An illusion. Mirror: A reveal. A bitter truth. Something hiding in the shadows.

Spark: Something is responsible for this. Maybe you, maybe some asshole. Blaze: Sometimes there are consequences. Sometimes they hurt.

Jewel: Wealth. Desire. The thing you want most. Thief: What you seek is not where you think it is, and it may be a tricky quest.

Dawn: There's always hope. And the darkness leads to light.... Death: I mean this basically means death, ok? But that's not necessarily a bad thing! (In the booklet for the deck itself, "Dawn" reads: "There's always hope. And the darkness leads to light. New beginnings.")

The Crone: Experience. Perspective. Maybe like, really long arms. The Maiden: Youth. Innocence. Exuberance. Cupcakes. (It is "The Hag" in-game rather than "The Crone".)

Tavern: Respect. A meeting. Negotiation. Lust: Desire. Indulgence (Depicts the Gentleman, by Molly.)

Joy: Play. Delight. Dance. Festivity. Poetry. Song. Chaos: Chance. A cacophony. Things may have gotten out of hand. (Depicts Jester.)

Love: It binds us, it frees us. What else needs be said? Temple: Consecration. Healing. Awe and reverence. (Depicts Yasha.)

The Fool: The actor. The hero. Cleverness. The Soldier: Authority. Submission. Rigidity. (Depicts Molly, by Molly.)

Dream: The future. Infinite possibility. The unknowable. History: The past. Calamity. Immutable.

Sacrifice: Payment. The fulfillment of a debt. That which is owed. Hunger: Unfulfilled need. An act of survival.

Growth: Life. Blossoming. Of the earth. To plant. Spring and Summer. Rot: Entropy. Things fall apart. To reap. Autumn and Winter. (Depicts Caduceus.)

Bond: Trust. Brotherhood. An oath. A sense of belonging. Betrayer: Deceit. Self-destruction. Weakness. Fear. Loneliness.

Home: Family. Familiarity. A beginning or ending. Traveler: The open road. An unexpected encounter. A stranger.

The Judge: Justice. Righteous authority. Metallic. The Tyrant: Avarice. Tyranny. Chromatic.

The Sky: Safe passage. Uninterrupted vision. The Sea: The lurking danger. Unclear and hostile depths. (Depicts Fjord, Fjord is upwards at "The Sky" and apparently Uk'otoa, then unnamed to Molly, is upwards at "The Sea".)

The Book: Fact. Preparation. Forthrightness. The Rumor: Guile. Wisdom. Improvisation. (Depicts Beau, she's depicted twice in the style of a playing card and upwards on both sides.)

Tinker: Technology. Science. Progress. Discovery. Magician: Magic, beyond mortal understanding. (Depicts Veth as Nott and Caleb.)

Also, for fun, the wiki has an article for the deck as it exists in-game, if you're curious about that.

[rametarin]

I hate it here.

Communicating when I don't feel well is absolutely pointless when I live with a fucking delusional narcissistic piece of shit. No matter what my symptoms or how I'm feeling unwell, it's always whatever stupid bullshit she has on her mind at the time.

"Oh you feel sick [in this way]? You must just be hot. Lets do something about the heat. Because clearly your problem is you're just hot. You don't have a problem, you're just hot. It's easily solved by spending no money and doing nothing, you just have to deal with the heat."

The air conditioner is on, it's only 70F in the house, and there's a fan blowing in my room, you fucking psychopath. I tell you I'm feeling unwell with breathing problems, you proceed to ignore my actual symptoms and then turn the AC off the dry setting.

And it has always been like this. It doesn't fucking matter what the illness or the problem is, it has to be whatever she wants it to be or it doesn't exist. She's quite sincerely one of those fucking assholes that saw Oprah Winfrey's "Power of Positive Thinking" and The Secret type bullshit and decided she could bend the universe backwards to make it whatever she wanted it to be, if only she gave into her delusions and tried to force reality to be whatever she wants. Just, trying to browbeat the universe.

I absolutely hate women like this, because only a sheltered being can think this way. To be a man that thinks this way, you have to have a certain degree of wealth and people working under you that feel the heat and friction and destruction before it gets to you, to insulate yourself from consequences. If you're a woman with men around you, you have people between you and the consequences of your actions that are socially obligated to do the shit you aren't on the hook to do. And that translates to someone in more of a moderator position that can try and stubbornly close their eyes and "BLAHBLAHBLAH UNIVERSE IT'S A CERTAIN WAY I CAN'T HEAR YOU" and think they're somehow beating back causality and entropy, while the men around them are burning alive.

We could stop spending money on frivolous shit and she could help me. She chooses instead to buy troves of bullshit that will rot in a week and refuses to buy or invest in anything else. But if I have any spending cash on me, suddenly my money goes into HER expenses. And there's fuckall I can do about it but go live by myself in a fucking gutter. I can't afford to leave, but I can't make any money staying. It is MARGINALLY safer than living in a ditch in any season but I can't make any progress while here.

And she refuses to stop buying enormous piles of shit for the simple reason she's too proud and indignant that SHE would have to help ME. From her perspective, she's supposed to have access to all my income and then if she spends it, I'm unable to escape. I can't make income in my condition until I'm well. She refuses to help me get well, for the simple fact that if I have to do it, then I'm on the hook for thousands of dollars of medical debt that I need a hole to live in to save money to pay off. Which she intends to pioritize herself first in my spending, so I'd be stuck paying TWO FORTUNES on minimum wage.

Despite my vocabulary and despite having nigh infinite space to write, I can't quite verbalize just how much I despise this cunt. I'll be happy after she dies of natural causes and she's no longer a pain in my ass. She has deliberately destroyed my life, my entire life, just for vanity and pride. Just, over and over again, chronic and sustained. Unfailingly. Choosing to be a fucking monster when she could just fucking stop at any point. But having absolute control and a noose around my neck and the fucking abyss if I try and just fucking leave is how she's decided to control my life. Threatening me with homelessness and implying she'll trump up stories about fake ass domestic abuse just to sic the state on me if I try and up and leave.

This worthless bitch uses denial as a weapon to manipulate everybody, including herself.

[kwiis]

MHA brain rot

2497 words. Slice of life-esque (i’m just having fun writing tbh, i think i’m reeaaallly funny)

Reader x someone in mha idk, reader works at some sort of firm.

Working in an office was bland.

You weren’t a secretary or anything, just a person in a glass box going through pages and pages of someone else’s finances.

Clients come and go, there’s the occasional gossip spread by a particularly mean group of middle aged women with the gall to hide daggers in their sleeves just to get ahead of everyone but other than that, there was nothing to do. If it wasn’t for the severe desperation for money that kept you going then you would’ve - A) turned into a Disney princess and live happily ever after with a bird on each shoulder, or B) turned into a hero (or a villain, they’re equally as enticing) ; however, neither of the options seemed likely.

Frankly, you as a whole just weren't that interesting. Your quirk, nullify - as they like to call it, literally doesn’t do anything other than prevent your body from being physically damaged by quirk related attacks, you can’t even control it for gods sake it was - and still is - always on as if you were a light with a broken switch. What are the odds that you manage to pull the most boring quirk from the genetic gacha machine - worst of all, neither of your parents carried this quirk so where the fuck did it come from? Were you a secret lovechild? Is mom and dad not telling you something? God knows. Thankfully, once you reached 17 your parents were kind enough to tell you whence your quirk came and that your grandma had the same quirk. Finally, one mystery solved.

Fast forward a few years and now here you are, working in an office, bound to four walls for - what feels like all eternity but is actually just 7 hours - a day. Excluding the regular overtime that your boss likes to indirectly inflict upon you. Calling him a menace would be an understatement, more like a 4 armed hell-raising demon. It’s like he flips a coin everyday and asks “should I be an asshole or a huge asshole today?”.

You’d been working at the office for a good couple of years yet you still lived in a shadier part of the city, you weren’t a thug of course but that college debt did some real damage to your sad, sad bank account, if a bank account could frown, yours would’ve been violently sobbing with its snot pooling on the floor. You could’ve chosen to live with your parents but the thought of burdening them for a few more years felt wrong ; so what better way is there to save money than to move into the cheapest, habitable apartment you can find and live off of plain pasta until you can afford to move out? And honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Sure there were loud inconsiderate neighbours, sporadic flickering lights and some unearthly being that you were convinced is the ghost of the past tenant living in your home but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

— — — — — — — — — —

You gather your documents and files into a small briefcase and leave the office. Yet again, your boss had piled more papers on your desk with a sly smile on his face and the words ‘good luck with your client’ leaving his lips. This man is the embodiment of all the reasons why you hate work. By the time you finished it all, it’d already been long past 11pm so no busses were running leaving you to walk back home with your briefcase clutched in your arms. Considering the whereabouts of your apartment, you knew better than to look back when you hear screams being ripped from some poor man’s throat during what you hope assume is a mugging.

Just a few more blocks until you reach home, all you have to do is turn right, walk straight, turn right again into the alleyway to the hidden entrance of your building and… Oh…

There lies your landlord, snivelling on the ground, begging for forgiveness and a…? man? Is that a man? With, what seems to be, strips of overcooked bacon stapled on his face and a parade of blue flames emanating from his palms, threatening to burn the whole building down if my landlord doesn’t pay up for owning a property in his territory. What a fucking joke - who does this man think he is? a magician? Can’t he take his burnt meat elsewhere and perform somewhere that isn’t directly in front of your building?

You're tired, agitated and overall exhausted, but you choose to turn back around the corner and pretend you didn’t see anything knowing that intruding would just make things worse for both you and your landlord. Unluckily for you, you hear the charred man say ‘What was that?’ and slow footsteps walking your way. Thinking under pressure was never your strong point and now, it will be the death of you. Your eyes dart around the dimly lit street for places to hide and then it hits you. You can't hide, not here in an empty street with trash cans full of trash, but you certainly refuse to die now. You start looking for escape routes and then the dark shape of the ladder to your building’s rooftop - which you caught a thief clambering up once - comes into view and bingo! Within a matter of seconds you’re gone, scuttling up the same ladder like a gravity-defying rat with a briefcase that threatens to fall with each movement you take to grab for the ladder.

Once you reach the summit and climb onto the roof, you peer down and see the same burnt-being squinting up your way. Triumphantly, you put both your middle fingers up and watch his brows furrow in pure anger at the sight of your smug expression. Ok maybe you shouldn’t have done that but whatever, you got back to your apartment in one piece, the contents of your briefcase made it home relatively intact and he didn’t follow you home.

In due time you’d come to find out that the lump of coal you had encountered was actually the infamous villain, Dabi, from an uprising villain group known as ‘the League Of Villains’.

— — — — — — — — — —

The following day, you had work, again. And once again, that demon your boss made his daily visit to your desk, dropping so many files onto your desk that you could practically hear the workload - thus, stripping you off the privilege of taking the bus back home. And once again, you took your regular stroll back home, unwillingly basking in the blearing lights from street lamps and police cars.

The moment you opened the door, something felt wrong.

But then again you were too tired and overworked to really care, all you wanted to do was plant your face in between your pillows and turn yourself into a bamboo shoot.

