#the only evidence of it was when a kid from the other department caught me throwing a mini temper bc i couldnt press the start buttons

[garaviel]

Horror movies wish they could do suspense as well as a manager not immediately responding to your call in

[xpao-bearx]

"Partners In Crime"

Officer Callahan x Bad Girl!Reader

SUMMARY: As the resident "bad girl" of Hawkins, you truly only want one thing: to get into the pants of the resident dorky and dedicated police officer, Phil Callahan (and hey, maybe steal his heart too!).

NOTES: I recently just finished Stranger Things and yeah, great show, but have you SEEN the men??? 👀 Anyhoe, being the ✨️whore✨️ that I am, it really comes as no surprise that I'm simping over all the hot dudes but one of the hotties I've become obsessed with is CRIMINALLY underrated 😭

And so, of course, I took this grave offense ✨️personally✨️ and wrote this lil piece! Though I can't really call it little because it is SHOCKINGLY long (for me) and I sacrificed hours upon hours of sleep 🥲 But hey, when Phil fucking Callahan (and his gorgeous actor John Reynolds) makes you horny and inspired, YOU👏SEIZE👏THE👏GODDAMN👏MOMENT👏

If it isn't already obvious, this fic contains 18+ SMUT AND MATURE CONTENT and it gets preeetty steamy if I do say so myself~ It's also set roughly around Season 2, and I say roughly cuz I suck at remembering plots and shit so I just went with the flow 😅 And as always, PLEASE don't be a silent reader! Likes, comments, and reblogs are VERY much encouraged and appreciated!! \(^o^)/

I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this baby! This is my first ever humble contribution to the ST fandom and, who knows, MAYBE not my last ;)

In the small town of Hawkins, you were popular as the "bad girl". You were loud, headstrong, and constantly got into trouble--completely unlike any of the "proper" ladies that talked shit behind your back. But the trouble you caused, despite the chaos it unfailingly left behind, was never anything actually hurtful. Hell, you were even caught a few times using your colourful language to make some middle school children cry when you saw them bullying some poor boys (one of them, you remember, being the Wheelers' son who always looked like trouble followed him himself).

A bad girl with a golden heart; a cheesy, living cliché. But that's what you were. You just wanted to have fun, to live in the moment. But in this bumfuck town where pretty much nothing happens before that Byers kid mysteriously disappeared then reappeared, how could anyone really blame you for trying to stir shit up simply for your own entertainment and for your damn sanity?

But some of the locals knew you on a personal level. Particularly, the Hawkins Police Department. Before you stumbled upon Hawkins a few years ago, you were a drifter; chasing after the high of wherever life would take you, free yet lost. Whether it was by chance or by fate, you only stopped at Hawkins to fuel up your motorcycle and have a quick bite at the local diner until suddenly--like something out of those fucking romcoms your mother used to watch--you met him.

Phil Callahan. He was only a rookie officer at the time, having not even grown out his beloved moustache yet. You noticed his police cruiser parked at the gas station with an evident bump on the front of the car. He was fuelling up, but his hand holding the pump was limp and he was as pale as a ghost; eyes comically wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses, brunette locks tousled and sticking out every which way after frantically running his free hand through it god knows how many times.

And staring at this clearly stressed, slightly pathetic man, all you could think was: HOT.

Before your brain could process what you were doing (though, let's be honest, you never really used your brain much in most of your life decisions), you found your feet walking away from your bike of their own accord and towards him.

Once you were by his side, it's only then that you realized just how tall he was. So much taller. He easily towered over you and it made your mind drift to other, much less innocent thoughts.

Namely him bending you over his car and fucking you within an inch of your sorry excuse of a life.

"Can I help you?" Your head snapped up from the stranger's voice, eyes meeting his narrowed ones. And--dammit!--he was much more unfairly handsome up close. His light brown eyes reflected almost green, raising a suspicious brow at you as his lips pressed into a tight line.

"Sorry, Officer--" Your gaze strayed to his shiny name tag, a grin tugging up the corners of your mouth. "--Callahan. I just couldn't help but notice you. You look like you just died inside, man."

His brows furrowed, glancing over his shoulder to the bump on his car before quickly darting back to you. "Thanks for your concern, ma'am, but I'm fine. Nothing a civilian should be worried about, anyway."

"If you don't mind--" You piped up once more as he set the pump away. "I think it's got something to do with that nasty bump ya got there, huh?"

"Uh, okay, actually I do mind." He sighed exasperatedly, no longer able to hide his growing aggravation. Today was just not his day, it seemed. "Ma'am, like I said, it is none of your concern." He put on his police hat, tipping it to you. "Good day."

As he turned away from you, you sidestepped him so that you were in front of him again. Your grin was much bigger this time, practically reaching your ears. "Uh-oh, are you in trouble, Mr. Policeman~?" You purred, one hand reaching out and playfully drumming your fingers along his chest. You intently studied him from head to toe, as if admiring an artistic masterpiece before biting your lip and giggling. "Lemme guess... You're a young, new police officer who doesn't know any better. You got so excited driving a police car for the first time that you drove it a bit too fast and crashed into a tree or some shit. Sound about right?"

His face flushed scarlet, and you weren't sure if it was from the shame of having his dumbass misdemeanor exposed or from your fingers making a shiver run down his spine--probably both.

"How do you--"

"This ain't exactly my first time having a lil run-in with the law, so I know how men like you work." You winked. "Hey, tell ya what, how 'bout I help you? You can tell your other piggy buddies that I'm some crazy bitch with anger issues you caught for speeding and in my oh so scary rage, I purposely crashed my motorbike to the front of your car just to fuck with you. You can even put cuffs on me~"

He blinked, utterly dumbstruck as he stared down at the total menace that was you (and the fact that a certain part of him reacted at you graciously allowing him to cuff you), feeling like forever until he finally found his voice that cracked slightly as he spoke. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Y/N L/N." You hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned up on your tiptoes and dangled slightly off of him with the few inches left between the two of you. The sudden action caught him completely off guard, his hands dropping to your hips to support you and making him blush even redder. But you didn't care, smiling mischievously up at him. "Feel free to search me up in the system, Officer. I've got a permanent record, after all~"

And that's how you met Jim Hopper, Calvin Powell, and the rest of the Hawkins Police Department when Callahan brought you with him back to the station. They definitely didn't believe you guys, especially when you didn't have a single scratch on you that indicated you "crashed your bike to his vehicle" (Callahan cleaned up your choice of wording a bit). But it was amusing to see Callahan dragging you along in handcuffs, who appeared all too joyful with a shit-eating smile as if you just won the lottery. Meanwhile, Callahan's cheeks were flaming hot and his voice adopted to a nervous high pitch as he lied to everyone who were just barely containing their laughter.

It also wasn't long before you decided to settle into Hawkins in some shitty trailer park, but you couldn't really complain considering your drifting years weren't all sunshine and rainbows either.

Besides, Callahan made it all worth it.

It wasn't love at first sight, but there was absolutely attraction. Hell, you were practically (if not literally) throwing yourself at him during your first encounter, and after that it would be the same--if not more intense.

You were no stranger to trouble, but often times you would seek for trouble yourself on purpose just so you could wind up in the police station to bother--ahem, I mean, very persistently try to hang out with Callahan. Or you'd just go to the station despite having no business there, but Flo the secretary usually kicked you out before you had the chance to even lay eyes on the gorgeous four eyes.

Today, however, Flo wasn't there. You didn't believe in some higher power, but it was a fucking miracle that you were grateful for and didn't dare to question. And so you more than happily made yourself at home in the station, sitting down at Callahan's desk as you curiously pried into his stuff before a deep laugh from behind you broke you out of your little reverie.

"This is just ridiculous now, Y/N." Hopper shot you an incredulous though very much amused expression. "If you like Callahan so much--which I have no fucking idea why--then just ask him out on a date already."

It was no secret that Hopper can be a total grump, but oddly enough you became fast friends with him. He never gave you a hard time and you never bullshitted him, which in turn formed a weird sort of respect between the two of you.

You rolled your eyes at the huge man, turning back to Callahan's desk and inspecting his assortment of pens--which you thought was way too much and he probably doesn't even use all of them, but that only amped up his dorkish charm to you by, like, a thousand.

"You're one to talk, Hop." You scoffed, snatching a pen and beginning to click it continuously. "I bet your hand's tired from jerking off to Joyce Byers."

Hopper scowled, but a faint rosiness dusted his cheeks. "Okay, first off--" Click. "I do not jerk off to Joyce--" Click. "and unlike you--" Click. "I actually have the balls to ask her out--" Click. "she just hasn't--" Click. "WILL YOU STOP FUCKING CLICKING THAT GODDAMN PEN?!"

You didn't even flinch, casually stashing the pen away in your pocket before you stood and faced him. "Enough about you." You huffed, crossing your arms as your eyes levelled with his. Hopper may as well be a living brick wall walking around ready to punch whoever crossed him, but you were never intimidated by the chief of police whom you've admittedly grown a soft spot for. "Callahan on for patrol duty tonight?"

"Yeah, and you owe me big time." He frowned when you blatantly ignored him, but what was new? "I need as much manpower as I can get to investigate what the hell's going on with the pumpkin patches yet here I am, like a fucking idiot, helping to set you and Callahan up."

"You looove me~" You teased, patting his shoulder and granting him a Cheshire Cat-like grin. "This is all for a good cause, big guy. And just think, the sooner Callahan and I get together, the faster I'll be outta your hair!" You chuckled. "And hey, you're thinking too much into those pumpkin patches. Probably just some pumpkin farmers having a pumpkin war. Go big or gourd home, am I right?"

Hopper watched as you laughed obnoxiously loud at your stupid pun, looking so proud of yourself as little snorts wracked your smaller frame and your shoulders shook from sheer glee. He shook his head, sighing heavily to himself.

"God, I actually feel kinda bad for Callahan..."

•••♡•••

Night couldn't fall any quicker, but once it finally did your entire body was practically bursting with excitement like a child who's about to go out for trick or treating.

You hopped onto your bike, revving up the engine and driving even more maniacally than your Munson neighbour did out of the trailer park. You didn't even keep track anymore of how fast you were going, your hair flying as you raced down the road and were greeted by Halloween decorations strewn about in various houses' lawns.

A few minutes later, you found yourself on the empty road leading out of Hawkins. And just as you predicted--had hoped--the shrill blare of a siren sliced through the air and the all too familiar red and blue lights nearly blinded your vision as a police cruiser followed close on your tail.

You couldn't suppress the giddy grin that tore across your face, slowing down by the side of the road and the car pulling up next to you.

The butterflies in your stomach were doing fucking somersaults now as you heard the car door open and shut close, boots thudding on the ground as your favourite officer approached.

"Well, well, well... Lookie who we have here~?" The singsong voice made your grin widen even more if it was possible, making your cheeks hurt. The beam from a flashlight hit your eyes, and once your sight adjusted there was none other than Callahan, staring down at you with his pretty brown eyes. "If it isn't Lil Miss Trouble."

"Cally!" You giggled like some lovesick schoolgirl, and if we were being honest, you pretty much acted like you are. "Fancy seeing you here~ Halloween ain't 'til tomorrow, so why are ya out on patrol?"

"Beats me." He shrugged. "The chief suddenly put me on duty. Also, you know how much I hate that nickname." He grimaced, turning the flashlight off. It was quite dark, but you could still see him well enough due to a lone street lamp a couple feet away. "Get off."

His sudden commanding tone sent a shiver down your spine, a certain part of you getting wet. And it didn't help that you decided to forgo panties, your slick coating the seat of your bike. You then jumped off, your breasts bouncing slightly. This action didn't go unnoticed by him, his eyes dropping to your chest and trailing down your figure until his gaze landed on your skirt--if it could even be called that.

You were wearing a leather mini skirt that left little to the imagination, hugging your curves just right and showing off your thighs. He thought that if you made one wrong move, you'd flash him your panties; of course, not knowing you weren't even wearing any.

"Did I ever tell you how much I love your moustache?" You purred, heart leaping when he went speechless and his mouth hung agape.

His eyes flicked back up to meet yours, snapping out of his trance. "Only the first hundred times." He then cleared his throat, pointing an accusatory finger at you with a hand placed on his hip like a parent scolding their child. "Flattery won't work on me, Y/N. Do you know how fast you were going? And why weren't you wearing a helmet?"

"I know I was going pretty fucking fast!" You guffawed. "As for not wearing a helmet, well, what can I say? I don't like feeling restricted. I like being free. If I could, I'd totally go naked."

You saw his Adam's apple bob as he gulped at your emphasis of "naked", a death grip on his flashlight as his jaw squared. "That's public indecency." He stated simply. He was getting better dealing with you, but the ever so slight crack in his voice was a telltale sign that you still very much had an intoxicating, beguiling effect on him. "And where the hell were you going? Were you...leaving Hawkins?"

You didn't miss the plaintive way he had asked the question, your heart melting. He cared for you. No matter how much trouble you caused everyone, caused him... He would still check up on you, and you even caught him several times keeping watch outside of your trailer when Will Byers went missing a year ago. He claimed that the police were patrolling every nook and cranny after the kid's disappearance, but you never saw Hopper or anyone else guarding other people's homes like how Callahan did yours.

"I'm not leaving, Phil." You breathed out, nothing more than a whisper as you looked up at him; serious, for once. Because as boring as this town was, you've grown fond of it. And Callahan played a big part in that and even if you weren't together, he was the closest to home that you've ever felt in a long fucking time.

He searched your face for any lies, brown eyes soft before a genuine smile graced his features. "You better not, Lil Miss Trouble." A beat passed between the two of you, breaths mingling together and you only just realized how close you both were standing to each other. He had you caged against your bike, and you had to strain your neck just to be eye level with the tall man.

Then something in his expression shifted, and soon he was drawing away from you. "W-Well, I'm gonna let you off with a warning. Just this once, though! Think of it as thanks for that time--" You cut off his rambling when you reached out, grabbing his hand.

"I didn't leave." You declared, an almost pleading tone in your voice. "So don't leave either, Phil."

For what felt like a dreadful eternity, you were swallowed by a deafening silence. You, who was usually so confident, found your will breaking with each passing second. Your grasp softened until you let go, feeling your heart sink to your stomach.

"...Forget it. Thanks, Cal--" But you couldn't finish; because in a blink of an eye, his lips were on yours. It was brief, feather light. But the chaste peck made your heart explode, and you didn't even question if this was just one of your silly fantasies. It felt too real--too good.

He slowly pulled away, resting his forehead against yours and his warm breath tickling your nose. "I'm not leaving." He murmured, such beautiful, sincere greenish brown eyes locking with yours. "I'm not leaving you, Y/N."

You felt tears prickle your eyes, but before you would ever allow them to fall you wrapped your arms around his neck and nuzzled your nose with his. "Then prove it." And you crashed your lips with his, this time fiercely, passionately. You felt the rough brush of his moustache, but that only made everything feel astoundingly better.

He finally closed the gap between you two, looming over you, the flashlight clattering to the ground as his much larger hands clutched on to your hips before he easily lifted you and plopped you down on your bike's seat. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nipping on his bottom lip that elicited a gasp from him which you gladly took as the opportunity to slide your tongue inside his mouth. His tongue tangled with yours and coaxed it into a sensual dance, earning him a most heavenly moan from you.

You two only pulled away for breath, a thin string of saliva connecting your tongues. But his glasses were foggy and tinkly laughter bubbled out of you, feeling like a druggie high off of life--high off of him.

He chuckled, taking his glasses off to wipe them before putting them back on. "Sorry." He smiled sheepishly. "That ruined the moment, didn't it?"

"On the contrary..." You were still laughing, but you held one of his hands still on your hip and guided it lower, lower, lower...until his palm was right on your bare pussy. "You always turn me on, Cal. It's pretty fucking ridiculous, honestly."

His breath hitched sharply when he felt how drenched you were, his pupils dilating and mouth forming an 'O' at the realization that you've been half naked this whole time. He pressed his palm closer to your core, your laughter instantly dying down as his thumb slowly rubbed circles around your clit. One of your hands flew to his hair, something you've always dreamt of doing ever since you saw the incredibly sexy messy state it was in the day you met him. Your other hand clung onto his shirt for dear life, a gasp escaping you as he pinched your nub and began to stroke his fingers along your slit.

He leaned down to your ear, his fingers gradually increasing their pace and you trembled from the pure ecstasy that overcame your senses just from his deft fingers. "You really are a little troublemaker, huh?" He chuckled, voice dropping an octave lower. "You planned this all along, didn't you? Fucking slut..." His lips dragged down your ear to the crook of your neck, biting down and leaving a mark that had you crying out. "My beautiful fucking slut."

"All yours, Officer~" You mewled, your hand latched onto his shirt making its descent to his crotch. You palmed him, feeling his prominent erection aching to spring free as he groaned. "Just be mine, too." You peered down at him, eyes hazy with desire and desperation. "Pretty please?"

"I think I've been yours ever since we met. Not like I had a choice on the matter, anyway." He snickered before capturing your lips once more in a sultry, intimate kiss. Your mouth moved in perfect tandem with his, but you both took your sweet time as everything else faded away. There was only you and Callahan, Callahan and you. And it's all you ever fucking wanted; all you needed.

Not breaking the kiss, you shucked your leather jacket off and carelessly tossed it to the ground. Your hands came up to cup the sides of his face, fingers caressing him tenderly while his hands crawled beneath your white tank top; imagine his pleasant surprise to discover that you didn't wear a bra either.

"Jesus..." He muttered, yanking your tank top up before kneading and squeezing your perfect breasts as his lascivious gaze met your own. "You're gonna kill a fucking cop here." He grunted, making you giggle which immediately turned into an elated whimper as he tweaked your pert nipples.

