#you can use a tool to pull the text out for you

[wreckingball4good]

If i like something of yours but don’t reblog it, occasionally it’s because i’m cultivating my feed, but most often it doesn’t have alt text (image description for screenreaders) and i didn’t have time to add it in a reblog.

[futuristichedge]

Shadow 100% has pulled shit out of the oven with his bare hands. He doesn't scream out in pain, but he's grimacing and clearly not a huge fan of the experience.

However, once he learns what oven mitts are, he opts to use those instead.

[chaussetteblanche]

and they were roommates pt. 2

pairing : Spencer Reid x fem!student!roommate!reader summary : the BAU team works the case, you get to help word count : 2.3k warning : canon-typical violence, mention of violence and sexual violence A/N : thank you all so much for all the love on part 1 of this !!! I love getting feedback, it's incredibly motivating ! I will probably do a part 3 :)) Also, my cat is sitting next to me as I write this, which I find quite funny

part 1, part 3, part 4

Back at the police station, Spencer had trouble focusing on the case. His mind kept wandering over to you, wondering what you were doing, how you were doing. He was on edge and the entire team could feel it. Hotch pulled him to the side to ask him if he wanted to give you a phone call. Reid refused, but settled on sending you a text, something he never usually did while working. Something he never usually did because he wasn't the biggest fan of technology and also because he couldn't decipher how you were actually feeling without hearing your voice and all the quirks in the way you spoke which gave away your real feelings.

Sent by Dr. Ironed Socks : < Hey. How are you doing? > Sent by You : < Ok, I'm having a tea on the couch. Geoff is in REM sleep on my lap. Thx for checking <3 >

Your text was followed by a pixelly picture of your slightly overweight (Spencer couldn't use that term to describe Geoffrey around you or you'd get upset) orange cat sprawled out on your lap, legs and arms askew, fast asleep. Spencer felt a small wave of relief spread through him. You were okay for now. Geoffrey was looking after you. Later, he'd help you process and give you all the tools necessary to get over such a traumatic event and move on. It was almost as if that was in his job description.

Returning to the room where the BAU team had settled in, Spencer sent Hotch a grateful nod. Hotch moved his lips in what resembled a small smile, Reid couldn't be sure. "Okay," Garcia's voice resounded from the speaker sitting in the middle of the round table, "I've contacted all of Mary Goldman's professors and it turns out she didn't go to class today. Her first class was at 11:30 but she never showed up." "None of the students we interrogated on campus had seen her after 10:15," Emily spoke up. "Spencer's roommate saw her between 10:30 and 11:00," Rossi intervened. "Okay, we'll get her to come in," Hotch affirmed. Spencer's whole body tensed. You had been the last person to see the victim. His mind was so busy reeling, thinking about everything you'd have to go through as the most promising witness, that he missed Morgan's question.

"Reid?" Derek raised an eyebrow. "Uh, sorry, what did you say?" "What was the time of death according to the coroner?" "14:30," Rossi answered. "It was 14:26, actually," corrected Reid. Rossi rolled his eyes. "Okay, so the unsub has his victim between around, let's say 11:15, and 14:26," Rossi shot a pointed look at Spencer, "that's about three hours and 11 minutes. In those three hours, he had time to take the victim someplace where neither of them would be seen or heard, beat and sexually assault her, and finally dump her in smack-dab in front of the university." "He's definitely organised and wants to send a message," Emily thought aloud. "But what is he trying to say? Look at what I can do? You can't stop me?" "Friends," interrupted Garcia, "I'm going to need at least some information before I even try to get anything out of a search. He's taking and leaving them on campus, so I'm guessing he doesn't necessarily need a vehicle. Does he live in the area?" "Yes, he's local or knows the area, he knows these women and he most likely knows the campus. Search for white males, early twenties with a record of violence and sexual misconduct. Cross-reference that with victims of reported abuse and sexual abuse in the last twenty five years. Run background checks for all university staff. Also have a look at similar victims and MOs in this area in the last five years. This may not be his first time," spoke Hotch. "On it, I'll get back to you when I've found something." "Thanks, Garcia."

You'd taken a shower as soon as you'd arrived home. The water was too hot and you'd scrubbed your skin too hard but getting out, you felt a slight bit better. Heavily disliking the way you still felt, you opted for a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk and sugar. Settling on the couch with a steaming cup in your hands, you tucked your legs beneath you and sighed.

Images of Mary's dead body were printed onto the inside of your eyelids. You still couldn't believe it. Your mind reeled as you tried to think of an explanation for it all. Whichever path you followed, you came up empty. You could not comprehend or imagine any reason of taking the life of an innocent person, especially in such a violent way. Luckily for you, you still didn't know the extent of the violence.

A familiar noise pulled you from your dark thoughts. Geoffrey had just jumped down from his cat tree. You watched him stretch and languidly walk over to you. He meowed once before jumping onto the couch, right next to you. You moved your legs so that you were sitting cross-legged and scratched his head. He purred in delight and pressed himself against you. He sniffed at your tea with an unimpressed look before climbing into your lap before letting himself flop down on his side, stretching out his appendages. You cooed as his pink toe-beans stretched too and laid a hand on his belly, scratching gently. The vibrations of his purrs had a calming effect on you. "Are you trying to make me forgive you for biting my ankle the other day when I wouldn't give you any more treats? You know Spencer says you're a bit overweight, I was just trying to get him to stop body-shaming you, my love..."

A few minutes later, you get a text from Spencer. About thirty minutes after that, you get a phone call from him. "Hey, would you mind coming to the station? It turns out you're the last person to have seen the victim."

"I'll do the cognitive interview." "Reid, I don't think that's a good idea." "Look, yes I'm invested, I know that. But I also know her and-" "Reid, no. This is the reason we such have procedures." "But I-" "Reid." Hotchner's tone translated finality. Spencer's shoulders sank in defeat. He had figured that if he had been the one conducting the interview, maybe it would have been less traumatic for you. He hated the idea of not being there for you, with you, during such a trying moment. He bit his bottom lip.

"I'll do it," volunteered Morgan. Reid felt slight comfort at that, Morgan was one of the few people he would entrust his life to. He could entrust you to him for the interview, even if he didn't like it. Hotchner nodded. "Reid, you work with Garcia, focus on finding other victims with the same MO to help build the profile." Reid nodded and went to find his colleagues.