When you turned on the light, the unsightly figure of the man from last night came into focus. Dabi? Was it? You should’ve been fearing for your life and running at your fastest speed but instead, you let out an exasperated huff as you plop your briefcase down and look him straight in the eye. ‘What do you want? I’m exhausted so make it quick’.

Dabi’s eyebrows shot to his hairline at your reaction, he is a murderous criminal standing in your apartment and you’re carelessly worrying over your physical exhaustion, but then again, dressing up in a greasy wifebeater (what an ironic name because that’s exactly what he looks like he’d do to his wife) and a black trench coat that looks like it was sewn together by a 4th grader, makes him look like the weird mean kid from toy story (Sid, the kids name was Sid); he looked significantly less frightening than other villains.

‘how dare you talk to me like that.’ you hear him bellow.

In one swift motion his hand reaches for your wrist and a bright blue flame is pressed onto your skin, you don’t feel fear however, quite the contrary, after all, we all die eventually and frankly, you really didn’t mind dying at the hands of some brazen man with burnt flesh, at least it sounded like a cool and mysterious way to go. But then the stench of this man wafted into your nostrils, how can a man smell like both a wet dog and rotten milk simultaneously, his awful odours might as well be classified as one of the worlds many mysteries, gods, if this is the last thing you smell… and suddenly, your will to live has returned.

After a few seconds, you realise that the flames are taking no effect thanks to your quirk. You have never once been so grateful for your useless quirk. All you can feel is his warm wrinkled flesh on your skin, gross. A few more beats of silence later and some intense bewildered staring and you decide that tonight is gonna be a long night. Is he gonna keep holding your hand all night? Can't he find someone else to hold hands with? What a creep.

‘Who the fuck you calling a creep? I am Dabi, Japan’s best pyromaniac. My flames are more powerful than Endeavours.’ He replies.

‘Get a load of this guy’ you snort under your breath.

Fuck. You said that out loud.

His jaw slacks in awe and his grip loosens, you take the opportunity to squirm out of his grasp and make it run for it. As soon as you reach the outside, fresh, breathable air hits your nostrils and you find yourself apologising for ever saying the city stinks. Behind you were Dabi’s footsteps chasing after you hurriedly, you know this area like the back of your hand so it was no surprise that Dabi lost you eventually, although, by the end of the chase you definitely were hacking up an organ or two and most likely would’ve just dropped dead if it weren’t for the kind, sturdy trash can that gave you enough support to stand. You could hear his frustrated yelling from the main street as you stood catching your breath in an alley, take that sucker, one point to you.

— — — — — — — — — —

Great. Even though you managed to escape Dabi’s grimy hands, you were now in search of a place to sleep, obviously you can't go back to your apartment now because what if that abomination of a human-being was sitting there, waiting for you? Why must the gods target you, what heinous sin could you have possibly committed for them to test you so often, sure once you accidentally melted a whole box of your best friend’s Lego’s in your youth and every so often you succumb to certain human desires but that can’t possibly be the reasoning for your misfortune, why must they choose you and not some other yahoo living an equally miserable life to play with. As you contemplate your life choices, seeking refuge in a nearby hotel for a few days is the only option and thankfully, your area had tons, you just needed to find the right one. Easy enough right?

It took a while of course but eventually you stumbled across a decent looking hotel that looked the right amount of cheap and the right amount of liveable. You walked across the dust-covered carpet and up to the main counter where a woman who looked about her mid 50’s greeted you by looking up from her book, lifting her glasses and looking you up and down with an eyebrow raised to the roof. Well… the customer service might not be great but maybe the rooms will be okay… Upon requesting for a standard room, in which she replied with a silent nod, she gestured for you to follow her, walking up a series of staircases and down an uncomfortably narrow hallway to your room. It wasn’t a great room but it’s far better than what you expected. What you couldn’t understand, however, was why there was a king size bed?

‘I’ll let you know when your partner gets here’

Oh. OH.

By the time you compose yourself enough to respond she’s already halfway down the hallway, turning into the stairwell. Well, it’s better than nothing, who were you to complain about a bigger bed?

You didn’t bring any of your belongings with you but your wallet and phone were stashed in your pocket so you decided to order some takeout. Prices seemingly disappear when you’re running on nothing but the aftereffects of adrenaline coursing through your bloodstream, alas, you settled on 2 small dishes and 1 main dish.

As you leave your room and make your way down to the stairwell, another door swings open and a 5’9 male dressed in a black hoodie and some really worn down jeans walks directly into you (you note down his general appearance to make the police report quicker just incase). His frail frame knocks both of you over like a couple of bowling pins. You’re quick to apologise fearing that he may be some sort of hardened criminal with no mercy for poor, sweat covered people, standing up and going over to help him up, when you realise this man has absolutely no muscle. You’re surprised that he didn’t shrivel away and disintegrate into a pile of bones the moment your bodies collided with all things considered. You reach your hand out, wholly expecting him to accept it but instead he backhand slaps it away with a sharp tsk. He looks up at you and you take note of his features, scruffy white/blue-grey hair, a deep scowl painted over his features, red eyes burning with agitation - which is most definitely your fault, very very arid skin, a scar draped over the corner of his lips, giant eye bags and wrinkles, his neck littered in self-inflicted scratches, and in a sense, he had somewhat cat-like features - but then again who are you to judge, here you are drenched in sweat on your way to collect your greasy takeout.

‘Ah I’m really sorry about that’ you say apologetically, in all honesty this was actually his fault for walking into you so carelessly and yet you were the one apologising.

Before he can reply, a voice behind him calls. ‘What are you doing on the floor Shigaraki?’

Shigaraki…? Sounds familiar.

[sun-like-dem-bones]

Does anyone else feel like they're scraping by on basically handouts?

I know many in the US can relate that we rely on staying on our parents insurance till the cutoff at 26. I even got away with using both mine (when I had any) and my parents insurance to save money at the eye doc. Being half blind is a hugely taken-for-granted cost in life. It's still expensive no matter who's your insurer. Someone tell me an insurance plan for free exams and glasses/contacts even EXISTS.

I am so. So willing to do things in other people's names. I started making appointments for massages in my mother's name as she has a bunch of credits rolling over that she can't use. I wouldn't be getting massages at all otherwise.

I use my sister's phone number at various department stores when I had to spend the whole day looking for an adult luxury type look for a first impression luncheon at my job. Since she is a credit card member to big store chains, they occasionally have good deals only for those customers. And I just give them a "hmm let's try this number". And like, they KNOW. They just ask "insert sister's name" and I say "yes that's it!"

Having nice clothes is something I can't afford after having been laid off for two months. Let alone putting together a "look" all in one shopping trip. Usually I can only afford to thrift my clothes, which is where any sort of quality clothes from the 1990s and 2000s has ended up anyway. Being able to dress myself and slowly build my closet for less than $50 a month? A doable expense. Furniture from homegoods or Walmart? Or target when there's a sale? It'll have to do. Even if it is lightweight crap that will barely survive one apartment move. At least it won't require strong-person(s) labor cost.

I'm sure people have been sharing phone numbers for retail points for much longer than the birth of streaming subscriptions. No one is a goody two shoe about sharing services and now for most things you can't. I wonder how those van lifers even do their own.

Having room on your credit card(s) just to pay rent while you're laid off is a huge save or I would lose everything and move to another state with my mom. Probably couldn't rent again for 7 years and I could let mom watch me struggle to even get out of her hair. Look mom the system you thrive(d) in makes it impossible for me to even be independent from you! So much for empty nesting! 😜

It is an eventuality I have to accept. I don't know how often layoffs happen in the past but both times had nothing to do with my quality of work in the short span of basically about 3-4 years of corporate work? If I get laid off again this year, the state government won't help me again. I will probably sink $10k more into debt in a matter of months. And not much less than that if I got laid off in any year after this one.

I look for remote/hybrid jobs because I subtract the cost of the salary/hourly pay with the gas it takes for rush hour in a major metropolitan area. My internship was a huge help to even get me where I am today... Two hour commute, twice a day. Laid off the minute my university decided they won't require internships due to the pandemic.

Oh my god and do you know how long I can put off car maintenance!? Thankfully it's nothing serious like a check engine light or constantly having to pour more oil into a car that just eats a quart like its maple syrup every week. But I do have an axle throwing grease from like 6 months ago. It's basically no bigger an issue than a toddler burping up their spit. My tires are 6 years old now from the previous owner and the guy said the sidewall cracking is basically very slow dry rot while I have plenty of tread left. I feel like a grandma who's going to eventually hand her car down to some very appreciative grandkids. Old but low mileage and well kept up with.

Having folks that did decent for their time can be a huge privilege. Some well-doing parents are assholes and don't help at all for sure. I got a used reliable car after graduating so I could drive downtown to college and work. And it's literally a luxury nowadays to have a car as reliable as that thing for that long and for what? No car payment and therefore minimal insurance cost. Throwing 115,000 miles on it in, I dunno, 3 years? (I don't know what was more mileage, delivering pizza or commuting 80mi to and from work and college for a couple semesters) Gotta blow $600 on a new radiator or alternator here or there? Eh. Couple hood smushes from fender benders? Pff. Nuthin'

Well. Except gas.

Your boomer parents could even call it a handout to let you stay with them at a discounted rate of rent these days. Even more so if it's free as long as you're working/in school.

I wouldn't have a degree without my family's help, because, hear me out.

The government wouldn't even loan me enough to cover the cost that I couldn't afford.

Between the maximum that they would loan me, and what I could come up with working full-time summers and part time during school, LiViNg at HoMe, would only cover 2/3rds of the price of my tuition.

Frankly having to do both school and work hurt my ability to do well in actually retaining the information, and having better grades. For difficult degrees like art, architecture and really any of the sciences, I barely passed when I didn't have to work that one year. And then we decided well, you scraped by with a D in one class so you will be behind a year to take things in order. It was already unaffordable at this 5 year trajectory plan. Come home and figure something else out.

It's insane to me that so much had to happen to even get me where I am and-

I just. I feel like, you're either struggling at rock bottom, or even if you have a 401k started, some level of ability to see a doctor, like, if you're really sick bad, free coping mechanisms like massages and occasional therapy sessions, you're still barely scraping and often your needs can't be met, and rarely any wants.

I still can only afford the cheapest gym, veterinarian, sometimes even diy mechanic. The things I do have built up such as clothes, jewelry, purses, pots for some plants- they only exist from birthday gifts, dead relatives, or the time of my youth before I knew I was supposed to save my good-grade money just to have extra I dunno $3000 laying around for a month without a job??

I may have decent funds now to afford the housing cost that basically eats people, wallets, and sanity, as if it were the blue pacman eating dollars around the board and rather turning our souls INTO ghosts, but I certainly don't have enough TIME.

Like. How does anyone move up in life without free or cheap handouts?

And to think that I make the amount that my folks made individually. Which together raised 2.5 kids on, lived in a house (which was bought on 1 income), and had 2 cars and 2 dogs?

I just have me and two cats and we can't even afford van-life. Let alone an apartment by ourselves. We'd have a hurricane, a fender bender or major maintenance, a feline dental cleaning before his teeth fall out, every couple months something happens.

I don't think the middle class used to rely on handouts.

Aw crap when was the last time I saw the dentist.