"Get down. Turn around. Ass up." He ordered, and you didn't at all hesitate to obey. In your haste, you nearly tumbled off of your bike though Callahan steadied you. "Eager, are we, Y/N?" He chuckled, but something about the way your name smoothly, seductively rolled off his tongue had you wanting to fall down on your knees and reverently suck him off instead. But you didn't dare disobey, spinning around with your back to him and bending over your bike.

Though something dropped to the ground as you bent over, making Callahan arch a brow as he picked it up.

"My pen?" He scoffed, and though you can't see him, you can feel his disapproving stare boring into the back of your head like daggers. "Naughty girl, now you're stealing? Tsk, tsk." He flipped up your skirt, your ass now in full view as he licked his lips. His hands groped the pillowy soft flesh, releasing a low whistle of appreciation as he squeezed before suddenly raising his hand and spanking you.

"Ah..!" You exclaimed, looking over your shoulder with glazed eyes and flushed cheeks. "M'sorry, Officer~"

Smack! Another slap had you reeling in the best way possible, your pussy clenching at--unfortunately--nothing as you whimpered.

"Uh-uh. Didn't say you could look at me, did I, naughty girl?" He chided, seeing that you were wiggling your ass and trying to inch closer to him.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Three slaps, one right after the other. Your flesh glowed red with his handprint, making him smirk devilishly.

"M'sorry..." You said again, your voice coming out as a meek squeak. But more. You wanted more, more, more. "I'm a good girl, I promise!"

"I'm sure you are~" He hummed leisurely. "Just gotta prove it to me, right, baby?"

Before you had any chance to reply, he prodded your legs apart with his knee and his pants unzipping sounded like the most divine music to your ears. Both of your breaths got caught in your throats as the tip of his cock pressed against your pussy, stroking up and down your entrance slowly, teasingly. Your lustful impatience getting the best of you because, fuck, you deserved this, you were just about to slide down onto him when he suddenly pushed his entire cock in with no warning.

And fuck he was big. Much bigger than you ever fantasized, completely stretching you out as a long moan was drawn out of you and your upper body fell like a ragdoll on your bike. You vaguely heard him laughing huskily before he started to move; carefully, as if he was afraid you might break.

But with you? That didn't last very long, any pathetic thread of patience he had snapping as soon his thrusts started to become rapid, hard, wild--hitting that amazing spot deep inside your gummy walls over and over again, the lewd squelches of his cock slipping in and out of your pussy perfectly harmonizing with skin slapping against skin.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck..!" You screamed, toes curling and grinding your ass in time with his thrusts as he watched, utterly transfixed, with how you seemed to just fit him like a puzzle piece; the fucking addicting way you slammed back down onto him, your skin rolling with each bounce, your pussy clenching his cock like a goddamn vice and effortlessly accepting all of him.

He then wrapped a hand around your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling to the back of your head before pulling you up so that you were standing and your back was pressed against his chest. He nuzzled his face just beneath your ear, hot pants grazing your skin as he never seized his pleasurable assault to your cunt as he continued to pound relentlessly into you like a beast in heat.

Suddenly, he pressed his pen to your clit. Your eyes widened as you felt the long, thin object rubbing against your sensitive mound, stroking and poking at your folds as his cock drove in and out, in and out.

"Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?" He whispered, planting butterfly kisses along the delicate column between your neck and shoulder, his grip on your neck tightening ever so slightly as he humped against you.

"Y-Yes, fuck, yes Officer..!" You choked out, rocking your hips desperately as you could almost see stars.

"Then cum, Y/N."

And you did; your walls fluttered and clamped down on his dick, your body stilling and eyes crossing as waves of the highest rapture coursed throughout your body. Callahan soon followed, a nearly animalistic groan accompanying the spurts of cum that gushed into your deepest, most intimate part as his hips stuttered to a halt.

You basked in silence, revelling in the satisfying afterglow. Then, agonizingly slowly, his twitching cock slid out of you, making you convulse and you could feel the hot cum trickling down your legs. He spun you around and gently grabbed your chin, tipping it up and examining your completely fucked out expression. You stuck your tongue out, and he didn't waste a precious moment as he leaned down and entwined your tongue with his. He held you closely, securely; hugging you to his broad chest as he stepped backwards until his back bumped into his car to support the both of you.

You were the first to pull away from the sloppy liplock, laying your head on his chest and sighing deeply. "That was..." You looked up at him, blinking dazedly. "...not what I expected."

"Did you not have fun?" He chuckled, though there was a hint of worry in his voice as his thumb lazily caressed your swollen bottom lip, kind brown eyes seeking yours. Shit, did he overdo it? Or worse... Did you realize that you actually weren't that into him?

"I did, it's just..." You trailed off before a giggle erupted out of you, shaking your head. "Y'know, the first time we met, I actually thought of you bending me over your car and fucking me. I never imagined I'd be bent over my bike."

"For fuck's sake, Y/N, you really are gonna be the death of me!" He whined dramatically, making you laugh and soon he joined you.

"So..." You grinned, fixing his glasses that had fallen to the bridge of his nose and running a hand through his sweaty, unruly curls that you loved too fucking much. "Was I a good girl, Cally~?"

"The fucking best." He returned your euphoric grin, booping your nose and, though he'd never admit it, he actually liked your nickname. Just for him, only by you. "Buuut you're a good girl that's coming back to the station with me."

"Huh? But I thought you're gonna let me off the hook for speeding?" You questioned, confused.

"I am, but you're forgetting your other crimes." He cleared his throat, rising to his full height and looming over you yet again. "Public indecency..." He traced his pen on your pussy, making you shudder as the cold metal glided across your skin up to the valley between your breasts. "...and theft."

"Well, Officer, if that's the case then you're not innocent either~" You smirked, wrapping your arms around his neck and dangling off of him much like you did the first time. "You stole my heart, after all~"

His face was as red as a tomato, smiling like a doofus as he hooked his hands under your plush thighs, hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist. Taking you by surprise, but definitely not unwelcomed as he stared up at you with a stupidly smitten expression.

"We're partners in crime, then, Lil Miss Trouble~"

[stylinskies]

I.

Wind’s in the east, mist comin’ in….

This wasn’t going to take him down. Stiles stared at the piece of paper on his desk until his vision went blurry. He knew the answer, but it was just brushing against the fingertips of his sleep deprived memory. What gets wetter as it dries. “A towel!” He yelled in triumph, the few members of his department still there turning to glance at him as Frank rolled his eyes at his partner. 

“No way man, a towel?” He scoffed, grabbing the paper from Stiles and the page a day calendar that it came from to check the answer. It was a Secret Santa gift from the head of Finance to Frank, who forgot to fill out the form so he got what was left at the gifts under $10 table at Barnes and Noble the day before the gift exchange. Frank had decided to make it a daily challenge for himself to solve the riddle before lunch. But for some reason, this one in particular was stumping him for the past three days. Instead of asking for help, he refused to change the day on the calendar until he solved it on his own. 

That is, until Stiles finally snapped. He was already getting his ass kicked by this serial killer case, no way he was going to let a fucking calendar for children taunt him too. Which is why another triumphant laugh burst from him as Frank stared at the solution to the riddle. “Dude, seriously when are you going to stop questioning me?” The eyeroll he got from his partner only made him laugh harder.

“Whatever dude. I’m going to get more coffee,” Frank said, crumpling the offensive riddle and dumping it into the trash can as he grabbed his wallet. “And I’m getting you decaf.” Stiles let Frank walk out with that Trump card played, and once his friend turned the corner, Stiles pulled a can of Redbull out of his bag and cracked it open. With his distraction out of the way, there was nothing else to do but turn his chair back to his evidence board. 

Red lines criss crossed over maps of his hometown and pictures of crime scenes. Three deaths, seemingly random. But there had to be something connecting them all. There was the religion angle…one of the identified bodies had been a steady member of a church. But the only other identified victim hadn’t from what detectives could find. Finding a connection would be easier if the third body — another woman, the second one found — had been identified. But she seemed to have put up a fight. There was some facial reconstruction that had to be done before they could connect her to the missing person’s database. There had to be something. 

He was only pulled out of the rip current of his own thoughts by a voice behind him. “...on the phone.” Stiles had tuned out the first half of the sentence as he turned. 

“What Brad?” Stiles asked the agent who typically worked the front desk. Maybe he sounded a little too irritated by the interruption, because Brad shot back with an irritated hand wave to Stiles’ clue board. 

“The case? Local PD is on the phone. Wants to talk to you.” Looking back at the board, Stiles narrowed his eyes, and then turned back to the other agent. 

“For fucks sake dude just say my dad is on the line.” Rolling his eyes, Stiles grabbed his desk phone and dismissed Brad with a single finger hand gesture. “Hey dad. You don’t usually call this number…” He said, sitting up. In reality, his dad never called his office line unless there was a break in the case. 

“It’s all business kid,” Noah said, voice crackling through the receiver, but Stiles can’t still hear the exhaustion in his words. “Need you down here. We identified the third body….” Brown eyes went straight for the board, staring at the image marked Jane Doe. There had been something about the blonde hair caught in the tree branches that seemed familiar.

And then his father said the name. “Heather. Her mom said she hasn’t heard from her since she went back to school. Didn’t think anything of it until her brothers birthday passed and she didn’t come home…We didn’t think about her because she wasn’t on the missing persons…Stiles are you listening?” 

He was. But he also wasn’t. Stiles’ ears were filled with the static of memories of growing up with Heather. Losing touch and reconnecting over the summer. It was only a few days, and things were awkward when Stiles turned a specific advance down, but it was like their childhood friendship just hit a growth spurt with them. “Yeah I’m here,” He said, swallowing around the memory of their last words. If you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me. She had winked at him and he had just snorted. He wasn’t interested in finding her for that. 

But Stiles didn’t want to find her like this either. 

“Figured it would be better if you and I told her mother. Instead of a random suit. Can you get here by the morning?” He checked the corner of his computer screen, already reaching for the open can of RedBull. 

“Yeah, dad. I’m on my way.” He said, hanging up after a quick goodbye and chugging the last of the energy drink as Frank walked back in. “Get in the car,” Stiles said to his partner, barely shutting his backpack in his haste to get out the door. “We’re going to Beacon Hills.”

Like something is brewing, about to begin.

The blonde one fought back. Which was less of a hindrance to the plan, and more of an irritation. They were on a time crunch, what didn’t these people understand? Their sacrifice was for the greater good — well a specific greater good — and pleading for their lives wasn’t going to change anything. They’ve learned to tune out the crying. The praying. The bartering. White noise as they prepared the ritual, whispering to the being that gave them life again before, begging to be given another chance to take on those that hunted them. 

But the blonde — they knew her name, but giving them names made it more complicated — had apparently practiced escaping from bonds. Because their back was turned for just a second and she was running through the forest. Screaming for help. Oh this would not do. They didn’t have time to play around. It didn’t take long to catch up — the uneven forest floor knocked the blonde one flat on her face as she tried to climb out of danger. Long nails dug into the ankle as they dragged her back. The screaming became less of fear and more of pain, as the debris beneath her tore at her skin, peeling back skin and leaving a path of blood in her wake. 

The screaming didn’t stop until the garotte was pulled tight against her neck. And it wasn’t until that silence came that they could breathe again. One step closer. “If you can hear me….” They whispered. “I await the power you can provide.”

The wind only whistled in response.

Can’t put my finger, on what lies in store…

Beneath their feet, the blood dripped off rocks, melted into soil, and settled into the roots of a tree long forgotten. Satiating a thirst that hadn’t been dealt with for years, something stirred in the darkness. A disquieting silence interrupted only by the rustling of leaves above. The sacrifices were made to get power, and power it would bring. As above, so below, the philosopher’s said. And as they were above, preparing sacrifices to awaken the power that was once so great, so below, someone was waking up after decades of sleep. 

What can rein without a crown? 

A spirit, brought into this world, only to be taken out. To be forced into the shadows, festering in its anger for decades. Gaining strength with each body sacrificed in the name of the Nemeton. They wouldn’t be bested again.

Chaos.

But I fear what’s to happen, all happened before.

[labyrinth-runner]

Forged in Fire, Ch 2

Summary: Its the morning after the explosion that destroyed the firehouse and Thorin decides there's more than one explosion that needs to be accounted for.

She was working a double, technically. A dreadful double broken up by a two hour nap on her apartment couch, knowing full well that if she'd slept in her bed she'd never be able to pull herself out of it. Still, she doubted Thorin was sleeping soundly, so she shouldn't either. It was a strange thought, thinking about a man she'd only known of peripherally before that morning. Now he occupied her thoughts as if it was his job.

Part of that was because she was thinking about him, and part of it was because Detective Skywalker kept texting her about how annoying the fire chief was. Padmé rolled her eyes. She was sure he wasn't that bad. Ani was just bad with authority figures who actually acted like authority figures, and at his core, Thorin exuded authority. There was a difference, though, between Thorin and the authority figures at the police department. Thorin was young. Every ounce of respect was earned, not given. Not like Police Chief Yoda who had simply been there the longest.

Tell him to meet me at the crime lab in 30, she texted Ani.

Do you want me to rescue you? I can send him to the wrong one, he replied.

Unlike some people, I don't quite have an issue with authority.

That's because you ARE authority ;p

Padmé blushed, shoving her phone in her purse. Ani always made her feel giddy, kind of like a school girl. Then again, she used to hang out with him when she was younger the summer she'd come to stay with some family and he was just turning ten. He'd been a cute kid then, and he'd grown into an even more handsome man. She tugged on her purple blazer and slung her bag over her shoulder. It was nice out this morning and she hoped the fresh air would wake her up a bit more than the coffee Sabé had given her did. Her heels clicked along the sidewalk as she walked down Main Street. The bus was early, and she just made it on before it pulled away.

The bus was Padmé's secret haven. No one knew who she was on the bus, and everyone on the bus was wonderfully weird. There was the man talking into his sleeve towards the back. The teenager popping ridiculously large bubbles on his nose two rows back. There was the woman with the ugliest poodle in a bag across the aisle. And then there was Padmé, admiring them all and reminding herself that they were the reason she got into her field, to protect them. To find justice for them. To make sure bad things didn't keep happening.

Her stop was approaching, so she stood, her hand clasping around one of the bars suspended from the ceiling. Regardless of how hard she prepared for it, she could never quite keep her balance as the bus stopped.

Ahead of her, the police department loomed. She hated going through the front. She'd make it two feet before getting stopped by everyone trying to curry favor with her and get their cases worked faster. As if the crime lab wasn't already understaffed and underfunded as it was. No, she wasn't dealing with that today. Hiking her purse up further on her shoulder, she rounded the back of the building to the morgue entrance. JarJar was odd, but he was more bearable than the others. Even if he was always injuring himself around the lab. What Padmé wasn't expecting to see back there, though, was a certain fire chief waiting by the back door, two cups in his hand.

He'd showered. That much was evident. He smelled less like acrid smoke and more like balsam and cedar. Like the woods Padmé used to walk in as a child. His hair was pulled into various braids, looking more put together than when she'd seen him earlier.

"Amidala," he said, straightening as soon as he caught sight of her.

"Chief Oakenshield," Padmé said, her brow furrowing. "I hope you haven't been waiting long. I was sure we weren't supposed to meet for another twenty minutes."

"Oh, no, not at all," he said, offering her a cup. He hesitated. "I wasn't sure what you'd drink, but I hope this is okay."

"Bribery will not get your scene processed faster," Padmé said, taking the drink.

"It's more of a peace offering," Thorin admitted. "I had... a rough night and I happened to take it out on you. My nephews told me I have to be better about my temper."

She took a sip, shocked when the liquid coated her tongue. It wasn't what she was expecting. He'd gotten her a gingerbread dirty chai latte. It was so good. The spices were warming and the espresso had enough of a zing that she could already feel the caffeine pumping through her veins. Or maybe that was just the sugar high talking. Either way, she wasn't complaining.

He waited patiently for her verdict, an eyebrow raised.

"Peace offering accepted," she told him, taking a moment to look at the cup. "Where did you get this from?"

"A friend owns a coffee shop book store combo," he said with a shrug.

"It's very good," she said, badging into the back door and holding it open for him.

He followed her through the lab towards her office. He looked around the lab curiously, watching the various experiments with fascination. For a smaller lab, it was busy. He'd dodged out of the way on a handful of occasions as Rabé rushed around gathering supplies for whatever she was trying to simulate. Padmé gently guided the fire chief into her office. Her desk was a hot mess, she realized with a cringe. She placed her drink on the one clear corner and worked to quickly organize all the files open across the desk.

Thorin took no notice of it, instead looking at the various degrees and awards on the wall. "You're quite accomplished."

Padmé shrugged. "I've been given a lot of opportunities in life. I've been very fortunate." Once her desk was clear, she sat down and logged into her computer.

"Amidala--"

"Padmé," she corrected. "If you're going to be working with me closely, please call me Padmé."

He rubbed the side of his cup with his thumb, a little unsure of himself. "Padmé... I see that you're hurting for help. Perhaps I could assist more with the investigation? Science was once of my favorite subjects in school, although I was mostly fascinated by the lectures on combustion-"

"That's not necessary."

Thorin's fist curled at his side. "I don't think you understand what the impact that explosion was."

"Oh, but I do," she replied. "You're too close to it to be objective. No, I called you here to inform you that I've already sent an email to Legolas to help. I was hoping you'd give me a list of potential suspects."

"Legolas?!" He raised his voice. Padmé raised her brow at him and he took a deep breath, trying again in a normal volume. "Padmé, these are my people. That was my home. I will be the one to solve this and bring us back."