When you entered the police station, it was almost like he could feel your presence. He came to find you straight away, not wanting to leave alone even for a second. "Hey." "Hey." Reid immediately pulled you in for a meaningful embrace, burying his face in your hair. The smell of your shampoo, conditionner and body wash were bliss to his nostrils. They were a promise that you were here, you were safe, you were okay. Morgan watched from afar, a small smile playing at his lips. He knew Reid, and the hug you exchanged was both too hasty and too tight to be anything casual. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry to have to make you come in, but they're going to do- well I wanted to do it but they wouldn't let me, so it's-"

A slightly older, very muscular and gentle man stepped forward, holding out his hand to you. You shook it. "I'm Agent Derek Morgan. I'm one of Spencer's colleagues. I'll be the one conducting the interview, seeing as there's a conflict of interest with you and Spencer. I hope you can understand that." You introduced yourself and looked at Spencer before answering Derek. "Yes, I understand, it's- it's not a problem." "Great, if you could just follow me, please?" You licked your lips and sent Spencer a look, which he answers with a nod of reassurance and a small smile, before following Derek.

"You can close your eyes if it makes you more comfortable." You were sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair. The light above you was ticking at uneven intervals and the room smelt of worry. You didn't know how you could get any more comfortable, but listening to Morgan's even, alto voice helped a bit. "Okay." You closed your eyes. "You told Agent Rossi that you crossed the victim somewhere around quarter to eleven. Is that correct?" "Uh, yes." "Where did you cross her?" "In the main hall." "Where were you going?" "Um, I had just been to the bathroom and I was heading to my Anglo-American Literary Survey class." "Okay, can you describe to me everything about the moment when you crossed the victim? What you saw, what you felt, smelled, heard? Was anything out of the ordinary?" You opened your eyes.

"Um, I'm sorry, but could you stop referring to Mary as the victim, please? She has a name, which is Mary Goldman, and a victim wasn't the only thing she was." Derek was slightly surprised at your comment but understood where you came from. Separating from the name was a way for profilers to gain some distance from the horrendous violence. Personally knowing the victim, you didn't have such luxury. "Of course, I apologise. What did you feel when you crossed Mary? Was anything out of place?"

You nodded in thanks and tried to bring yourself back to that moment. It seemed unreal, how such a small interaction suddenly held such importance. "O-Okay, uh, my hands are still a bit wet. There weren't any towels in the bathroom. I saw her after she saw me and we exchanged a smile. I thought she looked really pretty today, but I didn't tell her. We really don't know each other that well." "Okay, that's good. Was she wearing anything out of habit for her?" "Uhh, no, she was wearing a pleated skirt and a sweater vest. She often dresses like that, I don't know exactly why I thought she looked pretty. I guess she just looked happy. Nothing was out of the ordinary." "Good. Could you hear or smell anything?" "Yeah, well, there were the voices of other people in the hall. I can hear girls laughing. I smell Mary's perfume when she walks past me. She always wears the same one, it's Chanel, Mademoiselle Coco specifically, she told me once at a party."

"Okay, do you know where she's going?" "I- yeah, she's heading for her Behavioural Neuroscience class." "Is she walking in the right direction?" "Uh... Yes, yes, she is. She's not in too much of a hurry, though, she doesn't like the teacher." "So why is she heading there already, then? The class only starts at 11:30." "She likes to reread the material from the previous week before the class starts." "Why doesn't she like the teacher?" "No one does, all he does is read off his slides and he's a jerk when it comes to grading."

Morgan suppressed a smile at your comment. "Okay, thank you so much, Y/N, this was very helpful." "Was it? I didn't feel like-" "Yes, I promise you've just shared some crucial pieces of information." "O-Okay, if you say so."

All eyes were on Morgan as he entered the briefing room. He put his paper coffee cup down on the table and looked at Hotch. "Nothing was out of the ordinary. Mary was wearing habitual clothes and the same perfume she always wore. She was heading to the same class, as she did weekly, at the same time. My guess is this guy knew her routine and did a blitz attack. Y/N gave me the number of Mary's best friend, and according to her, Mary didn't have any guys in her life except for her dad and brother."

Hotchner nodded. Spencer couldn't help but feeling proud of you for being able to go through with the interview and to provide such useful information, too. He'd have to congratulate you when he got home. "Pretty boy and I found three similar victims in the last three years. They weren't connected to this case because they were in another university, just on the other side of the state line. Last year, three girls, university students, were killed, same MO, all disappeared for about three hours before being found dead in front of the university, they attended," Garcia spoke from the speaker. Spencer nodded in agreement to her words. "What did the police find back then?" asked Emily. "Nothing, they- uh, did all they could during the month that the three murders happened but after the third victim, the unsub stopped," Spencer answered. "Stopped?" Emily repeated, brows drawn together in confusion. "Yeah, he just- stopped killing and disappeared. Our best guess is that something triggered him then and that the same thing triggered him now."

"Oh, another thing," Garcia sounded reluctant to share the information she had, "I looked at all the victims' pictures and... well, I'll just send them to you, that'll be easier."

Spencer's blood ran ice cold as he stared at the four girls on the screen. They all looked exactly like you.

Taglist : (all those of you who wanted a part two <3) @princess-ofthe-pages @usuck @theylovemelody @empressgraytea @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @lillianacristina

[bills5lut]

talk to me

masterlist prompt list

warnings: very slight smut at first (not enjoyed by reader, so please if you are not comfortable with that do not read), degradation, safe wording, angst, fluff

synopsis: billie takes her frustration out on you during sex, pushing past your comfort until you safeword. she walks off, emotionally distant, but later returns to give you tender, genuine aftercare.

note: had lots of requests for this, so here u go. again, some might find parts of this uncomfortable and if so please dont read <3

The tiles are slick beneath your feet. Steam swirls around the glass like smoke, curling and twisting as water pelts your skin in steady, stinging rivulets. It should feel warm. Safe. Familiar. But all you feel is the brutal rhythm of her hips, and the sharp edge of something you can’t quite name twisting deeper inside your chest with every thrust.

Your back’s pressed to the cold wall, one leg hiked high over Billie’s hip. Her fingers are bruising into your thigh, holding it there like a threat. She’s not even kissing you. Her mouth is near your skin, but not touching, just hovering, speaking into your flesh like she’s whispering to herself. Her other hand is gripping your thigh, nails digging in, guiding your body into hers as she uses you for the friction. You can feel it, she’s grinding her own clit against the harness, getting herself off on your body like you’re a thing. A tool. And maybe you are. Right now.