[imgonnabehonest]

personal log 06 18 2024

i've been tasked with writing a letter to my dad about how i feel about him for therapy reasons

i haven't felt much but disdain for you since before i ended up in the hospital. you're such an arrogant asshole when you talk, about how you get them good at shoprite and you know what you're doing with your overdue credit card bills. i mean, if anything you're planning to live your life as a loser in debt and then pass the bill on to your kids so. cool, i guess. you're pretty successful if nothing else. before that i did want you to like me. that's why i stuck with the music thing so long, you seemed somewhat engaged up to a certain point.

i spent years listening to mom spew horrendous, hateful things about you and you hardly said boo. i was impressed the few times you did stand up for yourself, but those were few and far between. but then, you were as nasty as she was half the time. i mostly think about that time i wanted to go to the fair as a kid, and asked for about $60 total over three nights, and you told me i was getting expensive.

i don't have that many memories of actually interacting with you, i'm not sure if i've repressed them, or more likely they were just never there to start with. i remember a lot of bad vibes, and feeling uncomfortable going out places with you or if you were driving me somewhere. i remember being repulsed by you from a very young age but i don't know why. i don't know what you did to me and i probably never will but i can't wait until you're rotting in hell and we never have to think about you again.

[makangerous]

Ayumu Rank 7 (Fortune Confidant)

You receive a text message from Ayumu.

Emi… Turns out I couldn't help myself after all. It's probably better if you don't talk to me anymore.

(Ayumu sounds down. I should go see him soon.)

You rush over to Shinjuku and find him outside his usual building. Ayumu has his few belongings in a pile beside him on the sidewalk.

No, don't look at me. I can't take it! I don't deserve your concern! Go away!

>Nope.

Ugh, I figured you'd say that. You didn't leave after I told you to go away when we first met. Why would this time be any different?

Stuff obviously didn't work out with that asshole Fukui. He showed up and demanded my final offer. Then he said my rent money wasn't good enough. That he could get twice that from a business tenant. He forced me to pack up and leave. I'm back on the street, with no idea where to go. If only I'd started saving up earlier…

>Stay with me.

Don't pity me! …It's not that I don't appreciate you offering. It's just that I'd never be able to repay you. I'm done being in debt to others.

Part of me says I shouldn't leave this spot and let myself rot away instead. But you're not going to allow that, are you? …Fine, I'll get a cheap hotel room somewhere. What will happen when the money runs out, though? Nah, I can't allow that to happen. Time for me to start calling hotels. I'll see you… sometime.

Your phone rings in front of Leblanc.

I made it into a hotel. It's cramped, but at least I can charge my phone. And I've calmed down a little. You seemed worried, so I wanted to let you know. I'm also on edge because Mementos has been way too quiet. Before he got arrested, I used to hear a voice there that sounded exactly like Kiritani's. The things he said were horrible. Yet I wish I could still hear him. The silence is worse, somehow. Anyway, I don't expect you to understand. That's all. Bye.

[dzthenerd490]

I reach out to you with a heart heavy with grief and fear. In the chaos of Gaza, my family faces an unspeakable tragedy after the loss of my father and my elder brother. Each day feels more treacherous than the last, and we are desperate to escape the looming danger. Your compassionate assistance is our only hope to evacuate my mother and siblings to safety. Your kindness, no matter its size, carries the promise of a lifeline in our darkest hour. Please, may your heart guide you to help us in our time of need.

Okay just going to give a warning here, if this guy messages you like he did me then please know it's a scam. I already checked out his PayPal link which he put on leads to some guy called Benson Komen. That is not a Palestinian name.

Also, the profile pic is obviously taken form this article.

In border opening, Gazan relief but Israeli worry (nbcnews.com)

Or it could be from hundreds of the other articles that use this EXACT SAME picture.

But I'll give credit where its due, it was clever to have on your blog have the phrase "أحبك يا فلسطين" which translates to "I love you Palestine". Too bad it still didn't work, idiot.

If you going to pull a scam you should at least be smart. Normally I would criticize you for using a tragedy to get some money but let's be honest you don't give a shit. You're just a money-grubbing asshole that is willing to do anything for a quick buck. Now maybe, that's not entirely true, maybe you are tight on money, maybe you need to pay off debts, or maybe your desperate to stop living with your parents.

Well guess what asshole, People are being slaughtered in Gaza, families are being torn apart, and their very culture is being ripped apart piece by piece! SO, IF YOU NEED ANY FUCKING MONEY THEN GO OUT AND BEG FOR IT LIKE A PROPER HOBO! You're a sick piece of shit for using this horrific slaughtering of innocent people as a cover to get just a quick buck. You deserve to rot for this.

[druidgroves]

some thoughts on my new girl

she’s the only child of wealthy winemakers back in cyrodiil. a very precious business to her father, as it had been in the family for several generations.

however eventually her family went into debt & started borrowing from predatory sources to keep the business afloat.

one such source was another noble family rumored to have ties to the thieves guild in cyrodiil, but of course this could never be proven. they had a son around valeria’s age named magnus who had a thing for her that she did not reciprocate.

he probably pursued her a lot throughout their youths & she just did not like him lol. probably punched him once.

when valeria’s father couldn’t make good on the money he owed the family, they started sending men to rough him up. eventually, he ended up bed ridden after a particularly bad interaction. the men left with the threat that if they didn’t get their money soon, he’d loose something precious to him.

valeria’s father thought they meant they would just take the winery from him as a way of paying back his debt, so he slept with a dagger under his pillow & the deed to the winery, failing to realize that they meant his own daughter. so, while he was up for weeks out of paranoia that they’d take the deed, his own daughter was kidnapped right under his nose.

and because they’re Broke, he can’t send people to take her back.

so valeria sits in the basement of a safehouse outside the city for a while. sometimes magnus would come visit her, tell her he’s sorry for what his family is “forced to do.” subtly implies that if she really loved her father, she could help get him out of this mess by merging their families through marriage & his debt would be erased. basically using this as a way to get what he wants + what his family wants.

valeria tells him to go fuck himself & that she’d rather rot than suffer the thought of marrying him.

and because he’s a petty asshole, magnus let her do just that. valeria has no idea how long she was down there for, only that it was long enough for her to sus out the identities of the guards + their schedule. she manages to get one of them to talk with her for a while, building up a rapport until she manages to sneak the dagger off his belt & slit his throat with it. she goes on a well deserved rampage of slaughtering the men keeping her captive, earning a few face scars in the process. then, she sits & waits for magnus to make another visit.

when he comes by, valeria ambushes him but fails to completely get one over on him, resulting in the fight that gave her the rest of her facial scarring. she does kill him though.

with how much money, power, & influence magnus’ family has, valeria knows there’s not much she can do that they won’t pay someone to cover up. so she leaves cyrodiil without ever saying goodbye to her family & ends up in skyrim.

she’s naturally pretty quiet & light-footed, which lends itself perfectly to being a thief. she’s better at general swiping & breaking & entering thievery than straight up pickpocketing though.

she ends up joining the thieves guild tho & does their whole quest instead of the dragonborn because my dragonborn didn’t ever join the guild lol

[pandoraborn]

I don't really have a prompt but I have an idea: Technoblade standing up for Tommy against Dream *it's perfection*

He’s not sure what possessed him to visit dream in prison. It’s not like they were actually friends to begin with. They did have a mutual goal and partnership, but in Techno’s eyes, that’s about the extent of their friendship. Yet, something had possessed him, today of all days, to visit Dream.

Maybe he simply feels bad for Dream being in isolation for so long. It’s not even that Techno can relate; he’s been in a self-imposed isolation and exile, but he still has all the freedoms and liberties that an open world can bring. He can’t imagine what it’s like to sit trapped behind a literal lava-fall, feeling the heat burn into your flesh and keep you uncomfortable at all times.

Hell, Dream doesn’t even have a fucking bed.

Techno stares at the clock on the wall, the obsidian mixed with the crying obsidian, and the chest full of untouched books. Dream is just standing in place, staring at him. Techno wishes he could see the expression on the other being’s face, but that stupid mask is keeping yet another wall between them. He’s not sure how to spark a conversation, or even if he should, since Sam had warned that Dream isn’t speaking to anyone.

After what feels like forever, Dream hands a book over to Techno. Techno stares at the being before flipping it open, reading the first page.

I tried to call in that favor from you. It’s not too late Techno.

Techno laughs as he hands the book back. “You were going to kill Tommy and Tubbo. I wasn’t about to let you do that.” He leans awkwardly against the wall, only to wince and shiver when the heat from the obsidian burns him through his shirt. He rubs his shoulder as Dream scribbles furiously in his book again. When he hands it back, the first line is crossed out, and there’s more text below.

I wouldn’t have killed Tommy. Just kept him as my toy.

Techno glares, now chucking the book back. “You can’t have Tommy again. I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him, but you do realize no one is letting you near him? Hell, I should warn him not to come back here.”

I will get out, Techno. You still owe me a favor, and I’m going to make you fulfill it. Your wishes, and Tommy’s wishes, don’t matter to me.

“Then you can rot,” Techno snarls. Coming here was a definite mistake. He should have known that Dream would only taunt him about Tommy. That’s still a sore spot for the piglin. Everything involving Tommy is a sore spot, but he’s not about to show weakness in front of Dream. The more stoic he appears, the more frustrated Dream will be.

“I’m cancelling that favor. Any debt I owed you went out the window the second you threatened Tommy.”

I know you still care about the boy. I’m willing to see what lengths you’d go through to protect him.

Techno stiffens. Dream is stuck here in prison, Dream is trapped here, and with the mining fatigue in effect, there’s no way anyone can break in and save him. Dream’s only way out is through Sam, and Techno know Sam takes being a warden very seriously. Now he understands why. It doesn’t make this situation any less terrifying. Not just for him, but for Tommy.

“You’re a mistake,” Techno grumbles, turning away from the entity. He’s grabbed by the shoulder and whirled back around. Dream’s pushed up his mask now so only his lips show, and they’re curled back in a grin that...Techno would chalk up to nightmare-ish.

“Count down the days with me Techno,” Dream whispers in a voice too rough and broken. “It’s all numbers at this point.”

Techno pushes Dream off him and summons Sam with his comms. “Hey Sam, let me out of here, I’m done. I’m done, I want out.” Does he sound panicked, rather than stoic? He feels panicked. He feels claustrophobic, too hot, too close to death. He’s trapped in here with a mad man, and one punch would send Techno right to respawn.

Actually, that might not be a bad idea.

“Step into the water, Techno,” Sam says, sounding just as stern as before. “I’ll get you out of here.”

Escape can’t come soon enough. Sure enough, the next thing Techno is aware of, is being next to Sam, and Sam is offering a hand out to hold him steady. Techno swats it away as he unsteadily gets to his feet.

“Is Dream stuck there?” he asks. “There’s no chance of escape?”

“No, why? What did he tell you?”

“Don’t let Tommy come back,” Techno growls. “Don’t let Tommy anywhere near that asshole, not if we want Tommy in one piece and healing.”

“I...” Sam blinks, before turning his head away to walk Techno out. “Okay. You’re not usually this frazzled, so I’m assuming he’s-”

“-Manipulating me, yeah. It worked, because I’m now not letting that idiot child out of my sight.”