"I believe the term you're looking for is conflict of interest," she shot back.

"And what of the bribe?"

"Oh so it was a bribe."

"You are the most frustrating woman."

"That is not the first time I've been told that, and I doubt it will be the last."

"I will be on this case."

"Well I don't know who you're going to talk to about it, but you won't get any farther with me."

"Unbelievable," he muttered, turning to leave.

"Should you feel the need for a peace offering for this outburst, this drink would suffice. I expect an email of potential suspects by tomorrow," she said with a smirk, watching him leave. Part of her felt a little bad about riling him up, but it was so easy, and he had done the same thing to her earlier. Still... that blue fire in his eyes had gripped her chest and held her in place. She'd almost wanted to give in just to spend more time with him. Almost.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

I WOULD SPEND ALMOST EVERY WAKING MOMENT EITHER WORKING OR THINKING ABOUT OUR STARTUP

There is one other language still surviving from the 1950s, Fortran, and it is a standard, I won't get in trouble for using it. By the time the acquirer gets them, they're finishing one another's sentences. The acquirers already have brand recognition and HR departments. He thought for a second, and said ok. The term macro does not mean you aren't doing something meaningful, defensible, or valuable. For good and bad technology. There might be 500 startups right now who think they're making something Microsoft might buy. Symbols are effectively pointers. I've read that the same task could be painful to one person and pleasant to another, but are so caught up in their squabble they don't realize it.

We were after the C programmers. But it's all based on one unspoken assumption, and that employers are just proxies for users in which risk is pooled. He thought for a second, and said ok. After a while, most people in rich countries do. Maybe they'll listen to one of the most important quality would be intelligence. You should lean more toward firing people if the source of your trouble is overhiring. But because he doesn't understand the risks, he tends to magnify them. And isn't popularity to some extent its own justification?

It was both a negative and a positive surprise: they were surprised both by the degree to which persistence alone was able to dissolve obstacles: If you pitch your idea to a random person, 95% of the investors we dealt with were unprofessional, didn't seem to be a job. I'm not sure why. An experienced CFO I know said flatly: I would not want to be a total slacker. Why should they wait for VCs to make the cover something you can tell a book by its cover originated in the times when books were sold in plain cardboard covers, to be bound by each purchaser according to his own taste. Given this dichotomy, which of the two paths should you take? This is the kind of possibility that the pointy-haired boss miraculously combines two qualities that are common by themselves, but rarely seen together: a he knows nothing whatsoever about technology, you start to get the wrong answers. If you define a language that talks down to them. A lot of founders that was the big surprise: How hard it is to live in the future. I wrote this for Forbes, who asked me to write something about the qualities we look for in founders.

When you're starting a startup was the value of safe jobs. And usually the acquirer doesn't need anyway. Gone is the awkward nervous energy fueled by the desperate need to not fail guiding our actions. You only need other people to use a language for which he can easily hire programmers? And in accounting that's probably a good idea. Here's a typical reponse: You haven't seen someone's true colors unless you've worked with them on a startup. Why do the founders always make things so complicated?

Don't sit here making up a name for the phenomenon, Greenspun's Tenth Rule: Any sufficiently complicated C or Fortran program contains an ad hoc informally-specified bug-ridden slow implementation of half of Common Lisp. The immense value of the peer group of YC companies, and facing similar obstacles at similar times. If you're small, they don't think it takes years to learn how to make things people want. Suits, who don't know one language from another, and work well together. The company is ultimately doomed. So you can test equality by comparing a pointer, instead of comparing each character. Startups are a comparatively new phenomenon. Refuting the Central Point. Are you kidding? I wonder if these patterns are not sometimes evidence of case c, the human compiler, at work.

What is going on here? You probably didn't have much choice about the secondary schools you went to. There are plenty of undergrads with enough technical skill. After a while, if you could get all three for nothing. These are smart people; if the technology was good, they'd have used it voluntarily. The route to success is to get. Buying larval startups solves that problem for them: the acquirer doesn't pay till the developers have proven themselves. If languages are all equivalent, why should the developers of Java have even bothered to create a named function to return.

There's no rush. Running a startup is not like having a job or being a student, because it would cause the founders' attitudes toward risk tend to be such outliers that your conscious mind would reject them as ideas for companies. And more to the point, nobody knows you're 22. Average age of their founders: 24. There's a shocking amount of shear stress at every point where a startup touches a more bureaucratic organization, like a detective solving a case in a mystery novel. Most programming probably consists of writing little glue programs, and for little glue programs in Lisp too I use it as a desktop calculator, but the people who created it as well. There is a positive side to thinking longer-term. Business guys probably aren't, but hackers are used to a world where skill is paramount, and you don't have significant success to cheer you up, it wears you out: Your most basic advice to founders is just don't die, but the people who have them happier. If you're thinking about getting involved with someone—as a cofounder, an employee, an investor, or an acquirer—and you have misgivings about them, trust your gut. If I haven't, let me clarify that I'm not writing here about Java which I have thought about a lot.

To benefit from engaging with users you have to create a data structure to hold the value of 20 year olds. I try to think How can I write this such that if people saw my code, they'd be happy to take VC money and bet the rest on a bigger outcome. These quotes about luck are not from founders whose startups failed. Morally, they care about getting the big questions right, but not in the middle who see how important luck is. So Dad, there's this company called Apple. The catch is that phrase over time. Most readers can tell the difference between mere name-calling and a carefully reasoned refutation, but I think it will be that bad. But because he doesn't understand the risks, he tends to magnify them.

[mcjickson]

TAKE ME TO CHURCH

I've said it before, but it's worth saying again: You raise your kids to be independent, and then they are. And then, of course, there you are. And this is particularly on my mind today because it's Declan's 19th birthday.

I should be missing him because he's off at Iowa finishing up a banner freshman year where he entirely came into his own, but instead I'm missing him because he just finished up the semester at his mom's house, one tiny mile and one enormous pandemic away.

You can't blame me for wanting him around past the point where he should want to hang out with his dad. He always arrives with an avalanche of great songs I need to hear and never would be exposed to without him. He'll play the absolute nerdiest of board games with me without judgment, and talks glorious smack the entire time. I get to cook for him, which is nice is because he really appreciates it, and frankly it's nice to be needed. But the best part is that he's the funniest fucking person I've ever met.

About this time last year, he burst into my bedroom around four in the morning. "Dad, the police are here." I"ll admit it, people, my first thought was oh-no-what-the-hell-did-you-do?, but thankfully I kept that to myself. I jumped out of bed, and walked to the front door, making a mental note of seeing a baseball bat on the couch in the living room. As it turned out, our boneheaded roommate had not only left her car unlocked, but left her wallet in the side door. The police had found her credit cards and other i.d. strewn across lawns up and down the block, and wanted to know if we had seen anything. When it was clear I could offer nothing of value, I went back inside to check on Declan. I picked up the bat on the way to his bedroom.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

I held the bat up for consideration. "Um, what exactly were you going to do with this?"

He laughed. "I saw the police lights, but I wasn't taking any chances." I laughed.

"Better question, then: Instead of going to the door, why didn't you just come get me?"

"Dad," he smirked, "I'm the alpha."

I laughed so hard I literally teared up. He was proud of it, as he should have been. He clearly had it chambered before I entered the room.

The other reason I've been missing him is decidedly more selfish, but just as dear to me.

My biggest goal when I decided to salvage this wreck of a husk was to be able to play basketball again. And nobody's pushed me in that department like Deke has. In punishing games of 1-on-1, he has absolutely worked me. He's a lanky, graceful southpaw with a lightning-quick first step and an unholy terror of a three-point shot. Since I have to respect the jumper, I have to play him close, but since he's so fast, I have to kill myself to stay with him.

I win sometimes. He probably lets me. I'm ok with it.

Because the most important thing for me when we play is for him to see how hard I want to go. To see that I would rather be in pain that have him see me half-assing the efforts to stick around and discover the kind of man he's going to become. And frankly, it wouldn't just be disrespectful to him, but to basketball, which I've always considered my church. The court's always been a sacred place to me; a place to clear my head, to get caught up in blissed-out devotion to raining jumpers and perfecting free throws.

Oddly enough, that's the first nickname he brought home from Iowa: Church. Evidently that's what he answers to out there. He tried to tell me the origin story, but the details were murky in the best kind of i-guess-you-had-to-be-there way. What I found particularly endearing was that he wasn't aware of the slang usage of the term, in which it's a one-word affirmation of something cool.

It makes sense for him, though, because that's been Declan's key to drawing great people into his orbit. He affirms his friends incessantly and sincerely, and you can see they love him for it. He had an, ahem, informal gathering here over the holidays, and my favorite part of the night was when I heard all of them singing in unison in the basement. To their credit, no one in that crowd is too cool for school, either. They cycled through belting out Skynyrd as hard as Post Malone, Abba as enthusiastically as Blackbear. It was glorious. It was like having pure joy pumped into the vents. It also wasn't the first time Deke's called to mind those lyrics from the Counting Crows' Mr. Jones, another song they went hard in the paint on:

when everybody loves you, son, that's just about as funky as you can be

And everyone really does love him. He's the glue. There are so many reasons I'm beyond proud of him, but more often that not the ones I admire the most are the ones it took me way longer to figure out on my own.

It took me half a lifetime to realize what he somehow gleaned in his teens. That if you can really put yourself out there, and put your energy into making other people feel seen for who they really are, and celebrate the things you love about them in ways they can feel, then everything else is gravy. Good things will come to you.

Happy birthday, Church. You make me so happy to be alive for longer than I expected. I don’t know if either of us will ever be famous, but in the only way that really matters, Mr. Jones and me are gonna be big stars.

[scribblertown]

Fates of the Fateless Ch. 3: But Second Impressions are What Really Matter

How’s about a proper hello without a pistol in the face.

ao3

wattpad

“Remind me of yer name again deary?” Asked Bessie, the sweet older blonde woman.  

 Your response is utterly pathetic and small, exhaustion was evident in your voice.

 “Oh of course! What a lovely name it is. Suits such a pretty young woman such as you.” The two of you wound up sharing a wagon alongside her mutually charming husband Hosea. Both incredibly chatty and total jokesters. The second you set foot on their wagon she swooped in to chat you up. “Believe me, I’m the one named after a Heifer! Ahahah!” she had such a strong and jovial chuckle she’d let out at her wise cracks, slapping her leg and throwing her head back every time she did.  

 “Well, I’ve never seen a bovine as lovely as you Bess.” Hosea piped up to the left of his wife, both seated on the wooden stage in front leading the line of wagons to what Dutch had called a semi-permanent residence. “In fact, your appetite for alfalfa is what made me fall for ya.” he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips before grinning up at her.

 “Well, I fell in love with yer money.” She brought his hand to her lips this time. “And you ain’t all that ugly to look at either.” She gave him a dazzling smile that reached her eyes. Holding each other’s gazes with a fit of giggles before a kiss was shared between the couple.

 “You got a sweetheart dear?” Bessie called back to you, eyes forward and hand interlocked with Hosea’s.

 Your eyes roll before you can think not to. “No…”

 “Really?!” she turned to look at you, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised considerably. “Lovely thing like you should have suitors lined up for miles!” she had longer lashes on her top lids compared to her bottom ones, fanning out at the ends extending the length of her eye.

 “How long until we get to… Where was it again?” diverging the conversation to anything other than dating. Especially the same damn conversation you’ve already had with every old woman you’ve encountered trying to save their grandsons love life.

 “Surssparilla peak. Nice little patch of rock overlooking the local town. Got a good water source too.” Your pretty sure Hosea meant to say sarsaparilla, “should be there by tomorrow afternoon. Morning if we’re lucky.” You guessed by the time everyone had packed up and set out after your little fiasco it was well into the afternoon that you actually departed.

 “Gonna be a long ride then…” you rested your chin on your arms that in turn rested on your knees. Gaze wandering out the back toward the wagon following you while Bessie and Hosea got caught up in their own little conversation.  You recognized the two drivers as the same men you had stowed away with on your escape. The dirty blonde had the reins while the dark-haired kid sat appearing to be ranting about something. His face a scowl, hunched over with one hand on his right thigh while his left took to emphasizing whatever he was saying every once and a while. He looked pretty young, if you had to guess he must have been 18-19 years old. His hair was greasy looking and long, reaching to his shoulders. You imagined if you touched it your fingers would come away with oil. He was a lanky kid, skinny and small. At least compared to his companion.

Your eyes then drifted to the absolute beast of a man that sat next to him. He was intimidating, even when just sitting. You could make out two little scars on his chin, in contrast with the darker stubble that was just long enough to be considered a beard. Your eyes traveled the expanse of his face the best you could from 15 feet away, another scar over his nose. Slowing coming to meet his eyes, shaded by his hat. You felt yourself stiffen. Thick eyebrows furrowed slightly; his gaze focused on you. Still just as intense. Studying you in such a way you began to feel self-conscious, only managing to hold his stare for so long before you broke, switching your attention to the surrounding desert terrain that passed slowly.

  You’re pretty sure his eyes are blue.

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

“Over here is where you’ll be sleeping along with me and the other girls. Claim your spot and don’t move from it.” Susan Grimshaw, or Miss Grimshaw to you as she so eagerly corrected, began showing you around the camp the group managed to set up in the early hours of morning you all managed to arrive. One you embarrassingly slept through, but Bessie insisted you needed the rest. It was set on the same red colored sandstone the majority of this country seemed to be made out of. Shaded by an array of very old and big Juniper trees that seemed to flourish here. Probably because of the nearby creek that brought an array of green to such a desolate land. Beyond the hills edge a town could be seen settled at the base.

“Over there is Pearson’s kitchen, you’ll be given your share of food in the mornings, evenings, and nights. But don’t get greedy, we all have to eat. Here Strauss is the doc of the camp, try and keep injuries to a minimum. We only got so much supplies.” She walked at such a rate that you could barely take in what you were seeing trying to keep up with her. You almost didn’t return the wave Pearson casually made in your direction.

“You’ll be expected to carry your own weight around here, there are always chores to be done, especially the cookin’ and laundry.” She had made a full circle around the little set up they’d made, briefly pointing out the difference in the water for drinking and washing before you found your attention drifting.

 Some of the men had built a little firepit where they’d made themselves comfortable, sipping at coffee just outside of their own sleeping area. Including Dutch and Hosea who were chatting happily with the rest of the boys. Mr. blue eyes and lanky kid of course were there, and then the other two men you had yet to really encounter. A dark-haired man who seemed transfixed on his cup. Next to him sat Uncle. His name is just Uncle as far as you knew, laughing his ass off at whatever Dutch had said. Face red and plump. He reminded you of a hobo Santa clause.

 The ring of your name quickly pulled you from your head finding Dutch smiling warmly, waving you over.

 “Come meet the boys!” Hosea piped up next to him.  

 You turned your sights back to Grimshaw who simply waved you off.

 “Off you go. Put you to work when yer formalities are done.” Leaving your side to join the other women. You approached the campfire at a brisk walk, not too fast but not too slow. Their eyes all transfixed on you. Hosea reached for your hand as you soon as you were close enough, giving it a squeeze and a reassuring look.

 “How are ya today my dear?” gentle and calm, like he was afraid of spooking you if he was too loud.

 You gave a slow shrug, eyes focused on where your hands met. “Better I suppose…” Another pause before you spoke again, “Thank you for asking.” You brought your eyes to his, they were filled with pity.

 “Good to hear, now how’s about we all get better acquainted, hm?” he stood from his seat hand now on your shoulder to gently turn you to the other men. “The dandy in the fancy pants is Dutch Van der Linde, he’s my business partner and long-time friend of many years.”

 “Hello my dear, just know if you need anything you can come to us two old coots.” His hand found yours in a brief handshake, his grip strong and the cold metal of his rings pressed into your palm. “I apologize for the distasteful greeting you received on our first meeting.”

 “No worries Mr. Van der Linde. Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

 “This troublemaker,” Hosea wound his way behind the next fella, hands gripping his shoulders in a playful manner. “Is little John Marston.”

 “Hey! Quit it!” John’s distinct gravelly voice confirmed you’re suspicions in his place as the other driver. “I ain’t a kid no more!” he shoved off Hosea’s grip with a scowl and a red face. He briefly gave you a look before looking away. “Hi…” was all you got out of him.

 Before Hosea could speak up for him, blue eyes stood and removed his hat from his head. “Arthur Morgan, nice to meet you ma’am.” He gave a slight bow of his head. His eyes were indeed blue, complimented by green.

 “Arthur is the muscle ‘round here, so if anyone gives you trouble, he’ll knock some sense into ‘em.” Hosea gave him a good smack on the arm. “Yeah, he may look scary, but he’s a real soft-hearted fella.” You didn’t quite believe that. “So much so I have to wonder what lovely poems you write in that little journal of yours. Will we ever get to hear you recite just how much a romantic you are?”

 “Hosea please…” Arthur rolled his eyes, only slightly annoyed by Hosea’s teasing. They must do this to him a lot.

 “Only teasin’ Arthur. You make it too easy for me!”

 “The mopey fellow there is William O’brien. Don’t let him talk your ear off.” Dutch spoke in a sarcastic manner, clearly pokin’ fun at his quiet demeanor.

 “Ain’t much ta say. Got a ragin’ headache.” His hair was dark and short, a matching beard that covered just the lower half of his face leaving his upper cheeks and lip clean shaven. His eyes brows were unruly and wild. Eyes hazel in color and framed by hooded eyelids. The right one a drift slightly. “Nice ta have a new skirt around. Tired’a lookin’ at dese fairies.” He gestured to the rest of the men.