You don’t even know what you did wrong. Not really. You’ve felt her pulling away for days, brushing off your touches, going hours without texting, sighing when you try to talk during her mixes. You told yourself it was just stress, the album, the pressure. But now, it feels personal. And you’re naked in her hands, pinned and used, and it’s never felt more distant.

“Jesus.” Billie growls, barely loud enough to be heard over the hiss of the water. Her breath is hot against your ear. “Always whining for attention, always clinging. This is the only time you shut the fuck up.”

Her hand clamps over your mouth without warning.

You flinch, not enough to make her stop, but just enough that your knee wobbles against the tension in your thigh. Billie catches it like a reflex, shoving her hips up harder.

“So much better when you’re like this,” she breathes, her voice low and hot. “Not whining, not clinging. Just taking it.”

Your breath jerks through your nose. You make a sound into her palm, not pleasure, not really. But it doesn’t seem to register for her. She keeps fucking into you, harder now, sharper, like each thrust is meant to empty something out of her. The slap of wet skin echoes harshly in the glassed-in shower. You’re not sure if she’s doing this to get off or to punish you.

Tears are already stinging your eyes, hot and raw. You think it started a while ago, maybe a minute after she started saying those things. Maybe longer. You’re not even sure what triggered it, only that the pleasure’s gone. It slipped out between your legs and down the drain, lost in the steam and confusion and the ache in your chest.

Your mouth curls beneath her hand. Your eyes squeeze shut.

Billie groans against your neck, voice low and guttural. “God, I could almost believe you’re enjoying this. You like it, don’t you? Just a pathetic little toy, dripping all over me for nothing.”

Your body’s trembling. Not from climax. Not even from effort. Just shaking. Shame burns in your throat, mixing with the tears that keep silently tracking down your cheeks, washed away by the relentless rain of the showerhead. 

You try to swallow the sob building in your throat. But it cracks, leaking into the air like a broken note. Billie thinks it’s a moan. Her grip tightens.

“You like this, don’t you?” she murmurs, rocking harder into you. “Filthy little thing. You just want to be used. Don’t need love, just this, right?”

You shake your head, eyes unsure of who it is you’re looking at right now, the figure in front of you unfamiliar.

“Bet if I left you here like this, dripping and fucked out, you’d just cry and rub one out without me, huh? That’s what you’re like now?”

You can’t take it. You try to twist your mouth under her hand, try to find enough space to speak.

“Mmmf”

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t listen.

You force it out.

“Red,” you gasp, barely audible against her palm. “Billie. I said red.”

Everything stops.

Not like a crash, not urgent, not dramatic. Just a subtle pause. A frown flickers across her face. Her hips still inside you, strap buried to the hilt, body pressed tight against yours. Her hand falls away from your mouth slowly, like she’s just now tuning into the sound.

“What?” she says, flatly. Her voice isn’t panicked. Just distant. Confused.

Your eyes are wide now, lips trembling. “Red,” you whisper again, broken and hoarse. “Please stop.”

The water runs between you. Soaks your hair. Pounds against the floor in a growing sense of silence.

Billie blinks. Then nods once, curt and automatic.

“Yep,” she mutters. “Yep. Sorry.”

She pulls out fast, not violently, just detached. The absence leaves you gasping. You almost slide down the wall when she lets go of your thigh, the burn of it immediate as your leg returns to the floor and buckles slightly under your weight. She turns the shower off without looking at you. The sudden quiet is deafening. Then she’s gone.

You blink at the shower door, half expecting her to come back, but no. She’s already stepped out, water dripping from her arms as she grabs a towel from the rack and disappears out the bathroom door. She doesn’t say anything else.

You’re left there, soaked, empty, and trembling.

The cold hits you first. Without the water, the tile is icy against your feet. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to catch your breath, to slow the shaking. It doesn’t work. You dry off slowly, mechanically, the towel too rough against your flushed, sensitive skin. You try not to look at yourself in the mirror. Everything feels blurry.

In the bedroom, Billie’s already dressed. Oversized tee, her damp hair raked back and still dripping onto the fabric. She’s curled up on her side of the bed, phone in hand, thumb scrolling, the screen casting cool blue light against her face. You don’t say anything as you cross to the dresser.

You try to keep your movements quiet, like maybe if you’re careful, she won’t notice you. The towel slips once around your hips, and you bite your lip to stop another tear from falling. Your fingers fumble with the drawer pull as you grab an old pair of pajamas, your arms shaking as you pull the shirt on.

You turn to her finally, barely able to make your voice come out.

“Bills?”

She doesn’t look up immediately. Then her gaze slides to you, unreadable.

“Yeah?”

You swallow.

“…Can I have a hug?”

Billie’s face shifts. Just slightly. Her lips part, but nothing comes out at first. Then she sets her phone down, lets out a breath that’s almost a sigh.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Yeah, come here.”

You walk over slowly, still feeling humiliated. You slide into the bed beside her, gingerly, like you’re afraid you’ll scare her off. She opens one arm. You curl into it, head against her shoulder. Everything about the contact feels stiff. Careful. Awkward.

You close your eyes. Try to pretend it’s normal.

“…What’s going on?” you whisper after a moment.

Billie shrugs, just a tiny twitch of her shoulder. “Nothing.”

You don’t let her off the hook.

“Please. Don’t do that. I can’t” Your voice cracks. “You’ve been so cold, and then tonight….”

“I know.” She cuts you off, sharp at first. Then softer. “I know.”

A pause. Then, finally, she speaks.

“It’s not you,” Billie mutters, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s not. It’s this album. The deadlines. The pressure. I can’t sleep, I can’t write, and everything’s on fire and I… I guess I started blaming you. For needing things from me when I had nothing left to give.”

You stay quiet. Let her get it out. She turns her head, her voice lower.

“I was just such a fucking cunt to you.”

You shift, shaking your head gently, trying to downplay it. “It’s okay”

“No,” she says firmly. “Don’t say it’s fine. You were crying. You never cry.”

Her voice breaks slightly, and her eyes finally meet yours. There’s guilt there now. Real guilt, curling behind her lashes like smoke.

“I didn’t even stop right away,” she whispers. “Didn’t even hear you.”

You exhale shakily, moving closer.

“I didn’t want to safeword. I just didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t feel like you were there with me. It felt like…” You trail off.

“Like I hated you,” Billie says quietly. “And I didn’t. I don’t.”

Your hand finds her arm, stroking gently. Her skin is warm now, soft from the towel. “I know you don’t,” you whisper.

“Still doesn’t make it okay,” she says.