Sam laughs easily, and it’s working to lighten the mood. “Only you, Techno. Protect your Theseus. Just stay out of his hair, he deals with a lot.”

“Will do.”

He’s outside and safe. Away from Dream, away from that hellish nightmare that is Pandora’s box. He’s still scared out of his mind, and knows that Dream hadn’t been lying.

Protect your Theseus.

He will.

tagging:

@egopocalypse, @mysterio-is-the-truth, @dragonsight9

[dorki-c]

The three cups; ‘Cup of Curiosity’.

 Characters: Vil!Deku, (Reader), Brief mention of; Dabi, Mr.Compress, Shigaraki, Toga, and Kurogiri.

Relationship: Villain Deku X (Reader)

A/N: SO, now that this whole shit storm of a year is coming to an end, I decided to celebrate it by making a three part series of Villain Deku, because somebody (who ilsm) relates to me when its that time of day and we have Villain Deku brain rot. But this three part series was actually inspired by my own actions, so I gotta blame myself! XD

TW: Alcohol, intimidation tactic (If ya squint!), and lots of swearing (But this is me for crying out loud...)

[Next Part: --->]

It was strange to be called upon by Deku.

Sure, Shigaraki called (*cough* *cough* bribed *cough*) you to his ‘meeting’ room to inform you of the following ‘errands’ you had to do- it’s mostly going to several over secret hideouts and torturing small-town gangsters who thought it was funny to fuck around with debts they owed to somebody who asked or hired (you didn’t pay attention to what it was called) a person from the LOV to ‘rough’ up the victim - but every now and then, it would be to go to GIran with Dabi, also known as telling Dabi not to be a fucking prick to our most trustworthy broker.

But the likelihood of Dabi not being a prick is below negative one hundred percent. So, don’t have anybody start on any solution to stop it, because you certainly don’t want any participation in the patchwork villain’s business.

Though, a clicking sound that vibrated and bounced off of the vacant corridor walls had reminded you where you were headed; Deku’s room. The room of a gentlemen (asshole), who commands us alongside Shigaraki (a wannabe leader compared to Shigaraki), and helps us get our weapons to assist our quirks (that’s actually Mr. Compress’s job in reality).

 Were you in trouble? There was no plausible answer to this sudden announcement. Though, what is surprising is that it’s probably the second time- in a month- this has happened to you.

Who even cares at this moment? Besides the main factor that everyone (besides you) knows the green-haired villain has a crush on your cold-hearted attitude and your mouth-watering body, it isn’t a surprise that he wants a bite outta you- considering the high frequency of times, you have felt somebody’s ‘laser’-eyes burning judgement and criticisms into your back every goddamn minute- as you swirl a shot glass of tequila when sitting in the bar area of the base, it all pointed back to a green-haired villain as Toga would gush over how he seems distracted because of somebody’s revealing outfit....

(I’m sure you can figure out who’s outfit it might have been.)

Creep. Hissed the back of (y/n)’s mind, when she sees those polished and distinguishingly clean silver door handles jutting out from the jet-black door. “Here we go again.” She muttered under her breath when grasping the unusual- is it even wrong to call it ‘unusual’- cold door handle and pushing it open.

There, he relaxed under the glamorous illuminations that spiced the boring white walls of his room- acting like a spoiled fucking brat. (You wished that you had a teleportation quirk like Kurogiri at this moment.)

Green bangs were swooped backwards to reveal a pair of verdant emerald eyes- where they had a thin line of twinkling smugness- as the top two buttons of his ‘designer crafted’ white blouse scantly reveals the edge of his collar bone alongside seeing a faint trace of the skin on his waist as his black trousers lightly tugged downwards helping the white shirt pop out ever so slightly from the waistline.

Even if he looked handsome, there was always a hint of jealousy and hatred for him. There was always going to be that hiss or venomous snap of your voice when you spoke to him because he had so much more than you or was it the power he held?

Nonetheless, with one of his legs crossed over the other one as it was held up by an armrest, Deku’s back hit the other armrest where his attention was gathered at a newspaper article and the simple curved glass of deep crimson liquid pooled peacefully at rock bottom.

As half of his body was covered by the shadow of his chair- which he arrogantly claims as his ‘throne’- the sleek black leather was delicately shined to his appropriate standard, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at Deku’s ridiculous sitting position. It's like he wants to be seen as an adult but instead ruins that image by acting like a child.

It’s not like he’s noticed you yet, maybe you should time how long it takes for the boy to see your impatient form tapping the lacquered brown floor with only the tips of your boots alongside hearing the metallic objects jingling- more like clanking, however, who gives a shit?

You didn’t have time for this, the mission that both you and Twice had to leave for was starting tomorrow and with all of your weapons needing a really good clean after last nights turn of events, Deku could really make effective use of his eyes to notice that somebody is waiting for him to speak.

Maybe it has been five or ten minutes? Maybe you should leave or maybe he finally noticed you. (Y/n) was already becoming annoyed with the sudden announcement, but now this shit? Does she need to call the manager or something- it's like she is receiving crappy service at a restaurant, which isn’t good.

The subtle- and very lazily- toss of the flimsy newspaper didn’t distract you from eyeing the male’s actions. Tilting his head towards the wine glass he was holding, an eyebrow quirked up in fascination of (y/n)’s impatience with a steady scowl crawling slowly against her lips- she just needs to stay calm and respectful- however, it’s becoming ever so difficult by each millisecond. 

“What do you want, doll?” Furrowed eyebrows created creases in her skin, “I should be asking you that question, sir.” He smirked, took a dainty sip from his wine, and moved his body into a normal sitting position.

God, she’s so enticing to anger and manipulate, it’s becoming more than a drug for him- its steadily on the route of becoming an addiction.

“My, my, doll face- I never knew you were feisty!” As he took another sip out of his glass, his head shook in amusement of your response but as well as in curiosity of your next response. “So what? I never knew you were an alcoholic,” Placing a hand on your hips, you continued, “yet, you have at least seven empty bottles of red wine- all of them being the same brand.” His, on cue, falsely offensive gesture- where he places his free hand on the crest of his chest and gasps- was presented to you as a way to ‘let go’ on him.

Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean- you have no sympathy for him. “Now, are you going to tell me why I’m here?” Snapped (y/n), as Deku really knows how to push her buttons. He really does.

“Aww, that won’t be necessary…” Again, that smile of white but deadly opaque canine teeth was used against you as those broad shoulders curled inwards allowing a darken gaze of predatory domination where a thick glob of colourless liquid pushed against (y/n)’s throat to force itself backwards.

“I’m not playing your game, Deku.” A staggering step backwards betrayed your brave tone as you saw the last of the drinkable liquid pour downwards and a loud crash of glass elegantly shattering against the floor similarly to the elegance the man in the room carries around like a trophy.

Shaking his head in disbelief, it wasn’t till then that you swore you needed first aid assistance due to your heart bashing against each singular rib bone as it held a deadly sledgehammer. “I never said you were, doll face.”

Although he tried to get closer to you, the moment he placed both of his feet down on the floor is when your feet took you outside of the room and away from his reach.

“She’s so cruel…” Murmured the green-haired villain as it piqued his curiosity. 

Taglist:

@orenjineki, @haredabi, @in-this-house-we-stan-izuku, @glitterfreezed

[horrorslashergirl]

Chromeskull blackmailing the reader after he sees her kill her abusive father. Her father use to let Jesse use his funeral parlor and such so now the reader has to as well It's tense at first but Jesse ends up gaining feelings for and readers unsure what she feels about him until he saves her life from home invader. Sorry for the word vomit. 😊

Not exactly what you wanted, but I hope it turned out right at last 50%

Chromeskull x Reader- Farewell Job

There were a few things that Jesse Cromeans disliked, down from having his car scratched to a wrinkled suit, the most were when someone was in debt to him and the fucker had the audacity to play dumb and not answer his texts, especially the threatening ones. Normally, he would let his co-workers deal with such insignificant concerns, but none ignored Jesse Chromeskull Cromeans and got away without at last a broken wrist.

That's why he was driving at midnight full-on speed down the road to the funeral house where the old geezer was doing his business, and where Jesse sometimes decapitated his piggies. He couldn't wait to sink his knife into the man's back, maybe skin his legs off? He will have time to think about it once he has him bound to a chair begging for his life.

After one hour of speeding down and ignoring red lights, he managed to get to the said funeral house, parking the Bentley as the engine's sound died down into the silence of the night. Getting out of the car, he put on the chromed skull mask, smirking at the familiar coldness of it. He took the silver suitcase and waltzed to the front entrance which was surprisingly open.

No wonder...The disgusting bastard had a habit of drinking and always forgot to lock it. Not the first time.

Jesse expected to see the old scumbag passed down on a chair or better yet on the floor, blackout drunk, but imagine the surprised behind the silver mask when he saw the man on the floor with his head bashed in, brains spilling out.

Well, that is surely unexpected.

The old and rusty skin close by with pieces of the brain was probably the primary weapon.

Someone got here first.

Jesse took one step towards the corpse and he heard a door open and felt something sharp slash the black material of his coat along with a slightly deep wound of his biceps.

Brown eye locked on a feral face twisted into a deadly scowl that promised murder. The culprit was a female, young, and was ready to aim another hit, but Jesse was quicker and he knocked what looked like a scalpel from the tiny hand. His hand fisted her shirt and slammed her against the wall, pinning her there.

Despite the position she was in, no fear was in her eyes that were bloodshot, probably from lack of sleep. She was still snarling like she wanted to bite his head off.

"Let me go or I will cut your balls off!" You screamed at him, nails digging into the sleeves of his coat, trying to inflict some type of pain.

Jesse waisted little no time and after some struggling and an almost painful hit to his manhood, he had you bound to a chair, glaring at him with acidic eyes.

For someone so small you sure were a feisty one. He smirked behind the mask at your immobilized form. He couldn't recall the last time he was faced with such a dangerous piggy.

His usual piggies were always begging, pleading for their lives, or just running away, but fighting back was a low occurrence. To say the least, he was impressed, not many had hurt him and you did it so well, the stinging in his biceps hurt like a bitch, but Jesse was used to being stabbed and shot, all the tattoos of covering up his scars were proof to that.

He was looming over you, debating what he should do. He was so tempted to rip your jaw off, but that wasn't the primary reason why he was here. He needed some information because the fucker that was in debt to him was dead.

Jesse pulled out his phone and quickly typed in.

'Who are you, piggy?'

You arched an eyebrow at the tall man.

"Why should I answer you?"

WITTY PIGGY.

'Because I can do worse than what happened to that corpse over there.'

"The fucker had it coming." You found yourself muttering under your breath.

That piqued Jesse's interest. You seemed to speak with venom when mentioned about the old male.

'Related?'

"Father....But why the fuck do you even care?!" Your aggressive demeanor quickly came back and Jesse had to admit the way your brows were furrowing and eyes blazing with fury were kind of cute.

'Because your DEAR father owns me a lot of money.'

"Not my fucking problem." You snarled and in the dim light, Jesse could see the old purple bruises around your left eye, along with deep fingerprints on your neck.