 “Well ya’ll are such charmers aren’t ya?” Uncle stood next “Don’t know how to act in the company of such a fine lady.” He brushed his shirt off before going for your hand. “The names uncle madame.” he attempted to bring his lips to the back of your hand before you quickly snatched it back.

 “No no no! A simple hello is FINE.” He was caught in his pre hand kissing position for a moment before he just shrugged and he returned to his seat.

 “Don’t listen to anything this bum has to say. It’s usually to free load off ya.” Dutch clearly amused at the little scene. “Oh! That reminds me.” He dug into his vest pocket before pulling out some money. “I believe this belongs to you.”

 You ponder taking it for a moment, “Keep it, not like it’s all that much anyway.”

 Dutch made a double take at you, shocked and somewhat amused. “Not much? Well, we must have quite the aristocrat in our midst!” He chuckled.

 “I-I don’t want to be a burden to you all, so if it’ll help you out, it’s yours.” You rubbed the back of your neck slightly debating whether or not to confess the origins of the cash. “It’s.. not exactly mine to begin with…”

 “Stolen money hm? And pray tell where it came from?” He sounded interested, intrigued. But not angry.

 “The sheriff. Back in Redrock where I stumbled upon you lot.” You met Dutch’s gaze. “It was an impulsive action, a-and I feel awful about it…” To your surprise Dutch gripped your shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze.

 “My dear, we have a saying around here.” He looked like he was relieved to hear your confession, as if he’d had a weight lifted off his own shoulders. “Shoot fellas as need shootin,” you stiffened at such an utterance. “save fellas as need savin’ and feed ‘em as need feedin’.” His voice was gentle and eerily calm. “I believe you took this money ‘cause it was what you needed.”

 “And last we saw the sheriff; he was doin’ fine.” Hosea chimed in, giving you a similar look of relief. “If anybody had done him harm, it was those O’driscoll boys.”

 You remained quiet for a moment before breathing out a long sigh of air. Partially from relief, partially from the guilt pressing down on your chest. Taking the bills in your hand you pulled out just the one. $10, the smallest amount donning the face of a man you didn’t recognize, returning the two $20’s back to Dutch. “You keep the rest.” You didn’t wait for him to argue, simply turned to return to Grimshaw.

 “If she doesn’t want it, can I have it?”

 “Shut it Uncle!”

[awake-my-oceans]

Kaito as the detective and shin as the Kid (shrinking optional)

(Send me an AU and I’ll tell you five headcanons about it)

Robin, you‘ve talked about how the Phandom makes you write like you‘re possessed, and I‘m starting to get what you mean. Literally nothing in DCMK comes to me without it turning into A Monster. Anyways, roleswap Kaito and Shinichi!

Ok so the thing is this could actually work with canon backstories. Kaito’s whole thing is about honoring his dad and catching the guys who killed him, which translates fairly easily into detective work—particularly if he doesn’t know about the Kaitou Kid bit right away. Shinichi is……a bit harder, but he canonically rolls with the weirdest stuff. If you get the right setup, him being Kaitou KID isn’t that much of a stretch.

I know it’s headcanon time but shhhh this is an interesting premise and I have to figure out how we got here.

Ok, so Kaito doesn’t always pick up nuanced crime scene clues, but he reads people really really well. So when he accidentally runs into Jii, and the mention of his father comes up, Jii winces, pained, and Kaito goes “what do you know you absolutely know something and I won’t drop this” and doesn’t let Jii rest until Jii admits that Kuroba Toichi was murdered. Boom, off we go. Nakamori Ginzo half-raised him ever since Toichi died, so it’s a reasonable jump to go straight into detective work. Kaito can’t always read a crime scene, and frankly, the bodies are unsettling to the point of nausea, but he sure can read everyone’s reactions to the body, and, well, some people are only pretending to grieve. What does this madlad do? Does he teach himself to carefully examine all evidence for clues? Well, yes, but that comes later. Right now, he jumps straight into impersonating the deceased’s voice and mannerisms and accusing everyone and, well, people do tend to have nervous breakdowns and confessions when suddenly confronted with their victim’s ghost. Good, Kaito thinks, remembering how much he’s mourned his father. They deserve it.

Off he goes. He’ll get more and more relevant information over time, but that’s about as slow-burn as canon. Meanwhile, he’s making a name for himself as a medium for the dead.

Meanwhile Shinichi’s come across the reports of Kuroba Toichi’s death, and, well, this is definitely a cover up. A few too-close runs later, he realizes it was a cover up from inside the legal system, and that those people are still very much in power. He has a crisis for all of like two days before realizing that Sherlock Holmes took a legally “flexible” approach to confronting in-house corruption, and, well, if Sherlock Holmes can do it then he can too. Sufficient off-the-record digging, plus talking with his dad (who is also, ah, legally flexible), brings up the whole Kaitou Kid thing and look, playing Kaitou Kid was supposed to be a one-time thing to bait people out of the woodwork, but one thing led to another, and here Shinichi is, moonlighting as a dead thief.

Shinichi isn’t more than competent at magic tricks, but he has a few things in his favor here. 1) both Agasa and Jii are helping him, and their team up is a force to behold. Jii keeps the ideas practical, and Agasa makes the ideas work. 2) Shinichi’s dad absolutely knew the last Kaitou Kid inside out, and he’s giving Shinichi helpful pointers. 3) Shinichi may not be good at doing magic, but he’s absolutely incredible at reading and anticipating the police, having a flawless alibi, and leaving no evidence on-scene. Plus, he’s still working his “day job” as a detective, so he also gets stupidly easy access to department gossip, security layouts, and other classified information.

Headcanon time!

Kaito has his beginning of canon meltdown of “EXCUSE ME, this thief is claiming to be the best magician around and he’s WRONG because my DAD was the best.” This is even more vehement because his dad is a more painful topic overall, given that he was murdered. That said, he’s not going to give this thief the time of day because he’s got more important things to do, like catch the murderers. However, Shinichi-in-disguise is casing a building when someone gets murdered there, and Kaito’s like “what is up with this guy.” Shinichi does pause and lend a hand when Kaito gets stuck, because murder is murder no matter what face he’s wearing. After the case is solved, Kaito’s trying to figure out who on earth this is when he realizes it’s Kaitou Kid. But the guy did just help solve a murder. And when he snarls that his father was the better magician, Kaitou Kid just bows his head and agrees. So Kaito has no idea what to make of this dude. Meanwhile Shinichi’s inner dialogue is just “it’s Toichi’s kid, does he know—NOPE HE SURE DOESN’T, UH, WHAT DO I DO??!”

Kaitou Kid respecting Toichi and admiring Kaito’s magic is a recurring thing, much to Kaito’s bemusement. Like. He can tell that it’s genuine, not a way to throw him off guard, although it’s sure doing that, too. One time Kaitou Kid pauses a heist to help with a case, which leads to Kid almost getting caught. Kaito’s still got a lot of complicated feelings around Kid, but it’s not fair that Kid’s getting arrested just because he had the decency to help stop a murderer. So Kaito covers for Kid with a rather good magic trick that “Kid” performs. Kid escapes, but not before giving Kaito the strangest layered look Kaito’s ever seen. He doesn’t even know what was in all those layers, just that there was a lot of grief and that there were upwards of ten layers in there.

Kaito and Shinichi catch onto each other faster than in canon. This is mainly because their weak spots are more obvious to an expert—Kaito’s definitely not talking to ghosts to solve cases, thinks Shinichi the Savior of the Police Force, and Kid’s definitely got a hidden agenda that’s only almost perfectly covered up, thinks Kaito the Undisputed Expert of Poker Face. Kaito has a very rough go of things when he finds out in rapid succession that 1) Kid’s trying to hunt down murderers via a system that might actually be stranger than talking to “ghosts,” 2) Kid’s looking for who killed Kuroba Toichi specifically, and 3) Kuroba Toichi was actually the original Kid. After that, Kid being a teenage detective is just—whatever. Sure. Why not.

There’s a huge police betting pool on what will happen when Kudou “everything has a rational explanation” Shinichi, and Kuroba “I literally talk to ghosts” Kaito meet. Everyone’s sure there will be conflict—people are just trying to work out how it will go down. Turns out that they get on like a house on fire, but to everyone’s great surprise, the houses they set on fire are all criminals, and they don’t try to set each other’s houses on fire at all. Except for Megure. Megure makes bank.

Turns out that when you have two detectives and two phantom thieves on hand, things get done with furious efficiency. Kaito and Shinichi take turns being Kaitou Kid, depending on whose skill set is most useful. Kaito’s better at dodging bullets and at doing insane magic. Shinichi’s better at forcing the snipers to reveal themselves and at getting the police to notice exactly the right things about the snipers. On a detective front, half the Organization’s convinced that 1) their dead victims are actively sabotaging them and 2) if their victims don’t get them, Kudou Shinichi certainly will.

Honestly, from an outside POV, the back third of this series would just be “there are GHOSTS and we are going to DIE and also reality is bending anytime Kaitou Kid shows up—“

RIP to all the undercover agents in the Organization. They’re about to have a Ride.

[blzzrdstryr]

Alone together

Yandere!Dainsleif x gn!reader

Wordcount: 2011

CW: Yandere themes, stalking, possessive behavior, PTSD

Khaenri’ah burns. Skies turn red, as tall pillars of smoke arise in the place of ruined towers. People cry and beg and scream.

“Ah, [First] , you came to help” Lisa greets you, waking up from her half-slumbering state: “Welcome, welcome. I already made some tea for you, just let me”. The librarian stretches and yawns akin to a cat, after she stands up from the counter, flashing you one of her charming smiles afterwards: “Go and fetch it. We will work after the tea”.

Something in her voice leaves no room for argument, so you sit at the offered table, eyes immediately shifting to the nearby window, mostly out of habit. Skies are blue and clear, buildings are whole and steady, people are laughing and cheering outside. It’s a sight that brings you heartache and comfort at the same time - no one should be subjected to what you had to live through, whether they worship the seven or not.

“And here it is”, the witch says, holding a tray with a steaming teapot, cups and a plate of cupcakes resting on top of it. The next fifteen minutes are spent drinking and carelessly chatting about everything and nothing in particular: Lisa is an excellent company, adept at maintaining the conversation interesting and atmosphere comfortable, her wide array of knowledge and keen intellect keeping you on your toes throughout the exchange despite the advantage of experience you happen to possess.

The brief tea party is then followed by the shared work of deciphering ancient documents, the librarian sometimes turns to you asking for the meaning of one word or another - most of the texts are written in Khaenri’ahn or archaic forms of the modern languages.

She doesn’t pry why you happen to possess such intrinsic knowledge on the long dead language, nor does she ask anything about your star-shaped pupils - she must have seen the descendants of your compatriots, then. You know there live at least two - one with tan skin and a warm smile that never reaches his cold eyes and a blonde youth with the powers of khemia rolling under his palms. There’s no courage to approach them.

You in turn share Khaenri’ah’s greatest legacy - knowledge and science that helped your nation to outpace the deities and turn them against you. It’s a nice feeling - making sure that the thing your people cherished the most will not be forgotten, even if it’s given to archon worshippers. Five centuries ago the thought of educating Teyvatians would be laughable to you - there’s no use in it, they will continue to believe in their gods - you would dismiss it, but now nationless you have no choice but to do it - it’s the only way to keep the products of your people alive. To keep the memory of your people alive.

Khaenri’ah burns. You run across the collapsing city, eyes growing wider as you see people slowly morphing into something. It’s bestial and feral, primitive. Your breath hitches, you want to scream.

“[First]?”, it’s Lisa again, she lightly taps your shoulder, a hint of concern creeps into her voice

“Ah? Everything is fine, I just zoned off” you reply, too quickly and too strained to be believable. Who could have known that even after five hundred years the flashbacks of what happened on that day will still haunt you? They trail your thoughts like determined hounds, sneaking up on you in the most inopportune times. One moment you are talking to someone, the second you relive the fall of Khaenri’ah. The memory feels too real to be a fantasy, leaving your thoughts messy, anxious and disordered, as you shake and try to calm yourself.

“Are you sure?”, she stands up from her seat and makes a couple of quick steps to you, taking a good look at your face: you must look horrible, you think, those episodes always leave you panting and on the verge of panic.

“Maybe we should continue tomorrow, there’s no use in haste, it’s not like our documents will run away”, Lisa continues, massaging circles into your shoulder - her hand is warm and comforting, grounding. You want to thank her for this - the understanding tone and the way she caresses you right now, helping you to keep the link with reality, but the words get stuck in your throat - it’s too much and too scary, to admit what just has happened not only to her, but to yourself too.

“Yes”, you finally force out of yourself, nodding along the way: “it would be for the better”. Your voice is still too tense and strained, filled with the grief for the people and places long past, but Lisa, to your relief, doesn’t point out any of it. You quickly gather your belongings and leave the library, almost forgetting to bid a farewell to the witch as you exit.

The sun begins to set as you make your way to the rented house, it’s small and nondescript, a complete opposite of the one you had in Liyue. You used to work as a scholar in the harbor before He found you again - you fled your spacious and cozy apartments in less than a day, leaving almost all of your possessions behind.

The thoughts of what had happened still buzz in your mind - you want to scream and cry, you want to vent to someone, but the words you will utter will be in pure khaenri’ahn they won’t understand you.

You think of finally approaching that star-eyed cavalry captain, Kaeya, maybe he saw what you witnessed too. You think of Albedo, who carries the same energy all khaenri’ahn constructs do. You want to ask him about his creator, you want to talk with him about Khemia. You think of Barbatos who wears the form of the cheerful bard, you want to accuse and scream and hit him.

You do nothing as the power leaves your body the same second - it’s scary, so scary to verbalize that, to talk and share and relive, and approaching any of those three means doing exactly so.

You stay inside instead, calming your beating heart and kicking out intrusive thoughts, and only when your pulse returns to the norm you allow yourself to finally stand up. The world is shaky and unreliable, but some things stay the same. Your room for example - you have a habit of leaving things in specific places, as a way to keep you grounded. There’s a comfort in familiarity - the one you desperately need.

Your eyes shift from one object to the other, until they stumble across something that sends your heart racing again. The cup you use is shifted by a couple of inches, facing you by the opposite side, there’s a flower and a note lying beside it. The words are in khaenri’ahn, the handwriting is familiar too.

Khaenri’ah burns. Your lungs do too from the sheer overexertion and fatigue, but you keep pushing further and further - you can’t give up yet, not when He needs you. A name forms on your lips.

Thousand of thoughts form in your mind, they’re panicked, fast and disjointed - flee again, cut and dye your hair, change the name too - you can start over in Inazuma again, it’s a closed country, so if you will manage to get in, it will be harder for him to track you again.

Who are you kidding?

Unlike you, he has a core of steel, an unwavering determination to settle things his way or die trying - be it opposing Celestia or gaining you. It was always like that, with the Twilight sword being stubborn to a fault - he never budged or surrendered, not when Khaenri’ah was still proudly standing, and not now, when there’s nothing but the charred remains of your homeland.

You met him when you got accepted into the Royal order, where a Konungr paired you with Him. The twilight sword was unrelenting in his pursuits even then, a trait that you both admired and feared in equal volume. The collapse of your nation only worsened this quality - if back then he was striving to supervise and oversee everything, then the tragedy exacerbated his controlling tendencies even further.

You were travelling together for the first fifty years after the fall, both affected by the same curse, as he started getting possessive. It began in innocuous things: asking where you were, what you were doing, you didn’t pay much attention back then, celestial wrath still fresh in your memory - he was just cautious you told yourself, it’s a safety measure.

But then these safety measures grew from simply inquiring about your day to accompanying you almost everywhere, and then it all culminated in Him locking you up, to keep you away from leaving.

You escaped then, and avoided him ever since, departing your residence the second you caught the wind of his possible proximity. Years turned into decades that later morphed into centuries, and you began to grow lax - he was getting closer and closer to you with each turn. The first time you had a suspicion of him being near you packed your things the same second and spent countless days traversing the land by hidden passageways, careful not to leave any traces, and now, now you still sit in your house, despite having evidence of him knowing where you are.

Maybe you grew tired of the cat and mouse game, maybe you just accepted that your recapture is inevitable and all your little escapes do nothing, but set it off for a couple of months, or maybe you’re just that lonely. It doesn’t matter, really, as you make no attempt to do anything - it’s useless, he already knows your location.

Khaenri’ah burns. You cry and you hate yourself - for weakness, for helplessness, for still being alive and sane. He stays near you as a silent shadow, his blue eyes shifting from your crying face to the wreckage of the city. There are no words shared between you that day - you’re crushed and empty, yet bare and aching at the same time.

“Dainsleif”, you greet him, once you hear the squeak of the opening door. He doesn’t look that different from five hundred years ago, but now his eyes are both more tired and alive with fervent light.

“[First]”, he simply replies, your name rolling off his tongue like a prayer - there’s adoration and worship in his tone. He almost falls to his knees, as he takes your hands in his, capturing them in a steel trap.

“[First], I finally have you, [first]”, he murmurs, bringing your palm to his face. You don’t resist him, knowing it’s futile. His skin feels just like all those years ago - rough and dry, weathered down by the demanding lifestyle he leads. He gives a shy peck to your inner wrist, blue eyes intently watching you as he does so.

“Long time no see, Dain”, you start, trying to diffuse the tension in the air, as he grabs you by the chin and forces you into a kiss. He kisses with the desperation of a dying person, one of his hands firmly holding your head, the other starts to explore your body. It feels obscene. You are lightheaded, when he finally parts and hugs you again, still chanting “[First]” over and over again.