You nod, forehead resting against her shoulder. The quiet stretches between you. Then, unexpectedly, she shifts.

“You want a bath?” she asks suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“A bath. Hot. With bubbles or whatever. Let me…” She trails off, already standing. “Let me do that. Please.”

Billie fills the tub while you sit silently on the closed toilet lid, legs curled up to your chest. She lights a candle without asking. Pulls out the lavender oil she always teases you for liking. Adds bubbles.

You’re already crying again before you get in. The water is almost too warm. But her hands help guide you down. You sit between her legs, your back against her chest, her arms wrapping around you slowly, this time gentle. Intimate. Real. Neither of you speak for a while.

She presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your neck.

Then she whispers against your skin, voice soft and cracked: “I’m so sorry.”

You nod, closing your eyes. “I know.”

She strokes your arms with the flat of her palm. Rubs slow circles against your ribs. You turn a little in her lap, tucking your head into her neck.

“You’re not too much,” she says suddenly, like she’s afraid if she doesn’t say it now, she’ll never say it. “You’re never too much for me. I made you feel like that and I… I fucking hate myself for it.”

You don’t respond right away. Just breathe against her collarbone.

Then you whisper, “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed.”

She holds you tighter.

“You’re allowed to need space. But I need to know you still love me when you take it.”

Billie lets out a long breath.

“I do. God, I do.”

Later, dried off and dressed, she tucks you into the bed with a tenderness that makes your throat ache. She brings you water, a hoodie of hers, even your little stuffed bear from the dresser without asking. You smile weakly, cuddling into her side. She holds you this time like she means it. No phones. No distraction. Just Billie. Just you.

“Can you talk to me next time?” you whisper.

“I will,” she promises, voice low. “No more pretending. No more using sex to get my anger out. That’s not what we do. That’s not who I want to be.”

You nod. And when she kisses your forehead and whispers “I love you” into your hair, you finally believe it again.

[bitters-n-sweets]

coffee tables pt. 2 — jack abbot x fem!reader Jack visits his ex-girlfriend’s apartment to help build a coffee table, but as old memories resurface and quiet confessions are shared, the day slowly turns into a chance to begin again.

warnings: flashback to the past, nothing 18+

part one || masterlist

Jack stands in front of your apartment door, toolbox in hand, trying to calm the nerves he thought he'd buried months ago. It's Saturday—his day off—and he decides to spend it building a coffee table with you. Somehow, it feels more intimate than it should.

You've been texting all week, your messages short and sometimes teasing, but always warm. He takes a breath, finally lifts his hand, and almost knocks, but you open the door first.

You've been waiting for him behind the door, watching him. "Were you gonna knock or just keep standing there like a creep?" you tease, not realizing the irony.

Jack exhales a nervous breath and cracks a small smile. "Sorry. Was deciding between knocking or faking a maintenance request."

You step aside so he can come in. "Well, you’ve got the toolkit. Might as well earn your keep."

The apartment smells just like he remembers it, he looks around to reminisce for a bit before spotting the half-assembled coffee table still sprawled across the living room floor.

"I figured I’d finish what you started," Jack says, lifting the toolbox.

"Before it finishes me off?" you joke.

"It almost did," he reminds you that the piece of glass almost cut your femoral artery, "Are you recovering okay?"

"Yeah, I can walk without much pain now. The meds help."

He nods, "That's good. I can take a look for you later."

"Okay, yeah, sure." You don't protest.

The mood is awkward at first. Small talk. Dry jokes. "Tool sizes". But it doesn’t take long before you warm up to each other. He fits a bolt in place while you read the instructions upside down, the rhythm of your banter slowly syncing. You snort when he grunts at the wrong size screw, and he rolls his eyes when you say you should’ve just bought a pre-built one.

"Remember the bookshelf we built for your place?" you say at one point, legs tucked beneath you on the floor.

Jack pauses, head tilted. "The one that fell over after a week?"

"You insisted we didn’t need the wall bracket."

He laughs. "And you still let me build furniture."

"Touché."

"Alright so where does this screw go?" Jack holds up a singular screw that looks just like the other ten.

"Um... there?" You point to a threaded hole, squinting. "Oh wait, but it could also be the other one. Ugh, I don't know, they all have the same measurements."

Jack shrugs and screws it into one of the holes while muttering, mostly to himself, "That's right, it goes in the square hole..."

You freeze. "Was that—"

"Yes, yes it was," he replies without missing a beat.

"Who taught you??"

"Night shifts can get boring sometimes."

You laugh, the kind that escapes before you can think about it, and Jack glances at you with a smile that lingers just a second too long.

A few hours later, the coffee table is finally finished. It's off by maybe 1cm, but it'll do.

“We did it. Functional table. No injuries. Only minor emotional peril.” Jack says as he stretches his legs.

“Honestly, I’m—.”

“Hungry?”

You nod, "YES."

And he pulls out his phone. “Your usual order still the same?”

Your eyes flick to his. “You remember?”

Jack only smiles and places the order.

You try to hide your smile and stand up. "I'm opening a bottle of wine. We're celebrating this."

"You're on meds."

"And you are on your day off." You smile at him, pouring two glasses. "I'll just have one." You try to convince him while he rolls his eyes.

There is no going between you and your wine.

"Mind if I use the bathroom?"

"You already know where it is."

As he steps into the hallway, he sees one photo still hanging on your wall. Cracked glass. Your arms wrapped around each other, blurry with motion but full of joy. The memory slams into him.

It’s late, and your apartment feels too small for the fight you’re having. "You’re always at the hospital," you say, voice shaking. "Even when you don’t have to be." "It’s not that simple," Jack snaps. "People rely on me." "And I don’t?" He turns too fast. His elbow knocks the picture frame off the wall. It crashes to the floor, splintering the glass. You both freeze. Something in him falters. He picks up the frame and sets it on the counter. "I can’t do this," he mutters before walking out.

Jack stares at the cracked photo now, throat tight. You wander over to where Jack is, and realize what he's looking at.

"You still have it." He states.

"I thought about throwing it away," you reply. "But I couldn't."

"I kept some things too," Jack says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Not yet.

You fall into silence, but it’s warmer this time. He reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. You let him.

"You know," you dare yourself to say, your voice barely above a whisper, "I used to sit in this apartment and think… maybe he’ll show up. Say he’s sorry. Say he wants to try again."

"I’m here now," Jack says. "And I am sorry. And I—"

There’s a knock at the door. The food delivery.