Not done by him. It didn't take a genius to figure out what your father did to you. No wonder you were like a tiger that came out of a circus cage, ready to destroy everything in your path.

'I must admit, you put on a good show. I'm impressed.'

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, jerk." You snorted.

Jesse licked his lips behind the mask, so tempted to use that mouth of yours for other things that cursing him out.

Yes, killing you won't get him any benefice, although he was tempted to cut your tongue off.

'You own me.'

You spat on his silver mask, making his chest rumble like he was ready to pounce you, but Jesse composed himself.

"I don't own you shit." You muttered in a murderous tone and if Jesse could talk he sure would laugh.

'You have no idea in what deepness you are, little girl.'

You internally groaned at the use of his words, always been treated like you were some hopeless child that couldn't stand up for themselves.

Well, tonight you proved everyone wrong by your masterpiece a few feet away from you two.

"Care to enlighten me why?" you asked, curious about what he was implying.

The skull masked man's broad shoulders moved up and down, silently chuckling at your blind eyes of what was happening. He began to type, this time taking a little longer.

'Tell me if I am wrong, but you just killed someone and you will most likely go to jail, despite that you will say that it was in pure defense. Judges these days aren't so merciful, doll. You wouldn't want to rot between four walls of concrete, would you now?'

You swallowed down at the electronic voice, nibbling on your lower lip in thought. As much as you hated it, he was right and by your expression, his body language spoke of satisfaction.

Egocentric jerk.

Here goes the typing again.

'But I am willing to make you a sweet deal that will assure you freedom. Your father owned me cash that you couldn't make even if you sucked on old men cocks all your life.'

You felt disgusted and if your hands were free you would have shown that phone down the man's throat.

"You're saying that...."

'Work for me and you will be safe.'

"Doesn't sound like freedom to me."

'Better than jail, no?'

Winning asshole.

----------------------------------

Your opinion on Jesse Cromeans was that he was a man which you would love go gauge his remaining brown eye out, that was the first month, but in time you learned to live with him being your 'boss'.

Nothing screamed dream job than cleaning the mess after the killings of your boss.

If you looked that over you could say that your life was at last perfect. He always made sure you had everything you needed and you couldn't be happier; down from expensive clothing to delicious rich food, you were spoiled, so different from your past life.

You were currently scrubbing down the tiles of a bathroom after a 'piggy' as your boss liked to call them had her guts spilled out. You whipped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, then you heard footsteps approach.

When you turned around you were meet with the scarred face of Jesse, the black eyepatch covering the empty socket of his eye, the remaining brown one observing your work.

'You get better and better.' he signed.

The first thing that Jesse did when you agreed to work for him was to take you to ASL lessons because typing over again on his phone was irritating.

"I take that was a compliment." you muttered, throwing the rags into a black bag to be burned.

'Are you free tonight?' he signed.

"Another murder scene that needs to be cleaned?" you asked, disposing of your gloves.

Jesse chuckled silently and stepped to your form, taking your chin between his fingers, your eyes moving from his face to his full inked forearms. His hand left your chin to sign.

'No. Dinner tonight. I've got you a nice dress and shoes.' he signed, making you look at him dumbfounded.

"B-But you're my boss and-" you tried to reason, but a finger pressed to your lips.

You wanted to yell at him that this was forbidden, not to mention the age gap between the two of you.

'Taboo? You know I am notorious for being a nonconformist.' he signed with a smug smirk.

You rolled your eyes and stepped away from him, exiting the warehouse and walking outside.

"You are contemptible." you mused and Jesse followed after you.

'So? Tonight? At 7?' he insisted, ignoring your insults.

You couldn't deny that it was tempting. He wasn't like any other man, always sybaritic, fast-living, and exorbitant luxurious vibes.

You could swear that he was the perfect incarnation of pride, not that you minded, because it was attractive, just like the forbidden fruit. You knew how poisonous he was, but the sweetest taste was mind-blowing.

"Do I have to wear heels?" you asked, making him grin, his arms wrapping around your waist, a squeak leaving your lips at the sudden touch.

His expression spoke more: 'What do you think?'

You groaned, resting your forehead against his chest.

"You own me big time for this."

[destiel-love-forever]

What a Jerk

It’s Valentine’s Day. For Castiel & Dean, that means war. 

Read below or on AO3: HERE

"What a jerk," Castiel grumbles, closing the door as the delivery man leaves.

"Who?" Benny asks from his spot on the couch a few feet away. He turns to look at Castiel, more words about to come out. Then he sees the giant bouquet of flowers in Castiel's hands and grins. "Oh. Dean."

"Stop smiling. He's an asshole." Castiel storms off to the kitchen. Since his penthouse apartment is an open-floor plan, though, he doesn't escape Benny. He just gets his bitch face from a new angle.

"Yes," Benny says sarcastically. "What an asshole for buying you flowers."

Castiel huffs as he searches for a stupid vase for the stupid flowers. "I told him not to do this."

"Yeah, bad idea. Telling Dean not to do something is pretty much the equivalent of challenging him to a duel."

There's a dusty vase beneath the sink. Castiel takes it out and fills it with water, not bothering to clean it first. When it's filled enough for the flowers to survive - because Castiel isn't a monster, he's not going to purposely kill beautiful flowers - he stuffs the bouquet into the vase.

"There." He sets the vase on his kitchen island and breathes a sigh of relief. "At least it's over now. Right?"

Benny snorts. "Dude, it's 8 AM. There's no way that's all he has planned for the day."

"You work for me, ya know," Castiel says in a voice that's supposed to be threatening but isn't. "You have to take my side."

"I'm your bodyguard. I keep you safe from bullets and kidnappers. Not overbearing lovers."

Castiel sighs in frustration. He pulls out his phone and very aggressively types in Dean Winchester's number.

Dean answers almost instantly. Clearly, he had been waiting for this call.

"Hey, C-"

"This stupid romantic nonsense is a waste of money and I swear Dean Winchester if you get me any more presents today I'm going to break up with your stupid ass!"

"So you got the flowers," Dean says with a smile in his voice. "Good. You should get ready for work, my love. Don't want to be late."

"Don't ignore me, Dean! You promised. You promised not to do this!"

"No. You ordered me not to do this. I never agreed."

"Dean-"

"Have a nice day, babe. I'm sure I'll be hearing from you soon."

"Dean!"

"Oh, and Cas?"

Castiel grits his teeth, fuming. "What?"

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Castiel growls - yes, growls - and hangs up. He throws his hands in the air and turns to Benny. "What a jerk!"

----

When Castiel stops at his favorite coffee shop for his usual morning Americano with cinnamon, the barista already has his order ready. It has a message written on it in Dean's hand writing, black sharpie scrawling its way across the disposable cup.

You are so brew tiful. I love you like I love my coffee - inside me (;

Castiel rolls his eyes. "What a jerk."

"Sorry?" the barista says in confusion.

"He's a jerk." Castiel grabs a disposable cup from the stack beside the register. He pops the top off the one Dean wrote on and pours his coffee into the fresh, non-Valentine cup. Then he tosses the graffitied cup and nods at the barista. "Have a good one."

"Uh… yeah." The barista watches him go, looking crestfallen. Clearly she had found it romantic. Disgusting. "You too."

----

Another bouquet of flowers is waiting for Castiel when he enters his private office. He glares at it from the doorway for a long moment before huffing in annoyance, going over and grabbing the damn thing. Still dressed in his trench coat, still with his briefcase in his left hand, Castiel walks down to the bull-pen and lifts the vase in the air.

"Who fucked up today and needs a Valentine's Day present for their significant other?" he yells, his anger making most of his employees shiver or tense up.

It takes a second but then a woman in the back tentatively raises her hand. Charlie. She's dating Dorothy from accounting. They're a cute couple.

"They're yours," he announces, thrusting them out in the air to silently tell her to come get them.

Blushing, she makes her way to Castiel. She mumbles something about not forgetting but running out of time this morning. Castiel couldn't care less whether Charlie forgot or not. He just doesn't want to stare at the damn flowers all day.

Once they're out of his hands, Castiel waves a hand in the air and says, "As you were."

Benny is smirking when Castiel gets back to his office.

"What's so funny?" Castiel asks in a voice that's supposed to be threatening but just makes Benny's lips lift higher. "What?"

"I'm assuming you didn't see the box of chocolates."

Castiel parts his lips, about to ask what Benny means, when he sees a heart-shaped box beside where the flowers had been. He deflates. Goes over to his chair. Slumps down. Sighs dramatically. Then he takes the box and reads the attached note.

Life was like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you're gonna get. - damn glad I got you, babe ♡

"What a jerk," Castiel growls at the box. He rips the lid off and snatches a piece of chocolate before pushing it toward Benny. "Stop fucking smiling and eat. And don't tell him I ate any of it. That asshole knows I can't resist chocolate so you have to lie."

"Sure thing boss," Benny says with a wink. "Sure thing."

----

"Are you Castiel?" a man dressed in a cupid costume asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "Nope."

Unfortunately, he's in the breakroom at work and his employees think this whole battle between Dean and him is hilarious. Balthazar says, "He's lying" at the same time Chuck says, "He's Castiel."

Castiel decides he's going to fire them both.

The cupid smirks and turns to Castiel. Castiel puts a hand up in protest. "Whatever it is, I don't want-"

"Lord Almighty,

I feel my temperature rising

Higher higher

It's burning through to my soul

Boy, boy, boy,

You gonna set me on fire

My brain is flaming

I don't know which way to go

Your kisses lift me higher

Like the sweet song of a choir

You light my morning sky

With burning love"

"Nope," Castiel mumbles under his breath, grabbing his lunch and heading out the door. "Nope, nope, nope."

The damn telegram follows him. Everyone in the office stares, their jaws dropped open as the goddamn CEO is followed around by a glittery man dressed as cupid singing an Elvis song. Castiel isn't even embarrassed. He's just pissed.

Castiel enters his office and shoots a glare at Benny who had conveniently been gone to the bathroom when this all went down but is now back at his rightful place by Castiel's side. "Make him leave."

"It's coming closer

The flames are now lickin' my body

Please won't you help me-"

"Why? He isn't a threat."

"He has a weapon!"

"It's a plastic bow, boss."

"And my chest is a-heaving

Lord Almighty

I'm burning a hole where I lay."

"I own this goddamn building and I'm telling you, head of my security, to kick him out!"

Benny gives him a wry smile. "I'll get right on it, boss. Highest priority."

"Cause your kisses lift me higher

Like the sweet song of a choir-"

"You're fired."

"Oh, well, in that case I suppose he'll get to stay."

"Ah, ah, burning love

I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love."

Castiel grabs his office phone and presses 7, gritting his teeth. With every ring that passes, his rage boils. He's a breath away from exploding.

"Singer's Auto, this is Dean."

Castiel slams a finger down on speaker phone and turns to glare at cupid as he finishes the damn song.

"Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love."

Finally, it's over. Cupid winks at him before leaving. Benny smirks. Dean - the jerk that he is - is laughing hysterically on the other line.

"I hate you," Castiel states very matter-of-factly.

"Oh come on!" Dean snorts a laugh. "It's Elvis! You love Elvis!"

"Not anymore! Congratulations, Winchester. You have officially ruined Elvis for me."

Dean laughs harder. "God, I love you babe."