You allow him this liberty too, feeling a prick of pity in your heart. You know what it is - to be the sole survivor, too see your own people crumble and fall and transform. You know that he returns to that place again and again, reliving the same moment against his will. You know that he gasps and shivers when the memories get too real and overwhelming.

You both are children of the fallen nation, and there's no person in the world who could understand you better than he does. Maybe, you shouldn't have run, you think, listening to Dainsleif speak in Khaenri’ahn. There's a chain of connection between you two, it's unbreakable, forged in shared losses, tears and pain.

Khaenri’ah burns. It burns in both of you.

[notanotherreidgirl]

It’s Doctor

Summary: Spencer stands up for Reader against a police sheriff

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Kissing, pushy guy (he’s a bit of an ass), there’s a miniscule amount of angst, i think that’s it

Word Count: 1120

A/N: Ok here’s a first, no horizontal tango this time. Inspired by this gifset

Spencer didn’t mean to eavesdrop but when he saw you and the sheriff of the police department, he came to a standstill. He had only cracked the door open before seeing you packing up the evidence board, going up on your tiptoes to reach a photograph at the very top. The sheriff jumped at the opportunity to stand close to you, brushing up against your back as he easily grabbed it. He lingered there, trapping you between him and the board before stepping away and making a show out of handing you the photo. 

Spencer felt a flash of anger quickly followed by disappointment and regret. Just that morning Derek had teased him about you, insisting that if he didn’t make his move soon someone would come and whisk you away. 

“A pretty girl like Y/N isn’t gonna wait around forever” he had warned. Derek was right. Of course he was right. Derek was always infuriating right about these things. 

You were the one person that would listen to him ramble for over an hour, only interjecting to ask thoughtful questions. You watch Doctor Who and you love Halloween and you are perfect. You are absolutely perfect and it’s a miracle you even give me the time of day he thought. So he decided on saying something tonight, inviting you to his room to watch TV and unwind after the case. 

He had been beyond nervous but also secretly excited, trying to find the absolute perfect words with which to convey his feelings. Foolishly, he let himself imagine you loving him back and he could hardly wait to see you. Now that balloon of excitement welling up in his chest had wholly deflated. It was just as well, at least he didn’t ruin your friendship in the process of having his heart broken. Resigned, he started to turn away.

It was a habit of yours - packing up after a case. Hotch had protested at first, insisting that everyone should pitch in but no one else was as careful about every little detail as you were. Emily, in particular, had a habit of just randomly shoving papers into unlabeled folders and leaving someone at Quantico to sort through them later. Besides, you organized the paperwork just to everyone’s liking, making sure that the documents Hotch had to sign off on were paperclipped together and printing everything out to accommodate Spencer's aversion to technology. 

You had devised a system. First, you’d take down the pictures of victims and crime scenes and headshots. Then the witness statements would go in the correct folders, the paperwork neatly arranged in it’s own box. At the very end you would wipe down the board, erasing the profile and putting the case to rest. It was cathartic. 

But not tonight. Tonight you had Sheriff Hobartson breathing down your neck.

“I heard you and your team ain't leaving till morning. Maybe tonight I could show you around town” The look in his eye made Spencer think that he was planning on showing you more than an unimpressive suburb. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I actually have plans”. Tonight was the night. You were going to tell Spencer how you felt about him. You had a whole speech planned out and you had been rehearsing it in your head all day. In fact, you were so preoccupied with figuring out the perfect way to tell Spencer that you barely paid attention to Sheriff Hobartson’s blatant advances for the whole case. Something that only encouraged him. 

“Come on, sweetie. Don’t lie to me, you don’t have any plans tonight” he straightened his back, invading your space and towering over you. You realized that you were alone with him at the station.

“I don't appreciate your insinuation, Sheriff. I’m not lying to you.” you said firmly, taking a cautious step back. “Thank you for your offer but the answer is no.”

“You’re kidding me right? You FBI think you’re so much better than us! Just coming in here!” he reached forward to grab your arm. “Listen missy -”

The sound of Spencer slamming the door open interrupted him. “It’s Doctor.”

The sheriff shrank away from you, his demeanor rapidly shifting now that he had been caught. Spencer continued to speak as he strode into the room.

“It’s Doctor Y/L/N. She has two PhDs in subjects that you couldn’t even try to wrap your head around. She’s here because you needed our help to do your job. It took four dead women for you to swallow your pride and call us. The unsub behind bars right now? He’s there because of Dr. Y/L/N. And it’s going to be her that decides if you still have a job next week” 

Sheriff Hobartson met your eyes frantically, realizing that he was at your mercy now. “I’m not going to lie, things are not looking that good for you right now,” you said evenly. 

He started to string together an apology but you couldn’t hear him. Spencer had turned and reached out a hand. You took it without thinking. His hands were always warm, always gentle, always pulling you to safety. He curled his fingers over yours, thumb crossing over thumb and palms sliding together. “Come on Y/N,” he said softly. “The sheriff will finish up here. It’s the least he can do.”

Together you left the station without looking back. Your hands were still interlocked, only separating briefly when Spencer walked around the SUV and buckled himself into the driver’s seat. What now? All your carefully rehearsed words had disappeared. “Spencer, thank you. I’m so sorry you had to do that.”

“I couldn’t stand him speaking to you like that,” he slowed to a stop. You registered that he had parked in the middle of the road but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It wasn’t like there would be anyone driving around a small town in North Dakota at nearly midnight. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. You’re so good, Y/N. You make everything better, even this job. You make it easy to sit through briefings and see the worst things that humanity has to offer. You’re smart and compassionate and -”

This time it was your turn to do the interrupting. You launched yourself across the console and pressed your lips to his. His response was immediate, pulling you as close as possible and cradling your face in his hands. For a moment, you were floating. The kiss was every inside joke, every Doctor Who marathon, every late night reviewing case files, every unspoken I love you. 

So there you were, two FBI agents with 5 doctorates between you stopped at a green light in the middle of nowhere, desperately in love with each other. And it was absolutely perfect.

[tenthgrove]

Can I request the one where La Squadra thought the reader was pregnant (when she just actually visited her kid) situation for Bruno's gang?

Mother Mother- Bucci Edition

Team Buccerati x Reader (Fem), Platonic, SFW

Bruno Buccerati is feeling restless. He's not one to pry, but your behaviour lately is starting to concern him. Leaving the base for hours without explanation is no cause for worry in itself, after all, you're not obliged to inform him of your whereabouts 24/7 and you're hardly the only one on the team who does this, but together with the ceaseless obsession with cutting your finances, the uncharacteristic melancholy and the jolt of panic whenever your personal circumstances become the topic of conversation all add up to a bad picture.

The final straw for Buccerati came today, in which while passing you idly on the sofa he caught sight of the word 'parenthood' printed on the title of the leaflet you were reading. He didn't see the rest of what it said, but your guilty smile at being caught spoke well enough for itself.

Buccerati truly does feel bad about this, but with how defensive you become at even the smallest sign of confrontation, he sees no other choice. As he watches you depart your bedroom and head into the bathroom, he waits quietly for the rush of water from the shower, before sneaking into your unlocked bedroom unnoticed.

He will make clear, he thinks to himself as he pilfers through the loose paper on your desk for that leaflet, that he is not angry. If it's what your heart is set on, he isn't even that opposed to the idea of you raising the baby yourself. The squad is decently paid and their work isn't as dangerous or all-consuming as some, so they can manage. He even feels a little bit of excitement at the thought of helping you with your offspring. He's only doing this because it can't be healthy for you to conceal your pregnancy like this. Children have always been such precious things to him.

A pink leaflet flits off of the desk and Buccerati picks up his prize. He reads the title in full.

"Parenthood for the Parents of Hospitalised Children: What Doctors Advise"

Ahh. Now that changes things. Buccerati feels his heart sink at the sight of the stock image of a mother and father standing over the bedside of a sickly-looking girl. He guiltily returns the leaflet to its former place and tries to reorganise the paper as he found it, before exiting quickly.

Having learned his lesson well about making assumptions on too little evidence, Buccerati sits down with his phone book. There's a fellow on one of the intel teams who owes him a small favour, and it's time he called on it.

“Hello, it’s Buccerati, could you do something for me quickly? I need you to check the records of all the hospitals in Naples that hospitalise chronically ill children, and take a look through the names of the patients in the children's ward," he requests. "There's a specific surname I'm after, hang on, I'll find it for you." Buccerati racks his brains. If there's one thing he's certain your being honest about it's your real name. He pulls it from his memories and relays it to his friend. "No, no need to take any action once you find them. Just let me know the details, particularly of the illness. Very well, thank you," he concludes the phone call and hangs up. He leans back in the seat and sighs.

He barely gets half an hour to rest before the phone rings.

"Oh hello, that was quick. Did you find them? That's excellent. What did the records say?"

The agent relays his findings. Matching the surname he gave him is a little girl about 5 years old, currently residing in the hospital closest to Buccerati's base. The child is suffering from a frightful condition that, although rarely fatal with treatment, can leave sufferers in need of constant medical care for months on end, along with more minor support for years after.

The most concerning thing about the records is that the agent was able to find visitation logs attached to the data, and they all speak of a single, anonymous visitor with recorded visits matching perfectly with the dates and times of your disappearances.

Buccerati thanks the agent and promises to wire him a little money for his quick and extensive help. Hanging up, he broods deeply. He cannot simply allow your suffering to continue if there's anything, anything at all he can do to help.

He is broken from his trance by the sounds of panicked footsteps running in from the hall. He catches sight of Mista and Narancia sneaking in from the hallway, and is struck by the immediate impression that they are by all definitions, up to no good.

"What's the matter you two? You seem startled," he presses them patiently. He is met with two loud sounds of 'uhhhh'.

"Nothing Buccerati, we swear it!" Narancia promises.

"Yeah! In fact, we were just going to the shops and were arguing over what to get!" Mista backs him up. Buccerati rolls his eyes and smiles.

"Alright. Not too much sugar, Narancia? We don't want to find you being sick in the bathroom at two in the morning again, do we?"

"It's not me you have to worry about doing that now," Narancia mutters under his breath.

"Pardon?" Buccerati asks, confused.

"Nothing! We should go now!"

The boys immediately make their exit out the front and disappear down the street. Bruno tuts. Sometimes he thinks he'll never understand that lot. He smiles.

As he replays the encounter in his head, it occurs to him what that strange item poking out of Mista's pocket was. The leaflet from (y/n)'s room. Shit.

"Mista? Narancia? I think we should have a word please!" Buccerati shouts down the entry street. But it's two late, they've both disappeared out of earshot. Buccerati throws his hands up in despair, and returns to his room.

::::::::::::

Abbacchio knows what he sees. Mista and Narancia go running down the street and about 20 second later, Buccerati goes out shouting. As Abbacchio watches Buccerati return to the house in defeat, he makes a decision. He's had enough of those kids and their petty little antics. If Buccerati doesn't have it in him to set them straight, he will.

"You look pressed," Fugo remarks as Abbacchio pushes past him in the corridor.

"None of your business. Mista and Narancia are up to no good and now I've got to go and find them," Abbacchio grunts.

"Narancia?! But he promised me he'd work on his assignments tonight! Little bastard, I'll kill him!" Fugo fumes.

"Will you now? Better keep up then," Abbacchio says, throwing on his coat.

It doesn't take them long at all to find Mista and Narancia. Indeed, they're cowering in the very first alleyway left of the house.

"We can explain," Narancia promises.

"I bet you can," Abbacchio mutters half-heartedly.

"Take a look at this!" Narancia urges them. He pulls a pink leaflet from Mista's pocket and rereads it himself. "It says 'parenthood'. We found it in (y/n)'s room. Does that mean she's pregnant?"

"Why in god's name were you snooping around in (y/n)'s room?" Abbacchio interrogates them.

"Furthermore Narancia, you can't read," Fugo adds.

"Well, for a start, Buccerati did it first. We just went in after him to see what it was he was looking for. Second, Mista read it for me, and he swears it says 'parenthood'. Isn't that right Mista?"

"Sure is," Mista affirms. "Look."

He flicks the leaflet in front of them and, sure enough, they all read the same word. Abbacchio and Fugo curse simultaneously.

"What the hell is their game, thinking they can hide something like this from us?" Abbacchio fumes. "Does Bruno think he's protecting her or something? He's a fool."

"If I may, Abbacchio, it is most uncharacteristic of you to speak ill of Signor Buccerati," a voice from behind protests. Abbacchio turns with a jolt to see Giorno standing at the entrance of the alleyway along with a very bewildered looking Trish. They each have a couple of shopping bags in their hands.

"Are you spying on me?!" Abbacchio shrieks.

"Not at all. I simply thought that going after dark would be a much safer time for Trish to do her shopping, so I was taking her out," Giorno explains. "I overheard your voices and came to investigate, but I really haven't heard much."

"(Y/n)'s pregnant and Buccerati's hiding it from us," Mista fills him in.

"Wait, I'm lost. Did Buccerati get her pregnant? Because if so, what in the actual hell?" Trish comments.

"Fucking christ. Could you imagine?" Narancia remarks. The group soon devolves into a mess of interrupted shouting.

"All of you quiet!" Abbacchio yells. He holds up his hands in desperation. "We are going to get to the bottom of this and we're going to do it now! We are going right home, and we are getting (y/n) to explain herself, whether she likes it or not. Agreed?"

::::::::::::

You had an awful eery feeling getting out that shower would be a mistake. The last thing you expected tonight was being hounded by your dear teammates while you're half dressed and wet haired, particularly on such an outlandish concept as pregnancy.

"Slow down! What the hell are you accusing me of again?"

"You're having a baby and you aren't even telling us! Do you have any idea how much those cost?" Trish accuses. You don't even have an answer for that one, it's just so completely wrong there's no way to refute it.

"We aren't looking to judge, we just want to help," Giorno assures you, though his voice is drowned out by the rest of the rabble.

"I don't need help, I'm not having a baby!" you protest. Narancia opens his mouth.

"But the leaflet says-"

"What on god's earth are the lot of you doing?" Bruno calls from the hallway. "Why are you all hounding (y/n) all of a sudden."

"You think we don't know what you know, Buccerati?" Abbacchio confronts him. "You're complicit in this. You're helping to hide this- baby!"

Buccerati breathes deeply.

"Ah. I believe I know what this is about. Mista, I want you to take that leaflet you found and read the front page out to me. In full."

Mista complies.

"Parenthood... for the Parents of Hospitalised Children. Oh."

"You made the same mistake I did," Buccerati explains. "You saw the first word and immediately jumped to your own conclusions. But in regards to the full title I have carried out some follow up and have confirmed it is exactly what it sounds like. (Y/n) has a young daughter who is unfortunately quite sick at present, and she has understandably been taking time off to be with her."

"You know about her?" you exclaim in panic.

"Apologies (y/n), I was acting only in concern for your health. It was admittedly due to my poor caution that the others found out and, well, it went from there."

"Look," you protest, thoughts spiralling into panic. "I didn't mean for you to know. You said I could do what I wanted with my money so I did. There- there was no other way I could afford to treat her," you justify, tears starting to leak from your eyes. "Please don't kick me out. I swear this doesn't affect my work, all I need is a few hours a week to check on her!"

You collapse against the door in tears. The crowd goes into a shocked silence. Buccerati pushes to the front.

"Hey, hey, I'm not going to kick you out so don't worry," he promises. "I would never cut off a member of my squad like that, especially not when they have such a vulnerable dependent. We can talk about helping you with the money tomorrow, but now, let's get you calmed down okay?"

You nod through your tears. Buccerati guides you to your feet and leads you gently into the kitchen. The remaining group in the hall look at each other with pressed lips. Fugo takes the leaflet from Mista and reads through the front cover once more. He hits him.

[kusagrasskusa]

Michael Myers X Murderer! Reader - Headcannons - "Death Card"

Also, thank you (Wattpad Person) for requesting this :) I know your the last request I got, so I prolly should have done someone else's request first, but your's was just easiest to find. (Also, I have it bad for Michael so )

Have fun reading this! I'm writing this on my laptop instead of computer so sorry if the formatting turns out worse than usual :/

Also...someone made fun of me for putting, "eight," and, "11," in the same sentence. I guess not many people know this, but anything under ten is supposed to be written out unless their fractions or decimals.

By the way, these basically aren't headcannons lol. It's just me wanting to write out a story but not being good enough to so I just write it down in simpler terms.

Enjoy~

Not only is Y/N just another famous murder who casually takes the lives of people, but she's amazing at hiding

..........until-

Y/N was an abusive home after her parents died when she was a toddler. Her aunt and uncle neglected her but karma came back at them when their car fell off a bridge, causing the pair to drown. The downside for the young Y/N was that she was put into a foster institution. And we all know by now that foster care are full of fights, drugs, weed, alcohol, and shitty employees.

As a young girl entering such a bad place, she was always a target. You know that sense of fear, worthlessness, and loneliness fucked with her head to where she felt lashing out felt great.

She would be unable to stop herself as she plunged a sharp object in and out of this prick that held her down for so long. But once she heard voices from other kids, she ran.

The story made headlines as the next big attack from yet another child. That's right, next. There was someone who inspired her to do what she did.

Of course, she always had that memory in the back of her head. That boy's violent actions filled her with immeasurable awe when she saw the news. However, she always had something more important to think about.

With so much dissatisfaction with her past, she could only fill herself up with adding things on to her in the present, and more in the future.

Y/N would steal Poker cards from people and always use the Ace of Spades to mark her kills by sliding the card into a wound. After all, betting games were the highlight of her day in the foster institution. She was always so good at it that it became her pride.

All these headlines and stories about how evil she is became such a big deal in her head. Such an overwhelming feeling of adrenaline every time she heard the name people would call her.