Dinner is quiet, softer. You split the last of the wine, and you laugh at his terrible jokes. When the bottle’s empty and the plates are cleared, you stay sitting on the floor, closer than before. Hands almost touching.

Both wanting to pick up where the serious conversation last ended, but also fearing where it might lead.

Jack reaches for his glass of wine and pauses. "You remember the night the power went out?"

You blink. "The storm?"

He nods. "We were stuck here. Couldn’t even order food because your phone died and mine barely had signal."

"We lit every candle in the apartment. I think I still have wax stains on that old bookshelf." You smile at the memory. "That was probably a fire hazard."

Jack chuckles. "And you made us play that ridiculous card game. Loser had to answer a personal question."

"I was trying to get to know you better," you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "You’re not exactly an open book."

He shakes his head with a faint smile, one of those rare ones that tug more at memory than amusement. “Still not, I guess.”

“I asked you your fears,” you continue, voice softer now. “You told me you wanted to be a good man. That night. You said you didn’t know if you were, but you wanted to try.”

Jack’s smile fades—not from regret, but more longing. "Yeah. I remember. I was scared I'd let you down."

"You did."

He looks down, his fingers absently brushing a speck of dust from the table’s edge. But then you add, just as gently:

"But you're here now."

He looks up. Meets your eyes. There’s something unspoken hanging between you—pain, promises that shattered and ones still waiting to be made.

And that silence, again—this time warm, thick, forgiving.

He swallows, as if laying his heart bare, and asks, “Can you give me another chance?”

Your fingers find his, and you squeeze, quietly telling him yes.

He looks at you with that softness in his eyes, the one that makes your chest ache. His hand rises gently to your cheek, and your breath catches.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice almost shaking.

“I missed you too.”

And then, finally, he leans in.

So do you.

The kiss is careful at first—like testing the coffee table you just built. But when your hand slips to his chest and his thumb grazes your jaw, it deepens into something more certain. Something lived-in and familiar, and still electric.

It’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

[laligraves]

sweet angel agency

dark!joel miller x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~2.3k summary: Joel mistakes you for the escort he ordered. masterlist | AO3

warnings: dark!Joel, TLOU AU, noncon/dubcon (im so serious don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), older!joel/no outbreak, not proofread, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, reader has hair joel can pull, reader can be picked up by joel, fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: happy october! i have these three serial killer!joel WIPs i keep jumping between but idk which one to finish 😭 so i wrote this instead lol

“No, no, no. Shit!” 

Your car emits a loud creaking sound and begins to shake. Thinking quickly, you drive into a small cul-de-sac, away from the main road and fast cars. It rolls to a stop with one final groan, shutting off completely. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, “are you kidding me?” 

You grab your phone from the center console, noticing the 3% battery, and shoot a text to your friend that you’ll be late to the Halloween party. 

It dies as you press the send button and you throw it to the passenger seat in exasperation. You look around the rows of houses. There’s a Halloween event in the city, which probably explains the lack of cars in the driveways and the turned off porch lights. 

Well, all except one. 

A pickup truck with tools and materials in the bed, is parked in the driveway of a home. The porch light is on and you can see the flicker of the TV through the closed blinds. 

You hope the family is nice enough to let you use their phone or even if by some miracle, one of them knows how to fix your car. As you step out of the car and smooth down your dress, you pray they aren’t judgmental of your outfit choice. 

It’s a tiny, silk dress complete with angel wings and thigh high stockings. You pull the dress down in an effort to cover your thighs but it only brings it down from your chest, accentuating your tits. 

With no choices left, you ring the doorbell to the house. There’s no noise aside from the crickets and the TV, until you hear the heavy thuds of boots walking towards the door. 

It swings open, revealing a tall, older man. His hair and beard have streaks of gray and his brown eyes are lined with soft wrinkles. The button down he wears stretches over his broad chest and as he leans his arm on the door, the bottom of his shirt rises to show a slight belly and a happy trail. 

In other words, he's handsome. A quick scan of his left hand shows no wedding ring. 

You give him a pretty smile, not above using your looks to get what you want. 

“Hi,” you say as you give him your name, “sorry to bother you. My car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call a tow truck?” 

His eyes do a slow sweep of your body, lingering on the lacy band of your thigh highs, then back up to your eyes, 

“Didn’t realize you came with a story.” 

Your eyebrows pinch in confusion. “Uh–story? What?” 

“And the angel costume… I guess that’s expected.” 

“May I use your phone?” you ask again.  

He pushes the front door wider, motioning for you to walk in. “It’s in the kitchen.” 

You walk inside and accidentally brush against his body. Aside from his confusing comments, the deep rumble of his voice caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. You walk into the hallway, stopping at the entrance of the living room, waiting for him to lead you to the kitchen. 

“Are you… home alone or–” 

You feel his hand snake through your hair and pull you back into his chest. His other hand slips under your dress and cups your pussy, rubbing over the thin material of your panties. 

“What the fuck–” 

You lift your hands to scratch and push him away but he only holds you tighter. 

“Stop playin’ games, little girl,” he growls, “we both know why you’re here.” 

His fingers, rough and calloused even through your panties, glide over your panty-covered slit in rough strokes. You’re frozen in his arms, unsure of what to do. 

Your heart pounds fast in your chest and you feel warmth spread through your body. 

“I don’t–please, sir–” you stutter. 

His fingers slip into your panties and you bite your lip to muffle your moan. He swirls his middle finger at your entrance, gathering the slick that’s dripped out of you, and drags it up to circle your clit. 

You gasp, the sudden jolt of pleasure taking you by surprise. 

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he growls, “can’t wait to sink my cock in ya’, angel.” 

Your hands try to dislodge his arms from around you, but he slips his hand around your neck and squeezes, cutting off your air supply. Your wings bend in his hold and the plastic middle digs into your back. 

“I told them I wanted you to call me Joel,” he murmurs, loosening his hand to allow you to breathe, “but I like sir.” 

“What are you talking about—” 

Joel interrupts you again, ripping your panties in a stinging snap and spinning your around to face him. You teeter and almost trip on your heels, but he crouches and swings you over his shoulder. 

He brings his hand down on your ass, ordering you to stop squirming, girl, while you feel the cool air brush on your naked cunt. 

Joel walks you through the hallway and into a room, dropping you on his bed. You try to scoot away from him, but he grabs your foot and yanks you back down. 

“No, please,” you cry, “I don’t know what this is–” 

“We won’t be needing these,” he says as he slips off your heels. 