"Gaaaah, no!" Castiel hangs up the call before Dean can use his mystical powers to sweet talk Castiel into forgiving him. It ain't happening.

Castiel bangs his forehead against his desk a few times before deflating against it. "What a jerk."

----

Castiel walks into the first jewelry store he comes across. He storms past all of the stupid Valentine's decorations and up to a young man in a sharp suit who is smiling far too wide if you ask Castiel's opinion. Castiel smacks the palm of his hand on the glass display in front of the man and growls, "I need a goddamn engagement ring."

----

A ring box heavy in his pocket, Castiel stands outside Dean's small two-bedroom house. The yellow paint is peeling back in places, revealing the blue beneath. They come from two completely different worlds. Dean, the eldest son who sacrificed everything he had to raise his baby brother, dropping out of high school, working two jobs, scraping his father off whatever bar floor or sidewalk he ended up on most nights. Castiel, the eldest son who had the world handed to him, private prep school, undergrad at an Ivy league, two master degrees, no student loan debt, a $100,000 no-strings gift from his father to start up his own company.

Dean lives in a house that was foreclosed and rotting on the inside. He’s owned it for three years now. The floors and roof have been replaced. The staircase rebuilt. The walls repainted. The kitchen remodeled. The bathroom gutted. All Dean’s doing since he couldn’t afford to hire contractors.

Castiel lives in a penthouse apartment in a building that’s only seven years old. He got to pick in a catalogue what model of every room he preferred. Professionals molded his home into exactly what he wanted it to be in two weeks, handing it to him furnished and beautiful.

Dean works 60 hour weeks at his uncle’s auto shop, always smelling of oil and sweat. He drinks Jack Daniels. Listens to classic rock. Wears stained jeans and cotton shirts so worn they have holes in the collars and become see-through in certain lighting.

Castiel works 80 hour weeks, but only 30 of them are spent in the office, the rest spent on his phone or at his home so he can lounge on his couch and peruse documents without worrying about employees bothering him. He’s currently working through a bottle of 1926 Macallan. He listens to classical music, as well as plays it himself on his own grand piano that overlooks the city. Wears tailored Brioni suits and silk ties to work, settling for Gucci denim pants and cashmere sweaters when he's casual.

They should have never even met. Castiel would never take his car to a low-grade dealership like Singers. Never. You just don’t do that. Castiel was sure they wouldn’t even know what to do with a custom built Tesla like his. Yet, there Castiel was, broken down outside of the city with a migraine the size of Texas and stubborn impatience that made waiting for the professionals from the dealership that would take 3 hours a choice he wasn’t willing to make. So, he typed in auto shops on google and picked the one nearest to him.

Singers Auto.

Dean had showed up all southern drawl and warm smiles. Flirted right past Castiel’s foul mood. Stroked the hood of his Tesla like it was a cherished pet. Spoke to Castiel confidently about his knowledge on the vehicle. He offered to tow it into the city for Castiel if Castiel wanted but assured Castiel that if he chose to let Dean bring it to Singer's Auto, Dean would be able to take care of it.

“Easy fix,” Dean had said. “In and out. Twenty minutes.”

Castiel had agreed. It was completely out of character but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted more time with the mechanic.

He left that day with a fixed car and Dean Winchester’s number.

They never once brought up the salary gap between them. Some nights they’d crash at Castiel’s. Some nights at Dean’s. They’d go to five-star restaurants and gorge on filet mignon and lobster. They’d go to McDonalds and demolish burgers and chocolate milkshakes. Neither of them so much as blink.

Castiel smiles to himself as he looks at the house again. Where will they live? Castiel could care less, if he’s being honest. He’ll move here if Dean wants. He can deal with the furnace that needs to be kicked every few days as a reminder to work again. He can deal with the pipes that always freeze in the winter. He can deal with the way the fifth step creaks because Dean messed up when building the staircase. As long as he has Dean Winchester, he has everything.

“The hell you doin’ out here?” Dean yells from the front porch, snapping Castiel from his thoughts.

The ring box in his pocket grows hot in anticipation.

“It’s Valentine’s Day!” Castiel yells back, casually walking across the street from where he parked. “I figured if you’re going to insist on celebrating the idiotic holiday, I might as well win by outdoing you.”

“Oh, really?” Dean huffs a laugh, taking the porch steps two at a time until he’s on the grass of his front lawn. “How do you expect to do that?”

Castiel stops when he’s on the sidewalk, about five or so feet between them. He gives Dean a cocky grin that makes Dean’s smirk fall just an inch. Dean Winchester doesn’t like to lose at things - especially all of these silly competitions they get themselves into.

How long can they go without having sex or masturbating, and who will break first and beg the other to fuck him?

Who can eat the most pie in one sitting?

Which one can buy the best Christmas gift?

Who can win the most tickets at the arcade?

How long can they keep their prank war going, and who will be the one to finally throw in the towel when it goes too far?

Who can scare the other badly enough to make them scream?

Which one of them will win the cheesy romantic award of Valentine’s Day 2020.

Castiel won the 1st, 3rd, and 6th.

Dean won the 2nd and 4th.

Neither have won the prank war bet - it’s still on-going.

But Castiel Novak is going to win this damn Valentine’s Day award. If Dean wants to play this game today, it’s on.

“Cas-”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel says softly, in a voice sickly sweet and loving. He lowers himself to one knee and reaches into his pocket.

Dean’s eyes flare with rage. “No! Don’t you dare!”

“You’re the love of my life-”

“Stop!”

“I can’t imagine any possible future that doesn’t have you in it-”

“I hate you so much right now,” Dean chokes out, eyes welling up.

Castiel smirks and opens the ring box. “Will you marry me?”

“No,” Dean grumbles with a pouty look on his face. Then he growls low in his throat and shakes his arms like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “Fuck - fine! Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Grinning, partly because the love of his life just agreed to marry him but mostly because instead of Dean evening the score Castiel is now 2 points ahead, Castiel pushes to his feet and slips the ring on Dean’s finger. He tugs Dean into his arms and kisses him breathless.

“Proposed to me on Valentine’s Day,” Dean says with an incredulous huff, resting his head on Castiel's shoulder and hugging him. “What a jerk.”

If you enjoyed this, please consider supporting my starving artist bum by donating at my Ko-Fi or becoming a Patron <3 Everything helps!

[just-call-me-johnny-archive]

The following contains mentions/implications of abuse, attempted sexual harrassment, mentions/implications of past sexual abuse/assault, graphic depictions of homicide/torture, mentions/implications of past suicide attempts, implications of police/military violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Johnny didn't learn for a while what the house wanted from him. It was clear that it demanded something of him. The ceiling seemed too low, mold-ridden even if he couldn't see any. The floors were freezing- wooden and splintering, but he hadn't bled once despite getting some shards embedded painfully into his hands when he searched the ground for his pencils after the moon went down. 

Every number he called about the electricity going out lead to a dial tone. His phone was strangely the only electronic- the only appliance- that still worked in the house. He had no idea how much time had passed since he'd been left in the bathroom to die and woke up with stark scars on his forearms, the shower curtain draped over his body, and the bathtub dry as a bone. And Vargas gone. For good it seemed. 

He almost wanted to believe it was a nightmare- that it all was a nightmare. So he tried to pick his life back up as he stepped out of the bathtub and went to find clothes and the thermostat.

One day, he found a bill on the table in front of the TV. He couldn't remember when he'd received any mail recently- let alone opened it. Even stranger than the bill was the message that had been printed on it. There wasn't any amount under 'AMOUNT DUE.' The only other print on the paper was red text reading 'UTILITY SERVICE TERMINATED DUE TO NONPAYMENT. REMIT PAYMENT TO CONTINUE SERVICE.'

There wasn't an address or a phone number to contact regarding the bill. Johnny was left confused over how to alleviate this debt. He didn't know who, when, where, or what. The only thing that he still had control over was the 'how.' He needed a job. 

 After digging around for a week or so, Johnny managed to uncover his portfolio that he'd submitted copies of alongside Edgar. He was not about to go back there- they loved his boyfriend and always doubted Johnny's judgment. 

There was a new comic publishing company; a start-up with a promising, rich CEO that was recruiting new styles. Macabre. Gothic. Grotesque. Mindfuck. It was perfect for Johnny. 

He put on the best outfit from his closet, something with a blazer and no rips in the jeans. He'd done his hair until the two antennae that hung over his face were hidden amongst the rest of his combed blue hair. Johnny walked into the office feeling confident that his second chance at life had been a blessing or a reward for surviving. 

Everyone working at the company currently was skinny, wired, and brutal. Nobody seemed to actually be creating anything- instead, they were all busy working on photo manipulation and advertisements. There also seemed to be someone altering a passport photo meticulously. 

Johnny's meeting with the CEO started off alright enough. The man listened to the artist speak about his work and he even asked a few things here or there. He asked something about the paint choice and Johnny responded in a way that he hoped didn't sound too try hard but also genuine. In truth, Vargas didn't let him use anything else.

Maybe he could sense that. Maybe the man could tell that Johnny was an easy target. Maybe Johnny had painted 'patsy' on his forehead in asshole-vision invisible ink.

Whatever had caused the conversation to turn towards Johnny's personal life- particularly his relationship status- was unimportant. He wanted to leave, but he figured that the man would probably ask that for reference purposes or perhaps personally-identifying information. Johnny told the CEO that he was single, recently left a relationship with his ex-fiance. The way that the man reacted should have said enough to him, but he tried to reason with his brain; he was overreacting. 

But to put it crudely, the CEO wanted fresh meat and Johnny was a free-bleeding fresh cut. Eyes still clear. Silent like a fish out of water, when he moved over and started massaging Johnny's shoulders, saying how awful that must have been. That he was there for him. That he was recently divorced himself. He understood. 

Johnny felt his hand being moved, heard a zipper being pulled down, and when the CEO moved his mouth to press against his ear, all Johnny remembered was that he had the other man's letter opener embedded in the space directly below his eye socket. He registered the crack of bone giving under unforgiving metal. The burst of red sprayed across his face and his shirt. The screaming. His screaming. 

He was on his knees over the blubbering, defaced CEO shouting out as if he was emptying every last moment of anger or shame or hurt into the puncture marks that kept adding up. Johnny wasn't sure if he was crying or that his body was finally catching up- maybe he was having a heart attack. 

He has no idea how long he kneeled on the grimey black floor of the CEO's office before he realized that nobody was coming. Surely, someone must have heard them. Was the police waiting right outside the door- bullets trained on him- ready to shoot to kill? The man who was under Johnny's blade was miraculously still alive- dying- but still actually alive and he only then heard the tiny whimpers of 'please, don't kill me' 'I'll change.' 

Johnny grabbed the man's stripped, bloodied face, digging his fingernails into the wounds, and his heart sung with the screeches that rung throughout the office. There was nothing else there except for Johnny and the filth disguised as a human being. 

He listened to him plead, held his face in his hands as the man continues to plead pathetically. Johnny's heart nearly jumped this time when he claimed 'he'd change'.