"The Death Card," is another name for Ace of Spades in most English countries. It was the perfect fit for Y/N.

(Ya'll, I feel like a fucking genius for coming up with that lol)

She was so good at hiding, truly. Kill someone in Kentucky, then move to Missouri. Killing someone there and move to Georgia, and so on.

Only in her hometown was she caught.

Michael was the one who started it all for her, as their same age and hometown made her feel connected to him, and finally where he got caught would be the same place she did.

14 years of hiding and killing led her to meeting him

Michael spent these 14 years sitting in complete silence. No talking, no humming, no singing, nothing. It's like he was always in his own world of thought, too busy in his imagination to interact with the real world.

Of course, there was times when he did pay attention to what's around him.

The news was the only thing he'd really pay close attention to. After all, what if something happens to Haddonfield while's he's stuck in there, and that causes plenty of people he once knew to move away?

But per usual, there was nothing about it

But there was something that caught his attention even by a little

"After 14 years, the notorious Death Card or Card of Death has finally been caught," says the Haddonfield Police Department. "While we're unsure of her motives thus far, we have been able to learn of who she is. Y/N L/N made the headlines once in 1980 at the age of eight as one of America's biggest crime cases with children as the culprit, having brutally stabbed a 15 year old boy. This happened just two years after the Michael Myers case, when a six year old boy stabbed his older sister in 1978. All else the HPD are saying is that her frantic behavior may lead her to a mental institution rather than letting her make legal decisions in court."

Michael paid attention to all the details of the report. For this report to be made about Haddonfield, chances are they'll be meeting each other soon.

The Death Card was a violent killer Michael heard of plenty of times however he never paid close attention to.

(Holy shit these are just headcannons so why am I writing long paragraphs)

He had to say, hearing about her violent stabbings were the highlight of his week. Even if he never felt strong about hearing other people having fun with their lives like she was, he couldn't help but almost feel pushed to do what she is. Living freely and ending those who cross his path...

Saying he was jealous or inspired would be a stretch though

He would spend his days painting paper mache masks while thinking of doing what she was for sure but he hated how she would show off by using those cards as if she didn't have a goal in mind, which was annoying to him. If you have nothing to live for, then kill yourself was his mindset.

Michael watched as Y/N stepped into court. He know hundreds- no thousands- of people watched as this woman of pure evil stepped into the courtroom. Her H/C hair flowed as she walked passed everyone, glaring at them with her cold E/C eyes.

A look of slight intrigue replaced his normal dull expression as he watched the girl stand up before the judge, smiling sassily at the cameras as to tell them to fuck off. Michael can recognize that look of intrusion on her face as she was practically interrogated. Clearly, she hated it there.

He watched contently as all the mystery surrounding the Card of Death was revealed to everyone in this world. Days went by of this court case before finally, she pled insanity. After all, she was known to have some underlying mental conditions as she remained so calm when talking about the varies of ways she would kill.

It's easy to see that many felt bad for the girl. Such trauma growing up led to the creation of this unfortunate human. But Michael? He didn't feel bad at all.

He never was sad or truly sympathetic however...he did feel pity. Somewhere in his soulless eyes held pity for this sad, sad girl he was soon to meet. Not exactly sympathy, but simply pity. And with that came respect.

The day that Y/N stepped foot into those doors was the day the two would meet for the very first times. Over 63 counts of first degree murder in 14 years led to the meeting of these two serial killers. At the time, they were both only 20.

Tables were scattered across the room with people talking or simply sitting alone by themselves on them. There was TV in a few different places around the room and board games in a couple of shelves. In the back of the large room was windows that showed the outside that felt so out of reach forever.

As the metal doors slammed behind her, she felt eyes on her immediately. Y/N slowly scanned the room as she gulped back the intense fear gathering in her stomach. Her lips parted open as she began to breath heavily and press her back on those metal doors.

She was so trapped and scared when she first entered that foster institution. She couldn't help but think of karma when her aunt would hurt her so badly for those five years before she died. But 63 murders are so much worse, so what could karma do to her to balance her evil deeds with punishment?

Laughter and giggled filled her ears as she shut her eyes tightly and covered her face with her arms. Her vision was going blurry; she was having a panic attack. Tears fell from her eyes as she whimpered quietly to herself.

She may be the Card of Death however she never had to be in a large group of people in so long.

Her body jerked as she was suddenly pulled away from those metal doors. She cried out when she saw a large man, around 6'7 (204cm), pull her away.

In just a few seconds, she was pulled to a metal table and forced to sit as the large man stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders.

Her body tensed unimaginably as they remained still for a few seconds, quiet aside from the occasional sobs of Y/N.

Then suddenly, the pressure on her shoulders disappeared. She heard nothing until the sound of creaking from the seat in front of her interrupted.

Y/N felt eyes on her. They were so intense over her.

A minute passed before her own eyes fluttered open, meeting the man's eyes in front of her.

A shiver ran down her spine when she came face to face with stone cold blue eyes that seemed to hold nothing within them. No light, no soul, and no sympathy. Not only that, but a orange mask made of paper mache covered the rest of his face as well.

The man tilted his head before lifting his hand onto the table, sliding something over to her. Y/N looked down at what he gave her.

"Don't speak. Write."

Michael had given her a paper with these words. His handwriting was hard to read considering he nearly never wrote anything so it took a moment before Y/N got the message. When she did, she looked back up at the man and nodded just a little so it was barely recognizable.

Obviously this conversation was to be secretive so she knew to barely show signs of interactions. The camera couldn't pick up on such a small nod to what evidence is there of them even interacting?

Michael slid the paper back to him and brought a pencil to the paper after erasing the original text. When he slid it back to her, it read, "Don't let anyone know what we say Y/N. They watch everything." When Y/N looked back up at him, she saw him dart his eyes from something behind her to something on the wall between them. She turned her head slightly to the side, noticing a camera on the wall. So she understood.

Michael had dropped on the pencil on the table, meaning it was her turn to reply. She erased the previous text before writing down, "Who are you? How do you know me?" When she slid it back, Michael took the pencil in his hand again.

"Michael Myers. I was a well known case two years before you. We heard a lot about you on TV."

"As in the boy who killed his sister at the age of six?"

"Yes. You know me?"

Y/N's eyes widened slightly as she frantically wrote down a reply. Without even noticing, the knot in her stomach had completely disappeared without a trace.

"I remember seeing your case. I thought about everyday."

Michael didn't reply immediately after reading. Instead, he waited a few minutes and stared down at the table. A look of confusion remained on Y/N's features as she impatiently waited. Then suddenly, Michael erased what was on the paper and simply drew a masked person looking somewhat like himself with a knife in his hand. He drew dead stick figures around it with blood splattering everywhere.

Michael knew that this picture would cover up all the eraser marks and writings that were still slightly visible. So when the guard that walked up behind Y/N without her knowing popped up, he didn't see any text.

Of course, this did lead to the paper being taken away. Then minutes after that, both of the pair was taken away.

If there's one thing as scary as analyzing The Shape and caring for him, it's that person who cares and analyzes him finding him interacting with someone else for the first time.

Whenever Y/N got sat down in her cell, she knew what was about to happen. She was sat down in her bed as a man she'd never seen before sat down in the chair that came with her little desk in her cell with a guard next to him.

Have you ever spoken to Michael? Are you related to him? How do you know him? How does he know you? Have you ever met his family? Why did he interact to you? Why was he drawing things for you? Does he like you? Does he hate you? Did he write to you? Did you hear him talk?

So many questions were asked by this Dr Loomis in such short amount of time. "No, no, I don't, no, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, no, no," and mostly these were your responses. No matter how many times Loomis asked, you dully replied.

You simply said he sat you down and you began to draw together, both filling in a piece of the drawing together.

And eventually, you got out.

Another day went by of "talking" to Michael.

And another.

And another.

The talks were nice and casual. What goes on in the asylum? What goes on in the outside? Who should I avoid? What's the reputation of the HPD?

Do you want to escape?

But it was only a matter of time before finally the two were friends.

Y/N was kinda just in her cell one night in bed. Then she just gasped and widened her eyes. Wait, are we friends? We're friends, right!

Michael already knew of their friendship like two weeks before she did. It felt so...wrong for him. He had always been alone and silent. How could someone like her even be so likeable to him? He didn't really understand it but he knew he hated it.

One day, the two were writing to each other per usual. Michael unintentionally added a pun in one of his comments, causing Y/N to giggle. Michael cocked his head to the side in confusion, strangely feeling heat rise his face and his heart speed up. It was air conditioned so he suspected he may have gotten sick.

Whenever the two had to go back to their cells, that feeling suddenly disappeared. Then it hit him. Oh fuck-

Hell, only a week later did Y/N feel herself experiencing the same symptoms. Michael notices that Y/N would shake and fidget a lot when they interacted, making him wonder of she was cold. As a friend, it was only right for him to sit next to her and hold her close to keep her warm, right? Y/N's face went red and damn that was embarrassing. But of course, that didn't mean Y/N wouldn't hug him back.

Eventually the two were basically cuddling. The two hugging each other warmly as Y/N rested her head on his chest, struggling to stay awake as they got more comfortable by the second.

But of course, Dr Loomis caught eye of that.

The doctor had been looking deep into al the interactions these two evil beings have had. They act so casual, so normal with each other, surely more than just drawing is happening between them, right?

The doctor had pulled them into his office separately to interrogate them. While Y/N bluntly answered his questions to make him just shut up as quickly as possible, she couldn't help but think to herself. She knows that she and Michael are mentally ill, but he should definitely be fixed by now. He's smart and creative and can casually talk to people, so it's like the only thing keeping him here is that the doctors are so ill-equipped that they can't make the necessary breakthrough to save him.

Of course, just a month later, another incident happened like this. Y/N was having a bad migraine so Michael got her to just sit down and wait for him during lunch. He brought over two trays of food for them and was sure to trade with Y/N so she can eat the things she likes and he could have the things she dislikes.

Another time, a bipolar guy ran into Michael and shoved him as if it was his fault. Michael shoved him back instinctively, causing a fight to disperse between the two. As security guards took notice, Y/N was quick to push Michael away softly and ball a fist to punch the fuck out of that guy- like a, "YO WHATCHU SAY ABOUT MY MAN?" type shit. Y/N did this to seem like she was hitting back and that Michael hadn't done anything wrong.

And when each other's birthday's rolled around, they had their own celebration. Y/N was given her own paper mache mask as a gift and a small cupcake from the cafe. Michael was given stolen art supplies that were taken from other guests and also a cupcake.

Y/N slowly stopped having panic attacks, but she definitely had her moments. Of course, Michael sat with her through it.

Dr Loomis recorded all this shit so he can gather data on Michael. Then the question hit him: How would Michael react if Y/N was gone for a few days? Does he truly care about her or is he just using her?

If you think Michael hated Loomis before, wait til he pieced together the disappearance of girlfriend and the extensive eyesight on him from security guards. For the hell he raised about it, he had to get sterilized and put into a cell without being able to get out for a few days.

Y/N remained bored in her cell for days. So what better could she do than annoy the guard watching her? She would just talk nonstop for what felt like hours and hours. The dude watching her was just getting more pissed off by the second.

"Would you shut up? Crazy bitch," he hissed, hitting the cell door. Y/N giggled cockily, shaking her head. Even if she deserved to be yelled at for continuing to talk, the Card of Death refused to back down. But when the guard went inside her cell and locked the door behind him, she got a bit worried.

Y/N got off her bed and threatened him cockily, to which he responded with physical force.

Of course, Smith's Groove is ill-equipped so even with proof of being hit and tazed, Y/N couldn't do anything to get the guard fired. But Michael?

A full month without seeing each other was like a slow suicide. But when they finally got to see each other again, the two was sure to write so much about their time alone as if they were teenage friends discussing their fun weekends. However, things turned dark whenever Y/N brought up the guard.

Michael didn't show any emotions at all, no matter what happens. But Y/N learned to guess how he's feeling depending on how long he takes to respond. Slowed blinking as if he was in thought, and slower reading as got analyze her writing closer were typically bad signs.

About a year had passed since they met at this time. A year to plan to escape. By now, the two were both 21 and fully prepared to leave once and for all.

Whenever that security guard had walked passed Michael's cell one night, Michael had knocked on the door to signal him. Michael slipped a paper through the doorslot, as he was given paper since he doesn't talk, saying he found a dead mouse in his cell. The guard just huffed and let himself inside. Michael pointed to where the mouse supposedly was; and that was a mistake for the guard.

Right as that guard went to look, Michael got behind and covered his mouth before stabbing him in the neck with a paint brush that's but carved into a small blade. Within moments, the guard dropped dead onto the floor.

Taking the keys from the guard, Michael was able to let out nearly every single prisoner to this hell out of their cells. Including Y/N.

The world sister was the only thing left of the pair as it was engraved into the door of Michael's cell. And just like that, the two were gone.

How they got there so fast doesn't matter but eventually Y/N and Michael found an abandoned house to station at until the search around the area disappeared and they could move around quicker.

"I can't fucking believe it," Y/N cheered as she felt tears run down her face from happiness. She swayed across the room, taking in the smell of dust and air. Even something dirty felt so new to her that couldn't help but love it at the moment.

Michael would watch her as he sat down in an old wooden chair, cocking his head. His body was in complete shock as the realization of all that's happened in the past years came crashing down on him. This was the real world? This is what dust smells like? This is what shattered glass and broken wood looks like? This is what trees look like up close? This is what things look like without glass tinting the color?

This is what it feels like to celebrate with someone you love? Michael reminded himself that the girl in front of him changed his life so much. His urge to harm all around him was always so strong, but the thought of her being hurt felt a bad taste in his mouth.

He stood up from the chair, walking towards the ecstatic girl as she cried happily to herself and picked up random things to remind herself of what they feel like and all she takes for granted. She turned her head to him, smiling, "Michael, look, I found a-"

Y/N gasped as Michael gripped his mask and slowly moved it. Y/N watched in awe as for the first time, she saw her only friend in this world's real face. That pale skin and soulless eyes that she grew familiar with became so new to her again.

"Michael..." she whispered, stepping closer to him. Her face heated up as she felt the weight his eyes staring down at her. She lightly bit her lip, a shiver going down her spine.

He took a few steps closer as well, making the two remain inches away from each other. Now at this point, Y/N is questioning if Michael is gonna kill her or is gonna kiss her as he awkwardly put his hand to her cheek, brushing her hair away. She leaned her head into his hand, keeping eye contact with him the whole time.

In just a matter of moments, the two came together in a soft kiss. The moment was quiet as the two did their best to remain calm and together as this moment that was little way's overdue continued.

When the two pulled away, Y/N was quick to wrap her arms around him. Now she wasn't going to cry about it, but damn was that contact she needed so badly. The Death Card and The Shape were basically Yin and Yang with how one is emotional and the other in emotionless but their need for pain and each other is what kept it healthy.

Just imagine how much suffering families went through since the two got out.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S1:E3; Chapter Three, Holly, Jolly - [Pt. 3]

A Will Byers x Male!Reader Series

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘠/𝘯, 𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘈 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳.

|| 𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

Hopper pulls up to the library, thankful to get a spot up front. He steps out of the vehicle and makes his way inside, Powell behind him.

Hopper takes off his hat as he enters the building, making sure to send a big smile to the librarian.

"Hey, Marissa. How you doin'?"

The disapproving look on Marissa's face never left as she spoke.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here."

"What?"

"You could have at least called, said, 'Marissa! Hey, it's not gonna work out. Sorry, I wasted your time. I'm a dick.'"

Powell was unsure of what to do; he looked from Marissa to Hopper, waiting.

Hopper only stares ahead for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, with a subtle smirk, he mutters,

"Yep."

She looks to him, shaking her head expectantly. He seemed at a loss for words again as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry. Uh... Maybe we could go out again next week?" He offers, hoping for the best. She slowly turns her head to Powell and gives him a 'is he for real?' look. In turn, Powell slowly looks over to Hopper awkwardly. Hopper, already knowing he chose his words poorly, visibly cringed, and was eager to change the subject.

"Newspapers? You guys got newspapers around here?"

Marissa had shown them over to the filing cabinet and started pulling out drawers, naming the selections.

"We have the New York Times, the Post, all the big ones. Organized by year and topic. You can find the corresponding microfiche in the reading room." She briefly gestures behind her.

"Okay, we're looking for anything on the Hawkins National Laboratory."

"Well, shouldn't you be looking for that missing kid?"

"Yeah." He states as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We are."

She nods her head, suspicious.

"Uh, so, why don't you start with the Times, and we'll check out the Post."

Marissa scoffs and looks behind her to Powell, unsure if he's serious. She turns back to Hopper and lets out a soft 'hmph!' before strutting away. Powell steps forward and lowers his voice in a questioning tone.

"The librarian?"

Hopper shrugs wildly before diving into the drawers of files.

The two men had gathered a handful of files and set to work in the other room. Each at their own microfiche, reading every column.

Hopper scanned another column that caught his attention.

'ALLEGED EXPERIMENTS, ABUSE' by T. Bridges.

"Terry Ives' legal case against embattled research scientist Dr. Martin Brenner suffered another setback today when the district attorney's office formally refused to press criminal charges against Brenner, his fellow researchers, assistants, or the project's sponsors, citing lack of evidence. Local law enforcement executed a search..."

Next column.

'MKULTRA EXPOSED' by T. Bridges

"The trust of the American people has been shaken to its core as a special inquiry into a covert CIA operation, code-named MK ULTRA, has exposed the extensive details about that which has been haunting the nation for the past decade. Six subjects have come forward..."