“Sir–” 

Joel grabs the top of your dress and rips it half, maneuvering your body so he can untie your wings, leaving you in nothing but your stockings. 

You don’t like the way your belly tightens with each stroke of his rough hands over your heated skin or the way your cunt drips with need every time he calls you a pretty angel. 

He laughs at your attempts to kick or shove him away, and easily overpowers you. Joel pushes your hands back and nuzzles your breasts, gliding his nose over one, sliding to the other, until he suckles a peaked nipple into his mouth. 

It gets you to stop fighting and instead you whimper in his hold, pushing your chest up so he can get more of your plump flesh into his mouth. 

He makes room for himself between your thighs, grinding down his bulge onto your bare pussy. The rough material of his jeans contrasts the softness of his mouth and your brain short circuits. 

“Always the same with you sluts,” he growls, “beggin’ me to stop but look at ya’, soakin’ my jeans.” 

Joel props himself up, giving a kiss to the tip of each breast, and holds your mouth open with rough fingers to shove your panties inside. With your now torn dress, he uses the silk to tie your hands together. 

“Can’t get away from me now, little girl. You’re all mine.” 

Your knees are bent and thighs spread open, giving him a perfect view of your cunt. He uses one hand to thumb your tiny hole while the other unbuckles his belt. 

“Prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” Joel says, “gonna make a mess in it.” 

Joel pushes his jeans down and fists his cock, squeezing the thick length in his hand. A pulse starts in your cunt at the sight and you unconsciously tighten your inner muscles.

You push the inappropriate thoughts out of your head, reminding yourself that this is a stranger, one that you wanted help from–but the dribble of pre-cum on his purple tip makes your mouth water. 

His cock is thick, angry-looking, and curved slightly. A patch of curly hair, silver streaked just like his head, covers his base. 

Joel slips a single finger inside of you and you both groan, him from the snug fit and you from the stretch. Your back arches and you cry out from behind the gag. 

“So fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, “how am I gonna fit in here, angel?” 

He slides his finger out and notches the tip of his cock to your slick entrance. You cry, no, no, please, through your gag, but your resolve slowly slips. 

Joel holds your thighs open and thrusts in with one firm push, lodging himself to the hilt. It takes you a few moments to react, but you scream behind the gag.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says, “that’s—fuck. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” 

You flutter around his length, trying to accommodate his size, feeling every veiny and bumpy ridge on his cock. 

He stills, clutching your thighs and sliding his fingers beneath the lace band of your stockings.

“Grippin’ me so well, angel,” Joel groans, grinding down. “Meant to be, yeah?” 

No, you scream in your head, but your body quivers in excitement and you breathe in the scent of his cologne and sweat, wanting him but, at the same time remembering how you ended up here.  

“Look at cha’,” he laughs, “impatient little thing. Already fuckin’ herself on my cock.” 

You try to deny it, that you’re currently not swiveling your hips, bouncing with the little room you have, trying to get him to move, but it’s no use. You’re chasing the warmth that simmers in your belly and you purposefully clench around his length.  

Joel moves slowly, sliding out, watching the flicker of emotions on your face. 

It barely fits, and it borders on pain. But the heat in your pussy only grows with each growl or moan that spills from his mouth. 

You’re embarrassingly wet, making it so much easier for him to pound into you. He watches your joined bodies, eyes half closed but focused on the way your inner lips grip him, on how your slick drowns him from tip to base. 

“Should I keep you, little girl?” Joel groans. “Chain you to my bed so you never leave?” 

The image flashes in your mind—you, naked and sweaty, covered in his cum and spit, completely at his mercy. 

He doesn’t need a verbal answer to know the idea excites you. Little slut, he says, as your inner muscles tighten around him. 

Joel pushes your hands above your head and presses his face into the exposed column of your neck. He stretches over you, trapping you under his heavy weight. 

Even if this isn’t the first time you’ve been fucked—it is the first time you’ve been fucked like this. The sounds you make, whines, screams, pretty whimpers that have him holding you tighter and fucking you harder—it’s all new. 

“Deep,” he whispers in your ear, “so goddamn deep.” 

There’s something strangely intimate about this. He stays fully clothed, only giving you his bare cock to feel, while you lay beneath him, completely nude except for the thigh highs.  

Joel, if that even is his name, is a complete stranger. Yet he pounds into you like he owns you. 

His lips trail from your neck, licking the droplets of sweat that gather on your skin, leaving kisses on the corner of your mouth, uncaring of the drool from your gag. 

Your thoughts jumble from the overstimulation and soon you’re sobbing, filled with his big cock, dominated by the sheer force of his entire being. 

“So fuckin’ tiny,” Joel grunts, “take me cock, little girl. Take it, take it.” 

His breathing becomes erratic and he thrusts harsher, hauling your thigh higher so he can move quicker. He’s close. It might be your mind playing tricks or, his cock could actually be swelling inside of you, ready to fill you with his cum. 

His thumb swipes over your clit in fast circles and you ripple around his length, coming in sticky, wet spurts. Your scream, caught by surprise by the pressure of your orgasm. You tremble and cry in his hold, squeeze him hard enough that he groans in pain. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters, “gonna make this pussy mine.” 

And he does. Joel fills your clenching, little hole with his cum, spilling his seed in your unprotected womb. You remember too late that you’re no longer on birth control, but it’s no use. You have no way to stop him from painting your cunt white, so you let him make a mess inside of you. 

His hips piston with enough force to sink you into the mattress. You’re not quite sure if your orgasm ever ended, but your cunt pulses with another wave as Joel fucks the rest of his spend inside of you. 

“All full of me, little girl,” he murmurs, dropping down to lay partially on top of you. 

You won’t be able to walk tomorrow, or maybe for the next few days. Your entire body feels sore and your mind is delirious. 

Joel gently slides out of you and places a kiss on your chin. He unties the silk from your hands and removes the wet panties from your mouth. You hear him walk out of the room, but fall asleep before you’re able to drink the glass of water he brings you. 

-

Joel’s POV.

He’s glad he followed Tommy’s advice and switched to a new escort agency. 

The others aren’t usually so responsive or reactive to his touch. They’ll play along to his fantasy, throw out a few no, please stop, but it never feels real. 

You’re different. 

You kicked, scratched him, drew blood from his skin. It felt real, bringing out the primal side of him that he’s so desperately tried to repress. 

Joel walks into the kitchen to grab you a glass of water and his phone, intending to order you food, when he sees an email from Sweet Angel Agency sent almost two hours ago. 