"No; you won't." His voice was venomous, low and angry in a way that sounded calm. "You will never change. You know what happens when I give people like you the opportunity to change? Do you? They stop for a little while, sometimes days, sometimes decades, because they're so fucking scared for their life. For jail time, for repercussion, Hell maybe for the Devil himself coming to fuck them up the ass for what they've done. But when the Devil doesn't come, when the tabloids remain silent, when the name becomes deceased or missing or disappears completely, you go right back to what you'd been doing before. You put your fingers or your face or your dick wherever you want because you think you're untouchable. You think you are above the lives that you've ruined. You think that they deserve it- or maybe that you deserve it for being so good for so long, right? Well, guess what?" 

"You won't get to do that because I'm going to end your life right here, right now. I'm going to end whatever cycle of abuse that may or may have swept you up and corrupted you - brought you to believe you somehow are entitled to this pain that you inflict on others. And I'm going to enjoy it."

The man was able to only let out a sharp 'please, no' before Johnny grabbed his skull and twisted it until he heard a snap and the person below him had turned into a corpse. Into a past tense. 

He was coated in blood. 

Johnny dropped the body unceremoniously before he shakily got onto his feet. It was copious. It was gruesome. He threw up into a potted plant near the door. He gathered his portfolio into his arms and picked up his application from the CEO's desk. Johnny slipped the single piece of paper into the paper shredder, watching it turn into dozens of tiny bits of future bunny bedding.  

He braced himself before he stepped into the workplace. He expected a lot of things. He expected to see a huge stack of chairs and terrified workers huddled behind them like frightened raccoons. He expected SWAT, FBI, CSI, NCSI, the Navy, Army, Air Force, Coast Guard, and the Marines. He expected to have a bunch of horrified, traumatized faces staring back at him.

Instead, they looked annoyed. And the only people who were annoyed were the ones whose desks were closest to the CEO's office door. They glared at him, sneering like he was covered in shit and not in blood. Then they were completely disinterested. He was just some freak. They gossiped amongst themselves, but otherwise didn't approach Johnny. 

The man tore out of the comic publishing building and ran all the way home. It was midday- in the middle of December or January, where the sun was absent and the wind was unforgiving. Johnny had sweat through his stained clothing and the temperature change between the outside and the inside of his house was minute. The only shelter he had from the Winter chill was just covering from the elements.

Johnny walked into the bathroom and over to the bathtub and tossed the downed shower curtain out of the way. The water was freezing and felt like needles against even his clothed skin as he attempted to wash away the blood. It streamed down, staining the white porcelain as it streaked off of him and into the drain. 

The man had put his head against the tile, directly under the showerhead as he held himself. His eyes were shut tight, so it took him a moment of brief confusion before he opened his eyes to the bright lights of the bathroom and a gradually increasing warm shower. 

The water was perfect now and after getting past the initial shock, he undressed and continued to clean himself off the best he could. All that remained after he finished was the blood caked under his fingernails. He would cut them later. 

Johnny dried off using a somewhat warm, scruffy towel, it had been hanging there on the rack since he first awoke in the bathroom. He wrapped it around himself before he explored the rest of the house. It was warm, and the lights were all on. The electronics were all buzzing in a way they hadn't unless in memories. He opened the fridge and found that the food in there had not rotted. He picked out some lunch meat from a drawer and savored the usually incorrigible processed salty ham. He couldn't remember the last time he ate. Or the last time he slept. 

He needed clothes. He needed to get rid of the clothes at the bottom of his tub. Johnny went over to the bedroom where he hadn't tread since awakening. The light was on. The bed was still done but looked slept in. He went and grabbed the first shirt and pants and underwear that he found and then quickly went to clean up the mess in the bathroom.

He wrung the blazer out, pink-red water had poured and then streamed and then dribbled. He repeated this with the pants and then the shirt and his underwear and socks. His boots were not salvageable. That's fine. It was all fine. 

At least for now he did not have to immediately worry about paying the bill. In fact, the house felt warmer when he returned inside after he buried the clothes under the dirt of his dead front lawn. Johnny found a new paper attached to his freezer. He figured he'd missed it when he first went for the ham. 

He took it down after he grabbed a bag of microwavable pizza pocket bites. Johnny didn't know what it meant and how it happened, but he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was given another chance for a reason. He gnawed at his fingernails as he watched the plate spin in the microwave and the house hummed with life as it was finally fed.

'PAYMENT RECEIVED. 

UTILITY SERVICE WILL RESUME AS NORMAL. 

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. 

THANK YOU.' 

[dust2dust34]

idk if you're taking prompts but i've been really wanting to read something like this: felicity shaving oliver's beard/face bc he broke his hand or idk whatever you want and oliver's really turned on by it. bonus points if its an established relationship/married life. and i wouldn't be opposed to smut so let your muse run wild :) thank you!

King and Queen, Part 2 (Olicity Bratva AU, Mature)

A/N: Sequel to King and Queen (Chapter 4 of my You’ve Gotten Into My Bloodstream fic collection). Prompt from LiteraLi. Written for the Fic for Food Drive I took part in for April.This does not take place directly after the previous installment. A couple years have passed.

Summary: Felicity helps Oliver shave.

(read on AO3)

*

Oliver Queen cursed.

He struggled to hold the pearled handle of his straight razor with as little pressure on his thumb as possible. His hand started shaking, but he managed to hold it. Angling his head, he pressed the blade’s edge to the lengthy stubble on his jaw. But the second he pressed down, pain spiked through his wrist, sharp and white hot. With a harsh, “Fuck,” he dropped the razor, sending it clattering onto the vanity where it bounced right off the edge. Oliver caught it with his left hand, agilely flipping it with an ease that pissed him off. He thought about trying to shave with that hand again, but it had nearly led to a bald patch on his cheek.

Fucking useless.

Both his hand and him.

“Damn it,” he breathed through gritted teeth. He turned his right hand palm-up and glared at the swelling in his wrist, remembering that bastard Bertinelli slamming a metal door on his arm. Scowling darkly, his fingers curled into a fist at the thought of punching him in the face as hard as he could. But all that did was set his wrist on fire, which only pissed him off more, which made him want to punch Bertinelli’s face and a wall. “Goddamn it-”

“Here.”

Oliver looked up into the bathroom mirror as his wife took the razor from him.

The tension in his muscles drained away and he sighed, moving when she nudged him to make room for her between him and the counter.

She stared up at him with a patient, but annoyed look.

His agitation instantly flared back to life.

“What?” he huffed.

“You’re being stupid,” Felicity Smoak told him. She set the razor down and grabbed the brace he’d tossed aside. “Put this back on.”

“I’m not wearing that-”

“Tonight,” she interrupted sharply. “You’re not wearing it to the dinner tonight, but you are wearing it right now.” Oliver clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring, and he leveled her with a hard look. It was a look that usually had grown men pissing their pants, but not her. She just raised her eyebrows. “Give me your hand, Oliver.”

A war of wills filled the space.

Not that it mattered. They both knew how this was going to end. Even though Oliver wanted to shred that fucking brace and toss the remnants in a fire, he knew he was going to give in as much as she knew she was going to put it on him, and that he was going to be pissed the entire time.

It took a full minute, but Oliver finally growled out a curse and gave her his hand.

“Stop being a baby,” Felicity said as she slipped it on and strapped it in place.

“I’m not being a baby,” Oliver groused, unable to hide his pained winces. He fought to only let out a breathy grunt when she turned his hand over delicately to tighten the brace around his forearm. “I’m pissed I have to play nice to that asshole tonight, as if I didn’t catch him trying to sell more of those goddamn guns to the Mayor.”

“I know,” his wife said softly. “You’ll get him. Well, Arrow-you will get him and then Captain-you will turn his businesses inside out while he rots in jail so this never happens again.”

Oliver just grunted.

Yes, in an ideal world that was exactly what would have happened, but they’d been ready for the Arrow at the docks last night. His nighttime reputation had long ago preceded him and the Families were getting smarter, bringing more firepower, no longer interested in wasting their time trying to kill him, but giving their boss enough time to evade him.

And slamming the Arrow’s goddamn hand in a goddamn door when Oliver Queen had to have dinner and play nice with his “business partner.”

Oliver snarled and tried to flex his hand in the brace.

All it did was make him grimace and scowl and curse.

“Stop it,” Felicity said, smacking his bare chest.

“I need to shave,” he snapped.

“No, you need to lose the attitude,” she bit back. “Now, and not just because you’re talking to me, but because we need to play nice tonight. Got it?”

“I…” He closed his eyes on a ragged sigh. She was right. And just like that the anger receded into a dull ache. He took a deep breath, opening his eyes again. “I’m sorry.”

Felicity softened. “I know this isn’t easy-”

“It’s just… It’s always something,” he breathed, his voice dropping into an agonized murmur. “First it was the Triad, then it was Kovar, now it’s Bertinelli, and if it’s not something with the Arrow, then it’s this fucking deal Anatoly got us into. I want to spend one night - one night - with my wife and daughter without feeling like the entire fucking world is hanging in the balance, because that… this…” Oliver smoothed his hand over her stomach, but the damn brace got in the way, and he couldn’t feel enough of the bump her silky nightgown hid. With a growl, he shifted so his left hand palmed her growing belly. It was so firm and prominent already, even at this early stage. The doctor had mentioned that was common after the first pregnancy. Frustrated tears burned his eyes and he angrily blinked them away as he clutched her stomach. “I want to be here for this. I missed so much last time, with you and Mia, and all I want is… I want a life where I get to enjoy this, I get to enjoy us. God, but if we… Mia’s only three, and already I’m terrified she’s too close, and if we want them to have anything other than this shitshow of a life… to get them out of it-”

His voice choked off.

“I know. But we chose this,” Felicity reminded him, cupping his cheek. “You and me. For them. We didn’t run so they never have to make a choice like that.”

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut. “I know.”

“And you are here, Oliver. Look at me. Hey, look at me.” When he did, she smiled softly. It was hard not to see the sadness in her eyes, but it had nothing on the certainty he saw there, too. “I get to sleep every night with my husband by my side. And Mia gets to grow up with her father. You are always with us, Oliver. And you remind this one of that every night, too.”

Felicity’s hand covered his over her stomach.

Oliver stared at their hands, at their wedding bands catching the bathroom light, at their fingers tangling together. Hers was so small compared to his, so delicate, so fragile, but it only appeared that way. She was anything but. She was his rock, his foundation, his strength, the guiding light in the darkness he knew he would never escape. She was the voice in his ear, the key to his heart, the anchor steadying his soul. His wife, his partner, the mother of his children. The reason he hadn’t burned the entire world to ash just to get it over with.

“And when you aren’t here,” Felicity continued softly, brushing her other hand over the elaborate tattoo on his left shoulder, “we’re with you.”

Her fingers followed the path she always took. He sighed, savoring her touch, following her mentally as she swept across the rising sun over the open field inked into his flesh. His wife and daughter’s names were etched into the sun rays, and there was plenty of room for more. For their new baby. For any other children they might have.

Oliver bit the tip of his tongue hard enough to draw blood as the struggle he always faced rose inside him - between growing his family with the woman he loved, and wanting to spare any and every innocent being from the shadowed world they lived in.

The only way he survived any of it was because of her.

“Today was a setback… on top of about fifty other setbacks,” she admitted, “but we’ll handle it. Like we always do.”