This particular column was accompanied by a negative of seven people. Five of which were slightly disheveled, in hospital gowns. A man in a turtleneck and blazer stood obediently in the back. A man in a fancy suit and tie, holding a clipboard stood front and center. A man with whom Hopper guessed to be Brenner.

Next slide.

'DR. MARTIN BRENNER NAMED IN LAWSUIT' by A. Ward - Staff Writer

"Senior researcher Doctor Martin Brenner and seven other staff researchers have been named in a new lawsuit filed today on behalf of former federal research study participant, Terry Ives. Dr. Brenner's attorney in conjunction with the Department of Energy has asked the circuit court to seal the details of the lawsuit until the attorney general's office can determine that no federal..."

Hopper found himself more engrossed and confused as he read.

"...her newborn daughter for scientific research. Following an investigation, the district attorney has already declined to press criminal kidnapping charges against the research facility and staff, citing lack of evidence. Dr. Brenner's attorney called Ms. Ives' allegations baseless and tragic, citing Dr. Brenner's excellent reputation, his twenty recent peer-reviewed scientific papers..."

The next slide was a short column with another accompanying photo. Although the picture was small and blurry, it wasn't hard to see the grief-stricken features on the young woman.

TERRY IVES SUING - 'They took my daughter' by Benjamin Buck

"After the district attorney's office declined to press criminal charges citing lack of evidence, local resident Terry Ives is not giving up her search for justice for herself and her daughter, and this morning filed a lawsuit against research scientist Dr. Martin Brenner and his staff.

Ms. Ives' suit seeks unspecified damages against Dr. Brenner and his facility, alleging physical abuse, sleep deprivation, malnourishment, and multiple allegations of kidnapping; both attempted and successful..."

Hopper sighed, trying his best to swallow all of this new information.

'What the hell has been happening in this damn town?'

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Three. One. Five. The numbers on the strange new bracelet read three one five.

Thankfully, El was able to find her way back outside by the large telephone pole where Mike told her to meet them. But El was still nervous. She just hoped no one had spotted her.

El couldn't find it in her ability to stay still. She couldn't stop pacing and she was subconsciously shaking out her hands, her nerves shot.

'What if someone saw her?'

She eagerly checked the bracelet, muttering aloud to herself.

"Three-one-five. Three-one-five. Three-one-five..." her voice turned soft as her confidence wavered. The only thing that was able to take her attention away from the bracelet was the familiar sound of meowing next to her.

Shocked, she looked over to see a scrawny orange cat staring at her from the other side of the fence. It began to meow again and panic and guilt crashed over her as once again another terrible memory resurfaced.

- 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 -

The white cat in the cage before Eleven let out a terrible hiss at her. Her head began to shake as she strained her ability. The combination of the cat growling and hissing and the frantic beeping of the machines was enough to push her even further.

She didn't want to. She never wanted to hurt this poor creature. But she knew that if she didn't, she would have to face the consequences. She would have to go back there. The cat gave out another deep growl and Eleven tried to the best of her ability not to cry. Not to break.

The cat began snarling, and it quickly turned to whimpers of pain. Eleven was freely crying now as she looked between the frightened cat and Papa. She gave one final look at the cat before yanking the wires off her head in defeat.

No. She couldn't.

She wouldn't.

She looked at Papa defeated. She shook her head in defiance, though her sobbing gave away her true feelings. He only stared at her in disapproval.

"No! No!" She struggled and kicked. She fought back with all her might while Papa stood at the end of the hallway. Doing nothing.

"Papa! Papa! Papa! Papa! Papa!" She screamed her throat raw as the men dragged her away, yet as always Papa only watched it happen.

"No!" Her shrieks grew more violent as she neared the room.

She couldn't go back in there.

She couldn't.

The men tossed her inside and began closing the door.

She wouldn't.

Eleven stood to her feet and before they could close the steel door, she threw it open in a fit of rage, her attention quickly shifting to one of the men doing this her. In the very next instant, his back was thrown into the ceramic just behind him. His limp body slipped to the floor, leaving a large hole in the tile.

The second man spared a second to look before turning to her to try and restrain her.

Before he could even step foot in the room, he was dead on the floor, his neck snapped. All with the flick of her head.

Overwhelmed with exhaustion, she collapsed against the wall, her nose and ears bleeding.

Papa appeared. He took one look at the cracked wall, to the collapsed man, and then at Eleven. Yet she couldn't move. She was completely drained, all she could do was stare at him. He slowly stepped towards her, staring at her.

She looked up at him in fear of what would happen next, and what did was not something she could have anticipated. He slowly reached his hands out, cupping her face. Sobs wracked her body, and he stared at her in awe.

"Incredible."

He reached down, hooking an arm under her legs, th arried her like an infant. He carried her out of the room and down the hallway, staring at her sobbing form as if he hadn't been the one to cause it.

- 𝗘𝗡𝗗 𝗢𝗙 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 -

"El!"

El turned her head to see Mike, Y/n, Lucas and Dustin. They were walking their bikes across the muddy grass in her direction.

Mike looked to her concerned as he, as well as the others, turned their bikes around.

"You okay?"

Relieved to see her friends, she nodded her head.

Mike gave the seat of his bike a few pats.

"Hop on. We only have a few hours."

Hesitantly, she walked forward. But she complied nonetheless and got on Mike's bike, and the five of them peddled off.

|| 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

The five us were walking our bikes through the woods. Dustin and Lucas were in the back, while Mike and El were just a few steps in front of me. El was looking around as she walked and suddenly I felt her eyes on me. I suddenly became very self-conscious of my cut.

I got it to stop bleeding eventually, but I don't know how I will ever explain this to Mom. She worries so easily. And, I don't think I have ever had a cut this big but I'll survive. My thoughts are cut short when I become very aware of the fact that El had fallen back next to me and was now looking at me with concern.

"Why did they hurt you?" Her voice came out very soft but was laced with concern.

"Huh?" I asked surprised.

El extended her arm out and pointed to my chin. I looked down, upset with how things went today.

"Oh, that. I uh, well... I was tripped. By this mouth breather, Troy."

Her face scrunched up in confusion.

"'Mouth breather?'"

"Yeah. You know, a dumb person,"

I suddenly grew quiet, and El noticed.

"Y/n, are you okay?"

I paused. "Yeah. Yeah, it'll be ok." I said.

I knew what she meant but I didn't think it was noteworthy to bring up how I was feeling.

"Y/n." I turn to look at her and she is giving me a knowing look. "Friends tell the truth."

I began to fight tears that were stinging my eyes, but I wouldn't let them fall.

"I just... I just miss him. Will, I mean. And the things Troy was saying..." I began feeling myself get worked up again at the mere thought of it. "They were awful. Truly awful, and I just... I'm tired. And worried. And I just want to find my friend."

There was suddenly a somber silence over the group that was quickly broken by El's soothing tone.

"Y/n," she said sternly, pulling my eyes to her. There was a soft demand behind her eyes, willing my gaurd down. "I understand."

I looked at her, a grateful smile on my features and my voice came out in a weak whisper.

"Thank you, El."

She gave me a warm smile in return. It very much resembled the one I gave her the first night we met. It was at this moment I knew. I had just found myself a very unique and powerful friendship; one that stood out from my friendship with the party.

El and I have a lot more in common than I thought.

[xhanisai]

Truth Or Dare?

AO3 / FFN

Summary:

Adrien gulped, completely frozen in his seat under the gaze of his demonic classmates, the almighty, notorious peer-pressure throwing a concert whilst his Lady continued to act like that the string on the floor was far more interesting than the fact that her newly discovered partner was currently in the hot seat. 'Now how do I answer this!?' He panicked internally, twiddling with his thumbs and praying to the Gods more reliable than Plagg that Marinette would suddenly come up with some brilliant, top-notch plan that would surely get them both out of this. Especially if she doesn't want him to whimper out: "Ya got me! It was Marinette when she kissed the evil out of me after I got shot by Dislocoeur, hahaha! Oh, do I need to mention that I have no recollection of it whatsoever and that I was decked up in my usual catsuit whilst she was in her polka-dotted onesie? A brilliant first kiss, amirite!? Not to mention that our second kiss was also wiped from my memory, cheers for that Alya and Nino!"

Pairing - Adrinette Prompt - 'Truth or Dare?' ~(x)~ . . . Adrien was fucked. He was entirely, thoroughly, immensely fucked. And not in the literal way much to the teen's utter dismay and painful frustration. And certainly not anytime soon, judging by his princesse's stiff, flustered posture who was on the floor across him, along with the rest of their class sitting in a circle (sans Lila and Chloé, Dieu merci). Gremlin-like smirks were etched on their friends' mischievous faces and sinister cackles escaped their mouths like the Madhatter from Alice Au Pays Des Merveilles. Even timid ol' Sabrina wore a grin that would rival the Cheshire cat. But never mind that. What was the cherry on top was how both he and Marinette just found out each other's identities no more than ten minutes prior. The two idiots were desperately sprinting back to collège Françoise Dupont after their latest akuma battle without noticing the other, only to literally collide into one other and their transformation to wear off immediately, leaving them both with matching gaping expressions. If luck was on his side, the scenario would have carried on with Adrien whipping out 'suave move #9236' and channelling his inner 'Tamaki Suoh', helping his Lady to her feet with a smile so sexy and seductive (guaranteed to win her over of course) and then him proceeding to ask her out for a cup of coffee where they can talk! Then, he would have totally charmed her with another brilliant smile that would have surely fly kicked away whatever feelings she had for that 'other' boy (he named him M. Imbécile), caressing that soft, soft cheek of hers with his hand and surely they would have leaned in for a hot, passionate, true love's kiss (and he'd finally know what it's like to be properly smooched)! MAIS NON. NON. His five seconds of absolute happiness, of pure bliss after finding out that the two girls he bloody loved so damn much and practically worshipped, were one and the same- WAS INTERRUPTED. . The inconveniently timed Ladyblogger and her DJ boyfriend arrived at the scene, practically snatching both him and Marinette away and back to class, babbling about how Mme. Bustier was going to arrive late hence they were going to take advantage of it. By taking advantage, they meant avoiding all responsibilities by playing a specific game. A game that Adrien has learnt to now, unconditionally despise. . "We're not getting any younger here, Buttercup. Tell us, who was your first kiss? And don't even think about lying your way out, we can tell by your face that you definitely got some sort of action~" Alya's glasses flashed in such a devilish way, even Le Papillon would have found himself shitting his pants. "Of course, if you don't want to answer the truth...you can always pick dare," 'LIKE HELL I WILL!' The last person to have picked 'dare' was Rose and she was instructed to deliver a hearty smack to Kim's bum! The teen model pretty much vowed that the only booty his hands were allowed to touch was Marinette's, with consent obviously. And vice versa. And the person before Rose who chose 'dare' was Nino! He was dared to sneak outside, climb to the top of the building's rooftop and sing Rick Astley's 'Never Gonna Give You Up' from the top of his lungs, recording himself live on Instagram as proof. It was a miracle that he never got caught by the staff! Again, the feline hero very much preferred that any attempts of his serenading would only be heard by the ears of the love of his life. . Adrien gulped, completely frozen in his seat under the gaze of his demonic classmates, the almighty, notorious peer-pressure throwing a concert whilst his Lady continued to act like that the string on the floor was far more interesting than the fact that her newly discovered partner was currently in the hot seat. 'Now how do I answer this!?' He panicked internally, twiddling with his thumbs and praying to the Gods more reliable than Plagg that Marinette would suddenly come up with some brilliant, top-notch plan that would surely get them both out of this. Especially if she doesn't want him to whimper out: "Ya got me! It was Marinette when she kissed the evil out of me after I got shot by Dislocoeur, hahaha! Oh, do I need to mention that I have no recollection of it whatsoever and that I was decked up in my usual catsuit whilst she was in her polka-dotted onesie? A brilliant first kiss, amirite!? Not to mention that our second kiss was also wiped from my memory, cheers for that Alya and Nino!" Unfortunately, (once again) for him, not even his pleading kitty eyes were able to penetrate the wall of aloofness that Marinette held between them, leaving him completely on his own, ready to be torn apart by their friends' malevolent hands. He was the equivalent of a teeny tiny, illegally cute kitten, surrounded by a circle of hungry, deadly, carnivorous wolves, licking their chops! Yet, Marinette remained unphased, pretending to stare out into space and think about what her Maman and Papa would prepare for dinner as if Adrien's scrutinising gaze weren't like arrows all over her side. However, much to her disadvantage, Agreste is her partner and he knew her very, very well. The desperate cat was able to pinpoint the cold sweat that was growing on her forehead, knowing that his presence was starting to get to her and conscious of the fact that she cannot ignore him for long either. 'Come on Marinette, you can't resist me forever. Please help!' His lack of any sort of psychic powers didn't stop him from wishing that she could read his mind but dammit did he try. 'Don't you love your pauvre Chaton!? Aidez-moi s'il vous plaît, My Lady!!!' Just before he could resort to begging out loud, Alix Kubdel... ...snickered. Simply from that evil, ominous sound, both Adrien and Marinette paled on the spot at a speed faster than M. Césaire's panther could ever dream of running at. "Ever since we asked you that question, not once have you looked away from Marinette...now why is that~?" The short girl's insight caused the rest of the class to gasp cheekily and "Oooh~?" simultaneously, their ferocious appetite for juicy gossip now at full throttle much to both heroes' apprehension. "And you, Mari! You look like a kid who got caught stealing from the cookie jar. I think the two of you have something big to admit to the rest of us, hmm?" "...No-oooo...?" Dupain-Cheng refused to make eye contact with anyone, her lips stuck between what looked like a grimace and a fake smile, continuing her sentence which was just as truthful as Jagged Stone's claims of being in his mid-twenties. "I am still a lowly virgin maiden in the kissing department...heheh...heh..." Adrien on the other hand blinked owlishly as he finally came to a conclusion, his singular working brain cell grinding its gear through his thought process. Oh? Ohoh??? OHOHOOHOH??????? . "So that means I was your first kiss too?" . If there was a compilation labelled "Top Ten Ways That Adrien Mothafuckin' Stupid Agreste Fucked Up"... This would be number one. "...You didn't hear me say that out loud...right?" He gulped meekly, shrinking under the astonished looks that everyone gave him, his Lady's jaw dropping further than what he assumed was humanely possible. He. Was. Fucked. . The entire classroom erupted with utter chaos. Ranging from high pitched squeals from Alya, Rose, Mylène and Kim to "HOLY SHIT!" and "HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?" from Alix, Nino, Juleka and so on. Even Marinette was left burning brighter than a tomato, covering her face in embarrassment along with her iconic mantra: "THIS IS A DISASTER!!!" and shaking her head. Money was exchanged from secretive bets that were placed on the model and designer, naughty comments were thrown around left and right and even more! If one were to enter the room right now, they'd think that they've just stumbled across a hectic zoo. Never in his life did Adrien want the ground to swallow him up so badly or even run away at the speed of sound to an unknown island where he would live off of fruit and grow old all alone without ever getting married. Marinette probably- no, she definitely hates him now. Her refusal to come out of her 'Don't talk to me, I'm catastrophising' human ball and face him was more than enough evidence to prove that. Who was he kidding, thinking that he would be able to get such a wonderful, spectacular girl like her to fall for a hopeless, ridiculous nincompoop like him? His attempts in the past never worked out before and it certainly wouldn't have worked out now. Forget about pursuing a romantic relationship with her, he's one-hundred percent sure that he's absolutely tarnished what was left of their friendship! He can visualise his terrifying, depressing excuse of a future already. No more shy, cute greetings with a gorgeous smile in the mornings before class from Marinette. No more fun banter and warm hugs on their favourite patrol environments from Marinette. No more cheeky jokes and flirty teasing from Marinette. No more timid conversations and saying his name in the most softest way he's ever heard from Marinette. And, no more perfect "Bien joué!" fist bumps after an akuma battle from Marinette... How...how was he supposed to live without her? 'Shit, I can feel my eyes starting to water...' He took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling to force the traitorous tears away from daring to come out. The last thing Marinette needed was to deal with a dumb crybaby like him after he's just embarrassed her like that with his stupid, big mouth- "-But when did this happen, Marinette??? Girl, why didn't you tell me!?" Snapping out of his self-pity, Adrien tuned back into the pandemonium, wincing at how mortified Marinette still looked (albeit she was no longer in her cocoon of doom). She pursed her lips at Alya with that adorable pout of hers, unsure of how to answer with something that didn't sound like a terrible excuse. . Finally, a solid answer blared in Adrien's brain, the blonde teen adamant that he turned the situation around and salvaged what was left of the bond between him and his Princesse. For now, he can focus on the dreadful future after he got the current situation sorted. He would do anything to make Marinette feel good around him again. "It was during that time we were at le Musée Grévin when I invited Alya, Nino, Marinette and Manon to join me," He ignored the way that their classmates leaned closer with wide grins, focusing on sending a quiet apology to Marinette's direction with his pleading eyes alone. "I was being dumb and tried to play a prank on Marinette when the other three were away. I ended up tripping and Marinette tried to help me but I accidentally pulled her down with me and...we accidentally kissed..." Although the scenario wasn't fully true, Marinette did manage to land a light peck upon his lips during that incident and that's all it took for it to be branded in his memory. The sear of foreign warmth that left his lips in tingles, the subtle taste of strawberry gloss that left him hungry for more and the unadulterated softness that rivalled even the most expensive of silk. He hoped that his little white lie towards the end was enough to alleviate what was left of Marinette's embarrassment, deaf to their classmates' coos and brows furrowed to emphasise how sorry he was to the girl he loves. Although there was still a hint of pink on her cheeks, her expression was something that he wasn't able to decipher and that only made his heart race even faster than before. 'Please don't hate me, please don't hate me, please don't hate me-' "So how was the kiss, then?" Ivan waggled his eyebrows, both him and his girlfriend playfully winking at Marinette at her protesting stammers. "Oh? E-Erm...it was very quick and brief so I didn't get a chance to enjoy it-" His treacherous eyes decided to land on Marinette's lips midway, his mind screaming to stop digging a deeper hole for himself. He wasn't quick enough to flit his gaze away, the indication that he wanted to kiss her again so painfully obvious that even a blind person would have noticed. "-It was very soft and nice, however! I don't regret it-" Suddenly... . ...Marinette stood up. Adrien felt like his heart was going to bust out of his chest with the way it ricocheted against his ribcage, his emerald eyes wide with apprehension and his breath lodged in his throat as if a vice was clasped around his neck. Was she going to kill him? He certainly thought he deserved it. "Alya," The heroine in disguise began, the teen model unable to hide his flinch. "Dare me to kiss Adrien." 