Dear Mr. Joel Miller, 

We apologize for the late notice but our Angel will not be able to make it to your residence tonight. We will be providing you with a full refund. Please wait 2-3 business days to see that reflected in your bank account. 

For any further questions or to schedule another appointment, please contact us. 

Thank you, 

Sweet Angel Agency

“Who the fuck is in my bedroom?” Joel says after reading the email. 

But as he walks back into the room and sees you spread out on his bed, your inner thighs soaked with your combined juices, marking your heated skin in white and clear streaks, Joel realizes he doesn’t really care. 

He strips out of his sweaty clothes and climbs onto the bed with you. Now that he knows you aren’t from the agency, there’s no reason to let you go just yet. 

- - -

a/n: i know there are probably a few fics out there with similar tropes however if anything in this one is similar in plot to another, it is purely by coincidence! i would never steal someone’s work and i appreciate each and every fic writer out there who does these for free and takes time out of their day to give us amazing fics 🤍

[popcornpoppypop]

We'll Table That

Summary: Callie tries to get her hand stitched without knowing. It does not go well.

Warnings: Blood, medical inaccuracies, shouting?, talks of pregnancy

A/N: Let me know what you think. I can't stop putting this poor character through physical injury, I have a thing for grumpy men taking care of their partners.

“Oh he’ll have my head if I don’t tell him you’re here.” Dr. McKay chuckled, crossing her arms and shaking her head.

“Yeah, no, I know. Just thought it was worth a try.” Callie shrugged. Her hand was wrapped in a pile of gauze that was starting to turn red.

“I may have texted him anyway.” Liz, Callie’s best friend and only reason to keep going back to work, winced from her seat next to the exam chair.

“Lizzy!” Callie scolded.

“Oh please, if the roles were reversed you’d be furious if he didn’t tell you.”

“I just don’t like him fussing. Taking time from patients that deserve his care.” Callie fiddled with the gauze.

“Yeah, well, you deserve his care too. Let him.” McKay gave a kind smile. Before Callie could say anything, the curtain was ripped open to reveal a seething Jack Abbot.

“What the hell happened?” He barked.

“What if I was naked!? You just exposed me to all of your colleagues!”

“Why would you be naked if you hurt your hand?” He grumbled.

“I don’t know. I feel like every time I come in here ya’ll are ripping the clothes off every patient.” Callie shrugged.

“I’ll let you handle this Dr. Abbot.” Mckay made her exit, tugging the curtain closed.

“So?” Jack crossed his arms.

“I caught my hand on a scalpel during surgery.” Callie sighed.

“Callie.” Liz pointed.

“Lizzy.” Callie glared at her.

“Hey! Doctor mode now, okay? I need to know what happened so I can treat you. You complain all the time when clients give you half-truths about their pets, so out with it.” His voice stern in a way Callie wasn’t used to. The voice he used with med students..

“I fell, my hand landed on the instrument tray-”

“She fainted and her hand slammed into the tray and the scalpel sliced her hand open.” Liz crossed her arms. Callie rolled her eyes.

“You fainted? As in lost consciousness?” Jack’s voice though still calm and in ‘doctor mode’ was tight as the worry built up in his chest.

“Only for like thirty seconds.” Callie looked at the floor.

“I had some smelling salts in my emergency kit, they brought her back.” Liz noted.

“It was just my blood sugar. You know I have trouble remembering to eat.”

“That’s why I pack you lunch! All the snacks you could need!” Jack threw his hands in the air.

“I get busy!” Callie shouted.

“Right. Let me look at the hand.” Jack pulled the overhead light down and rolled his stool closer. He unwrapped Callie’s hand, revealing a deep laceration across her palm. “I cleaned it with some chlorohexidine diluted and wrapped it as best she would let me.” Liz said, trying to get an A plus from her friends boyfriend.

“Chill Liz, you’re a lesbian remember?” Callie chuckled.

“Shut up.” Liz shoved her. Liz and Jack started off enemies at first. Liz was protective of Callie, having been her friend for years and seeing the hell she had been through. She was never happy to meet a new boyfriend, they were just pain waiting to happen. But when Jack proved to be a good man, they became thick as thieves. Liz would never call herself a ‘prepper’ but she kind of was. Jack was too. They taught each other about new tech and tools and bored Callie to death with it all. She thought it was too depressing.

“Someone has to pay attention to this stuff if you’re going to keep getting into trouble.” Jack sighed.

“That’s what you two are for.” Callie smirked. Jack and Liz rolled their eyes.

“You need stitches.”

“No shit.”

“You need stitches and bloodwork.” Jack pointed as he stood up.

“What!? No way!”

“Yes way! You fainted!”

“I hadn’t eaten! I just need juice and you know it!”

“I don’t know it that’s what the bloodwork is for!” Jack shouted. Callie was about to yell back when the curtain was pulled open by Robby.

“Hey! Some people think it’s rude to shout in hospitals, something about sick people trying to sleep or something.” He said.

“Sorry.” Callie looked like a scolded child.

“She needs stitches and bloodwork.” Jack stated.

“I don’t need bloodwork.”

“Jesus Christ, Callie! It’s what I’d do for anyone else that fainted!” Jack growled.

“Alright! Stop shouting.” He pointed to Jack before turning to Callie. “You fainted?” Callie nodded her head.

“I saw it.” Liz added.

“He’s right. Anyone who faints gets a work up, even if it’s just a low blood sugar from not eating. Your iron could be low, lots of things could cause you to faint. You’re getting the bloodwork.” Robby stated crossing his arms.

“Fine. But I’m not happy about it.” Callie growled.

“Didn’t say you had to be.” Robby smiled.

“I’ll do it.” Jack said.

“No! That is ridiculous! Let the nurses do their job.” Callie pointed her finger at him.

“I’ll have Dana do it. That work for everyone?” Robby sighed. Heads nodded and he left. Jack came walking up behind him.

“Brother, if you put one of the med students on her stitches I’m going to start throwing things.” Jack growled.

“Calm the hell down.” Robby snapped. “You act like a crazy person when she’s here. I have half a mind to tell her to go anywhere else!”

“That’s not fair-”

“Jack, you can’t act like this here. It’s not okay for the students to see, for the nurses to deal with. She is a grown woman and is allowed to make her own decisions with her care. You need to respect that. If you can’t, you will no longer be her doctor. I don’t pull rank often because it’s stupid, but I will if need be.” Robby sighed. Jack stared at him for a long moment, digesting his words.