“Like we always do,” he repeated.

“Like we always will.”

Oliver pulled her into his chest. He pressed a kiss to her temple, her name a soft litany on his lips. Her arms snaked around him, gripping him just as tight. He buried one hand in her hair, his other slipping over her back, underneath the strap of her nightgown…

He found the scar on the back of her shoulder.

He had spent so much time touching it that the previously raised flesh was nothing more than thin, pink lines now.

The mark - his family crest, seared into her flesh, a physical seal of the promise of her family to his, payment in the form of their daughter for the debts her father had incurred with the Bratva - was always a reminder when he needed it. When the world crumbled around him. When the weight of what they battled became too much. When the reality that this would bleed onto their children if they didn’t dismantle it as much as possible smacked him in the face again, and again. The very last thing he wanted was his kids to endure what they had. And they would, if they didn’t succeed.

Oliver rubbed rough circles over her scar like a worry stone and Felicity hugged him tighter.

It wasn’t a miracle that they had fallen in love. It was in spite of their circumstances, their arranged marriage, their contractual obligation to procreate, their dues to the Family to keep the legacy going, to grow it. It was only after surviving months of horror and blood and pain and almost losing their first baby that they managed to scrape away enough of the walls they’d built around themselves to plant the beginning seeds of what they were now.

All of it could have gone up in flames, so many times. But it hadn’t.

They hadn’t.

“Together,” she whispered, pulling back to look at him. “Right?”

“Right.” Oliver’s forehead fell against hers. “How did you get to be so strong?”

“I take my lead from you.”

He shook his head, because there was no way that could possibly be true.

“C’mere.” Felicity stepped back just enough to hop up onto the counter and tugged him between her spread legs. She picked up the razor, pursing her lips as she sized up his beard. And then her face fell. “You aren’t going to make me shave everything, are you?”

Oliver chuckled. It felt so good that he leaned into the feeling, letting it turn into a deep laugh.

Their lives were so complicated, perpetually stuck between a rock and a hard place, and yet they still had simple moments like his wife reminding him how much she disliked him clean-shaven.

She was right. This life wasn’t what they could have, but it was more than either of them had expected, more than they ever thought they would get.

And it was more than enough.

“No,” he told her, settling his hands on her thighs. “Just a trim. Bertinelli got close last night.”

“Ah.” Felicity tugged on the longer hair on his chin. “This goatee thing caught up to you, huh?” He snorted. “What? It’s not exactly inconspicuous, Oliver.”

“It gets the job done,” he said, a little too defensively if the way she bit her bottom lip to stem a smile was any indication. He rolled his eyes and she huffed out a giggle before cupping his face. As she moved his head back and forth, he felt the rest of the tension slipping away. “I thought you liked it.”

“I liked it when it was a casual beard,” she replied, slicing the length off his chin. “Then it started becoming this thing-”

“It’s not a thing-”

“Hush,” Felicity interrupted. In quick, efficient motions, she had the hair trimmed back on his chin and then she moved up his jaw line, angling his head where she wanted it as she went. “The last thing we want to do is cancel this dinner because you wanted to argue about the virtues of goatees and I end up cutting you.”

“I wouldn’t complain.”

“Yeah, well, making you bleed isn’t on my itinerary today, and I really don’t want blood all over my bathroom. So no, that’s not happening. Now stop talking. And stop grinning like that. Just don’t move.”

He couldn’t hide one last smirk and Felicity sat back to glare at him. With a quiet, “Sorry,” he did as his wife told him.

Oliver closed his eyes as the seconds passed in peaceful silence. The only sounds were their steady breaths and the gentle rasp of the razor as she trimmed his jaw, then his cheeks, then the extra growth on his top lip. She mumbled something under her breath about pornstaches that had him chuckling, and she immediately smacked his cheekbone with the flat end of the razor. He stopped, but he still had to fight a smile as she continued.

It would never cease to amaze him how easily she brought him back from the edge of darkness.

Or how much he had grown to trust her, to love her. How important she had become to him in every way possible.

He knew from experience what people thought when they first saw her. A slip of a woman who could not possibly yell at a dog much less pose any actual threat. But underneath that diminutive frame was a backbone of pure steel. It wasn’t his growing up in the life, or learning the family business under his father’s tutelage, or the hellish years he’d spent on that goddamn island that made him the leader he was in the Bratva. It was her. She was the voice of reason, the logic, the definitive force that led the Family more than any other person. She guided him at night when he was under the hood, and she was by his side when he stood before the Bratva. And as if that weren’t enough, she did it all with a flawless grace and strength that took his breath away.

She commanded the Bratva, the Arrow, the Family.

And him.

Oliver hummed, swaying closer to her.

“Stop. Moving.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a tick of a smile, never opening his eyes.

Slowly but surely the burdens of their life fell to the wayside, and he became more and more aware of his wife.

The hint of shea butter lingered on her skin, but underneath that was the clean scent that was all her, reminding him she hadn’t showered yet. Gentle waves of heat radiated off her, warming his fingertips where they still rested on her bare thighs. She cradled his jaw with ease, and all it took was the tiniest nudge for him to turn to wherever she wanted him. It was that more than anything that had him yearning closer to her as she scraped the razor over his most tender areas. Anyone else in the world would use this as an opportunity to remove him from the equation. But not her. Never her.

Felicity huffed out a little laugh.

“Hmm?” Oliver asked as the corner of his lips ticked up. He loved that sound.

“I see you’re enjoying this.”

He furrowed his brow, and then opened his eyes in time to see his wife’s gaze drop. He looked down to find his sweatpants tented. His growing erection twitched at the attention.

“What can I say…” Oliver’s smile turned salacious as he slid his hands up her legs and underneath her nightgown. Smooth skin caressed his roughened fingertips, and for the first time he was glad for the brace because the silky edge of the gown caught on it, exposing so much more of her heated flesh to him. “I like being at your mercy.”

A secret smile that was all for him curled her lips.

Oliver slid his hands around to her ass where he stopped on a playful gasp. “You’re not wearing underwear.”

“No,” Felicity agreed, lifting her legs up, her knees grazing the band of his sweats. “I’m not.”

Oliver pushed his hands up to her hips, lifting her nightgown out of the way completely as he pressed his growing hardness to the soft heat waiting for him between her thighs. Her breath caught, but he wasn’t nearly close enough. He didn’t yank her across the counter like he wanted to, knowing that wouldn’t feel good on her bare skin, so he pushed up onto his toes, looming over her and getting the proper leverage to rub against her core.

“Ah ah, I’m not done.” Felicity pushed him back and he pouted. “Keep it in your pants.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Too bad,” she countered. “Stand still.”

His pout didn’t go away, but he did as she told him to. Well, part of him did. His arousal jerked under his sweats, a painfully vivid mixture of eager anticipation and disappointment.

And then there were his hands still under her nightgown.

Oliver was careful not to distract her too much, but he couldn’t stop touching her. And she didn’t stop him. He dragged his fingers over her hips, up her sides, featherlight, creating gooseflesh as he went. He ventured up even higher, as high as the silk would allow him. He avoided her ribs, not wanting to tickle her, but instead moved to her front, ghosting over the underside of her breasts. He watched his hands moving under the silk before glancing at her face, craving her reactions. Her concentration was sound, save for the parting of her lips, the color warming her cheeks, the growing shakiness in her breaths. He kept watching her from under heavy lids as he moved back down, down… down…

“Oliver.”

“What?” he asked with a teasing lilt.

“Get your hands away from there.”

Oliver bit his lips together and removed his fingers from the soft tuft of hair covering her mound.

She took a deep breath and then focused back on his jaw…

He didn’t give her the chance.

Oliver pressed his left hand to her sex and slid his fingers down her cleft. She was already damp with arousal. He knew her inner walls would be even slicker and that they would only get wetter when he buried himself there. The thought had his erection straining against his sweats.

Felicity froze, her eyes slipping shut, and he didn’t wait to tease her. Oliver pressed the tips of his fingers against her entrance and moved them in tight, little circles.

“Oo…h,” she moaned on a shudder. “Oh…!”

“I’ll take that,” he whispered, removing the razor from her hand and dropping it on the counter.

“But I’m not done,” Felicity said. The last word came out on another moan as he pushed his fingers inside her. Her hands flew to his shoulders, her eyes fluttering shut when his thumb found the little pearl at the top of her folds. She arched her hips up, opening herself to him, to the pleasure he could give her. Would give her. That didn’t stop her from arguing with him. “Oliver, I’m not done-”

“Finish later,” he offered, pressing his fingers in further.

She was all needy whimpers as she told him, “You look ridiculous.”

Oliver didn’t bother glancing in the mirror because he didn’t care. Not right now. Not with his wife in his arms, melting further into him even more with each passing second, her sex sucking his fingers in deeper, her growing wetness making each pass over her clit more and more slick. Her nails dug into his shoulders. His hand with the goddamn brace wound around her back and he picked her up, just enough to set her on the edge of the counter where he pressed his thickening hardness against her supple inner thigh.

“You…” she managed, opening her eyes to look at his jaw. “Let me just…”

“Finish later,” he repeated. He buried his face into her hair, breathing her in. He swept his thumb over her clit and started thrusting his fingers in and out. Her inner walls clenched around him and he pushed in a third finger, earning a delicious groan from deep inside her as he stretched her wide.

“But…”

“Please.”

That got her. It was such a simple word, but it was so loaded after everything they’d been through, meaning more than either of them could possibly put into words.

A rapid nod was her response and then she grabbed his face, her lips finding his.

Oliver’s fingers left heaven to grasp her under one thigh as he gripped her waist with his braced hand. And then he was picking her up and spinning them around. Felicity barely got out, “Oliver, your hand!” before he pulled her into another kiss. She kept talking against his lips, but then they were at their unmade bed, and he was falling back on it and she was moving to straddle him fully. She wasn’t done - “Why can’t you do things the easy way?” - but all he did was huff out a laugh as they both pushed his sweats out of the way, freeing his erection. She grasped him tight, making him groan. Her other hand found his jaw and she forced him to meet her gaze as she pushed the slick head of his cock to her entrance. “We are so talking about this when we’re done.”

“Yes,” he started just as she thrust down, taking him deep inside her, leaving only a strangled, “honey,” to fall from his lips.

“And,” Felicity added breathlessly, “the fact that you only have half a mustache right now.”

He chuckled, but it quickly turned into full-blown laughter when she sat back to look at him and a wild grin covered her face as she snorted at the sight he must have made.

The giggles followed them as they made love.

It was the absolute opposite of everything else in their lives, proving how much they were each other’s harbor in the storm. Their love fueled them, giving them the strength they needed to live the double lives they led, to keep going, to keep building the future they wanted for their children. That future was still years off, and neither of them were stupid enough to think it was going to get any easier, but as long as they had each other?

They could survive anything.

And they would.

(They proved this later - much later, after she helped him fix his unfortunate facial hair issue - when they were at dinner, and all Oliver wanted to do was ram his fist in Bertinelli’s face until he was a mulchy pulp. But he didn’t, and not just because of his hand, or because it could potentially open the door to connecting him to the Arrow. But because she asked him not to. And if it was her asking? Anything.)

*

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it - reviews literally feed the soul and muse.