She lifted her head to face her partner, her sapphire blues no longer hidden in the shadows of her fringe and sparkling with both amusement and...love? Her kissable lips were upturned into a confident smile with a gloss that was begging for him to taste and he was absolutely losing his mind. Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming. Yes. No way in the seven heavens would Marinette, THE Marinette, would want to kiss HIM, the embodiment of bad luck! Yet, the twinkling of her eyes and the warmth that radiated from her as she walked closer and closer towards him said otherwise. He didn't even hear Alya's excited declaration for Marinette's dare, solely focused on the way his Lady kneeled in front of him, smoothed her hands towards his cheeks and cupped them so gingerly. . "Pucker up, Buttercup," Marinette murmured against his lips with an endearing smirk, grazing her nose with his and rubbing his cheeks with her thumbs before sealing the kiss. . With all the romantic daydreams and boyish yearning he went through when it came to Marinette's lips, Adrien thought that he was well prepared for the real deal if the day were to ever come, disregarding his bad luck of course. However, he has been wrong before. He's absolutely, definitely, positively wrong now. The brief, shocked, brush of lips back in the wax museum was barely a taster. Barely a glimpse of the real thing. Not even close to a sample of the luxury. From the moment she pressed her lips against his, Adrien was hit with an outstanding overwhelm of fervour, tenderness and sweetness. His body instinctively shuddered as a pleasant fire seeped from her mouth to his and then coursed through the veins of the rest of his body, his hand that was clutching his precious good luck charm gift from Marinette then loosening its grip and automatically reaching for her cheek. His piano fingers dug into the locks of one of her ponytails, entangling them. 'If this really is a dream, then please, don't wake me up,' The sensation was slightly odd and just, indescribable at the same time. Yet, the more he tasted that strawberry gloss, the more her lips moved against his, the further he fell in love, addicted to the sugar that he's craved for so long. His red-tipped ears were oblivious to the class' whoops and cheers, his heart crashing against his chest louder than ever and the feel of hers doing just the same against him had him soaring. 'She never hated me all along, right? This isn't a kiss of hate at all,' But most importantly, the feeling of Marinette's pulse quickening from when his fingertips slid down to meet the side of her sensitive neck, cradling the back of it and the almost inaudible whimper she let out, was branded to his touch and memory like an imprint. 'So this is a real first kiss? Is this what Marinette felt when she kissed me to get rid of Kim's spell? How did she manage to keep her composure around me since then?' Just as Marinette pulled away, her eyes shimmering with wonderful emotions and her lips as beautifully rosy as her cheeks, Adrien couldn't resist and pulled her back in without a beat. As if to make up for all those missed opportunities, all the moments where he could have stolen her breath away and all those unsaid words that surely would have made them happy. They could talk about the reveal and their feelings afterwards in the safety of Marinette's humble balcony without any prying eyes. They could sort out their overwhelming emotions and bask through their memories over that cup of coffee that Adrien now has the confidence to ask her out on. But just for now, the two of them wanted to enjoy their present and make the most of it. 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, she's so sweet...' . . . ~(x)~ A/N: Ah shit it's six am. I'll edit this tomorrow.

[iamvegorott]

I wanna send some fluff in too! I had this thought right now about Yancy’s past. So we all know he killed his parents and stuff and obviously he went to jail but i was thinking….whatever happened to the stuff that was in the house? what about the pictures and sentimental values? (I don’t know if they actually do this but for the sake of fluff lets go with it.)

Yancy was laying on the couch on his phone when the doorbell rang. He groaned in laziness of not wanting to open the door so he sluggishly got up and went to the door. He opened it and there stood an old police officer, stone faced as they always were. The officer looked down at the paperwork he was holding and looked back up, “Yancy Yarnell?”, he asked. Yancy stood awkwardly and a little nervously too, “Uuuh, yeah? That’s me.” The officer looked him up and down, “I’m Officer Torres from the Los Angeles Police Department and I’m here on behalf of the Cincinnati Police Department to deliver some of your belongings that they’ve sent us.”, the man spoke with no emotion whatsoever. Yancy tilted his head in confusion because what belongings were they talking about here? The only ones he had were the ones he had in Happy Trails. “I’m sorry, belongings? Cincinnati? I haven’t-“, Yancy was cut short by the police officer that was stepping away from the steps to head to his police cruiser. “Been there since you got locked up? Listen, kid, all I know is that CPD had some stuff of yours in evidence that they sent to us to deliver to you. Some Prison Warden wanted to make sure it go to you.” The officer beckoned the other to follow him as he told him this. The trunk was opened and a box sat in there. Yancy helped unload and after signing some paper, the officer went on his way and now he sat on his bed with the box on his floor in front of him. A million things were surfing in his mind. From the info he got from the officer, Warden Murderslaughter had sent this to him and seeing as it was once evidence, it probably had something to do with…his crime. A knock on the door made him jump but he managed to stammer out for them to come in. Dark opened the door and saw the state his son was in, “You look a little pale, are you sick?”, the demon walked over and placed a hand on the others forehead. “No, ma, I ain’t sick. I just got delivered some stuff from…..well, Warden sent me some stuff that was in evidence from Cincinnati. Where I….you know…”, Yancy’s head dropped a little to look down. Dark seemed to put the pieces together. It looked as though Yancy was struggling about whether or not to open the box. “If you want, do you want me to open it for you?”, he asked. Yancy stayed silent but gave a little nod. Dark grabbed the box and placed it on the desk Yancy had in his room. Yancy could only see Dark’s back as the demon opened the box. Dark’s form tensed, the red aura that surrounded his figure suddenly pulsed out and seemingly engulfed the blue aura. Yancy knew this meant his mother’s soul was more in control. He was getting concerned, “Ma, Mom, are you okay?”, he said softly. What had Dark seen? Yancy’s question was answered when Dark slowly turned around and in his hands he held a large blue photo album with stars and music notes surrounding it. “I-it’s. T-These are your…..b-baby pictures.”, Yancy immediately noticed the tears that were falling down his mother’s face. The photo album had what seemed of every moment of Yancy’s childhood up until the incident. What caught Dark’s eyes was the photo of Yancy with cake on his little hands and mouth. A big smile with only two front teeth showing and writing underneath the photo that said “Yancy’s 1st Birthday!”. Yancy leapt up from where he sat and went to Dark. “M-Mom? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Dark sobbed, “i-I’m just realizing that I missed everything. I wasn’t there for your first word, your first steps or even your first birthday. I never got to witness those precious moments of yours a-and it felt so unfair b-but, now….” Dark sniffled as he held the book close to his chest with a quivering smile, “now I can.” Yancy’s lip quivered, he wanted to cry too. He hugged Dark, “Im sorry for crying like this.”, Dark hiccuped. Yancy shook his head, “No, Mom. It’s okay to cry. I should have payed more attention about how you felt about this.” Both pulled back after a couple more moments. “Well….here’s a ‘first’ for ya,”

Yancy smiled, “I love you, Mom.”

OH GOD MY HEART

GOT THEM HAPPY TEARS

AAAHHHH

[five-rivers]

So first, I just want to say that I love Mortified, especially the arcs involving Ereshkigal and Innana. The whole thing is absolutely incredible, and I'm always thrilled to see an update. Second, I was rather hoping to offer you a prompt I've had swirling about my head. What if there is some sort of research facility exploring "that which is unknown and previously thought to be impossible" (i.e. magic but they don't call it that because people don't really know about magic and ghosts in this AU) and Danny's class is invited to go on a field trip there. At first, everything is normal, but just after the class leaves the researchers realize that their instruments show that some sort of Eldritch Horror is nearby and they start freaking out, but it's just Danny. I don't know where else this would go though.

Mr. Lancer chewed on the end of his pen.  It was a disgusting habit, he knew, but he could never quite get himself to kick it, especially when he had a problem to confront.  

Said problem was, presently, that enough of his students had expressed an interest in careers in ectology and paranormal science that he really had to give them a relevant field trip.  Unfortunately, there were very few reputable options for such a field trip.  The Fentons were unsafe, Axion Labs refused to give tours, the GIW were essentially a government sponsored hate group.  Most other ‘ghost hunting agencies’ were outright scams.  

But there had to be something nearby.  Or at least in the state.  Maybe not something that explicitly or solely dealt with ghosts, but something.  

Maybe...

Oh!

He shifted to sit straighter in his chair.  That would work.  He started typing an email.

.

“We got a what?” repeated Johannsson.  

“A field trip request,” repeated Deer.  

“Like... from a school?” asked Johannsson, cautiously.  

“A high school,” confirmed Deer, sounding rather stunned.  

“Do they... know what we do here?” 

“Evidently,” said Deer.  

“Like, they know we research magic and telepathy and stuff.”

“Yes.”

“And astral projection, higher-dimensional beings, alternate universes, that kind of thing?  Fringe science?”

“He says the junior class is interested in the ‘paranormal sciences.’”

“Wow,” said Johannsson, finally bringing his coffee up to his mouth and sipping at it cautiously.  “Where,” he started, “where are they from?”

“Um,” said Deer, peering at her computer screen.  “Casper High.  One sec.”  She started typing.  “It’s in Amity Park?  Do you think it’s a joke?”

“Ah,” said Johannsson.  “No, that tracks, actually, if it’s Amity Park.  We’ve got some weird readings on file from there, if you look it up.”

“It’s close,” said Deer.  “If we get readings, why don’t we have a presence there?”

“Another agency called dibs first,” said Johannsson.  “We have enough trouble.  No need to step on toes.”

Deer looked up at Johannsson incredulously.  “We fight eldritch abominations from the edge of reality,” she said.  “Is the boss really worried about stepping on toes?”

“Hey, that’s how we get funding,” said Johannsson, shrugging.  “We don’t want to end up like MKUltra.”

“MKUltra was a scam, Steve.  And also mostly illegal.”

“Yeah?”

Deer shrugged.  “Anyway, should I send this on, or...?”

“Yeah, go ahead.  The boss will probably get a kick out of it, if nothing else.”

.

“I would not have told the boss about this if I knew I’d be the one babysitting a bunch of teenagers,” said Deer through a clenched smile.  She jerked on the hem of her blouse, not used to the more formal clothes she was wearing on this momentous occasion.   

“Yeah,” said Johannsson, “but it isn’t like we get a lot of people coming into this profession for this profession.  And they’re kids.  So be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” grumbled Deer.  

“Well, look like it,” said Johannsson, elbowing her.  He caught sight of the yellow school bus.  “Here they come now.”

They waited until most of the students had gotten off the bus to approach.  

“Hi,” said Johannsson, “you must be Mr. Lancer.”

“That’s me,” said the rather frazzled-looking teacher.  “Come on kids, let’s get settled down.  Listen to our guides.  Let them introduce themselves.”

“Yeah, hey,” said Johannsson, waving.  “Welcome to the Edge Institute, where we study that which is unknown and often thought to be impossible.”

“Hi,” said Deer, frowning at one group of students in particular.  Johannsson followed her eyes.  

The trio in question didn’t seem particularly out of the ordinary.  Except...  Well, there was a reason Deer worked here.  

“I’m Steve Johannsson,” he said, getting back on track.  “This is Sylvia Deer.  We mostly work in report processing and assessment, but that brings us into contact with all our other departments, so we’re more than suited to show you around.”

Sylvia put her thumbs up.  “Yep,” she said.  

“Most of what we work with isn’t terribly dangerous, however, there are exceptions to that rule, and we have some classified projects, so don’t wander off.  Stay within view of us at all times.”

“What if we need to use the bathroom?” asked a student.

“Well, that’s different,” admitted Johannsson.  “We’ve got a couple scheduled stops, so make sure you go at those times.  Other than that, don’t go through any doors we don’t open for you and don’t touch anything without asking first.  Got it?”

There was a soft murmur of assent.  

“Come on, kids,” said Mr. Lancer, clapping, “he asked a question.”

The murmur became slightly more unanimous.  

“Right,” said Deer.  She jerked her head towards the building.  “Let’s go.”

“Anyway,” said Johannsson, “this is reception, which is the only part of the building freely open to the general public.  If you do need to go to the bathroom, they’re right there.  We’re going to hang out here for a few minutes, get everyone taken care of.”

Most of the students made their way to the restrooms immediately, however, that one trio stayed put.  

“Hey,” said the smallest of the group, “do you guys hear that?”

“Hear what?” asked Johannsson.

“Um,” said the boy, slightly rocking forward on the balls of his feet, “there’s, like, an alarm or a siren going off?  It’s really faint, but is everything okay?”

“We’d get a text,” said Deer.  “Not to mention an announcement on the PA system.”

“And the radios,” said Johannsson, tapping his.  

“Right,” said Deer, nodding.  “Maybe you have tinnitus or something?”

“Isn’t that recurrent, though?” asked Johannsson.  “He’d know if he had it.”

“I do not have tinnitus,” said the boy, firmly.  “I really think there’s an alarm going off.  Or maybe someone has a mosquito ringtone.  Gosh, I hate those...”

Johannsson glanced at Deer and noted that she, once again, was staring at the children rather intensely.  Mostly at the boy, but that made sense since he was the one speaking.  

“Danny has good hearing,” said the girl, who was decked out in an array of gothic and mystic symbols.  One which, on closer inspection, would probably be fairly effective at passive protection.  

Johannsson wondered if that was the result of research, intuition, or sheer luck.  

Perhaps that was why Deer was looking at them like that?

“Maybe I’m just imagining it,” said Danny, shaking his head.  “Let’s go to the bathrooms.  There’s probably a line by now.”

Once the kids were gone, and Johannsson and Deer were more or less alone in the entry hall, Johannsson turned to Deer.  “Think we should call Detection?”

“Yeah,” said Deer, pulling out her phone.  “There’s something not right, here.”

“Maybe he’s a sensitive?” suggested Johannsson.  “He could be picking up a project.”

“Or maybe he’s like you and he’ll break every piece of tech invented in the last twenty-five years as soon as he touches it.  Or he was cursed by a goddess, like Vicky in Containment.  Or maybe he just has tinnitus and is in denial.  I still don’t like this.”  She finished dialing Detection and brought the phone to her ear.  “Hey, I-”  She pulled the phone away, glared at it and cautiously brought it back.  “What’s going on?  An incursion?  Then why aren’t we on lockdown?”

Johannsson’s blood ran cold.  “An incursion?  How big?”

Deer held up a hand.  “That doesn’t-  You know we can’t detect everything!  It doesn’t matter if nothing else gets triggered, the protocol is lockdown until we can determine- If you had done your job, the kids would still be on the damn bus!”

At this point, Deer’s shouts had drawn the attention and worry of Mr. Lancer and several of the students who had emerged from the bathrooms.  

“Is everything alright?” asked the man.  

Johannsson glanced at Deer.  “No,” he decided, just before the security shutters slammed down and the emergency lighting came on.  “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but it seems like some of our colleagues were overly excited about your tour and didn’t, er, follow proper procedure following a, uh, event.  So-”

The PA system stuttered into life.  “Attention.  A level seven entity has been detected.  All nonessential personnel, please proceed to the nearest shelter.  Repeat-”

“Seven?” echoed Johannsson, starting to sweat.  “Seven?”

“It’s probably a false alarm,” said Deer, putting away her phone and smiling in the way only people who feel very ill do.  “None of the other incursion detectors went off.  No radiation associated with dimensional breaks or anything.  We should still get everyone to a shelter.  Maybe you can round up everyone from the bathrooms?”

“Right,” said Mr. Lancer, who was enviably calm.  

“Is an entity like a ghost or something?” asked one of the kids, who clearly weren’t grasping the gravity of the situation.  “How strong is a seven?”

Level seven entities couldn’t be described in terms of strength alone.  They were eldritch, uncaring gods that tore at the fabric of reality with their very presence, creatures that had no business being on the material plane.  They shed bright magic and dark science in their wake, leaving those unfortunate enough to see them grappling with madness that was not.  

He really wanted to know what was happening in Amity Park (ghosts?) that made these people so blasé about the alarms, flashing lights, and security shutters.  

Wait a second.  

He unclipped his radio from his belt.  “This is Johannsson, calling detection.  Can you describe the signal to me?  Over.”

The radio crackled.  “Slowly rising over the last thirty minutes, peaking and plateauing in the last ten.  Why?  Do you have something?  Over.”

The bus had arrived ten minutes ago.  Johannsson closed his eyes.  “Maybe.  Will inform.  Over and out.”

He looked over at the bathroom where Danny and his two friends were emerging.  Danny had his hands pressed over his ears.  Whenever the overhead lights flashed off, the boys eyes reflected green.  Just for a second.  

Yeah.  Johannsson had something.  The question was, what was he going to do about it?