“You’re right. I know. I just…the anxiety turns me into something else. I’ll back off. She’s so damn stubborn.” Jack sighed leaning against the nurses station desk.

“Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?” Dana quipped.

“Will you go pull blood on Callie please? Get me 2-0 monocryl to sew her up. 2ml of lidocaine.” Robby asked.

“Only because it’s Callie and I want to see her.” Dana gave Jack’s arm a soft punch.

“Are you two like this at home?” Robby questioned.

“God no. No, we never argue.” Jack shook his head. “She’s only like this here. She doesn’t like people taking care of her because she feels like she doesn’t deserve it and the people who take care of her will resent her.” Jack nodded.

“That’s deep.”

“The therapist said it at our last session.”

“You two are in couples therapy?” Robby looked at him bewildered.

“Hell yeah. We’ve got a lot of fucking baggage man. It keeps us honest with each other, ourselves. Makes communication easier.”

“Good to know.” Robby nodded as he headed back to Callie’s room.

“And when Whittaker slipped in the blood, the tray of juice went with him. Poor kid was covered front and back!” Dana laughed as she bandaged Callie’s arm.

“That poor kid! He can’t catch a break!” Callie chuckled.

“We wouldn’t be gossiping about our coworkers to patients now, would we?” Robby chided.

“Oh don’t be such a party pooper. I’m going to get this running. I’ll swing by with some cranberry juice in a bit.” Dana winked and ran off.

“Alright, let’s get you sewed up.” Robby groaned as he sat down, pulling his glasses on.

“How many do you think?” Callie asked.

“Oh not too many. Probably five or so.” Robby smiled. “This will burn.” He stated before injecting the lidocaine into Callie’s hand. She hissed as the medicine scorched her skin.

“Damn!”

“Yeah, now you know what your patients feel.” Robby chuckled as he started sewing.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with him. He’s such a grouch when I’m here. I told McKay to keep it to herself.”

“Oh that would have gone over like a lead balloon, I don’t blame her.”

“I know he means well. I know it’s because of his wife, he’ll never not blame himself for losing her. I just can’t deal with the overprotective stuff sometimes. It’s too close to the possessive behaviors my ex had.”

“I didn’t know you had a bad ex.” Robby looked over his glasses at her.

“Bad doesn’t begin to cover that fucker.” Liz sneered.

“He wasn’t a great guy to be around.” Callie sighed.

“He beat the shit out of you.” Liz bit.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. Does Jack know?” Robby asked.

“Yeah. We talk about it in therapy. But old habits die hard, especially when it comes to survival. Both our issues come from survival.” Robby nodded.

“All stitched up. Those will need to get removed in about two weeks. They will itch, do not itch them.” Robby warned as he left. 

Jack was typing up his charts, trying in vain to not think about the bloodwork. His mind always went back to the worst case scenario.

“She’s all stitched up. Once we have her bloodwork she can head home. You can too. They have enough staff for the night.” Robby leaned across the desk.

“Yeah, maybe.” Jack huffed.

“You can go sit with her if you want.”

“I’m giving her space.”

“She is never allowed in here if this is how you act.” Dana snorted.

“I don’t like that I can’t prevent her from getting hurt and it makes me upset when I see it. Sue me.” Jack spit back.

“Easy big guy, I know how hard it is. You need to lighten up, it’s bad for you scrunching up all grumpy all the time.” She smiled.

“Dr. Robby, is Callie your patient or…?” McKay came up with a piece of paper in hand. Jack glared at him, Robby laughed.

“Yeah, she’s mine now.”

“Right. Her bloodwork just came in.” She gave Jack a smile and walked off patting him on the back.

“The hell was that?” He asked.

“Oh you’ll see.” Robby chuckled. “Let’s go, I’m not going over this twice.” He said as he headed for Callie.

“Hey, that was fast.” Callie smiled.

“It’s like pizza, thirty minutes or it’s free on bloodwork on Wednesdays.” Robby smiled. “Liz will you give us a minute? Protocol when going over lab work.” Robby asked. Liz nodded and left.

“Should I be worried?” Callie sat up straighter, looking up to Jack. He took a seat next to her, taking her hand in his.

“No. Your blood sugar was low, nothing too crazy. You will need to be more aware of it moving forward.”

“I told you.” Callie laughed.

“But, the bloodwork also showed an elevation in your human chorionic gonadotropin or hCG levels.” Robby tried to stop the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Jack looked like he had seen a ghost.

“I work with dogs and cats Robby, what the fuck is that? Is it bad?” Callie asked getting worried.

“You’re pregnant.” Jack said.

“Yes. The hCG is the hormone produced by the fetus, it’s how we confirm the urine pregnancy tests. Looking at these levels I’d say around eight weeks or so. They can confirm how far along with ultrasound measurements.” Robby smiled.

“Holy shit.” Callie said.

“I’m going to grab some resources for you, let you two talk. When you’re ready come grab me and we can set up an appointment upstairs for whatever you need.” He gave Callie a pat on the shoulder as he left.

“Holy shit.” Callie repeated.

“Yeah.” Jack grunted.

“Jack?”

“Huh?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Yeah, you are.” Jack felt his hands shaking.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want this?” Callie sniffled, the sound of her crying snapped Jack out of his daze.

“Honey, I love you more than life itself. I would love nothing more than to have a baby with you. My feelings aren’t important here though. This is your decision.” He grabbed her hand with both of his.

“I love you. I’m so fucking scared.” Callie looked away.

“I don’t think any good parent isn’t scared shitless.”

“Good point.” “It happens more than you realize.” He smirked, she laughed. Her laughter soothed something that had been biting at his chest.

“Are we really doing this?”

“That’s your call.”

“You idiot. It’s a team effort.”

“We have a strong team. One more member would only make us better I think.” Jack shrugged.

“Let’s do this. Can’t be worse than my mother.” Callie shrugged.

“Yeah?” Jack sat up straighter in his seat.

“Yeah, let’s have a baby.” Callie chuckled through her tears. Jack pulled her into a passionate kiss before jumping up, suddenly filled with adrenaline.

“WE’RE HAVING A BABY!!” He shouted, the whole ER stopped and turned toward the yelling.

“They can definitely hear you.” Callie laughed.

“I don’t know, I think they might have missed it,” Jack pulled the curtains back and “SHE’S HAVING MY BABY!!” which was met with a round of applause from the staff and confused but amused patients.

“You are never going back to work.” Jack stated out of breath.

“Don’t ruin it.” Callie laughed.

“We’ll table that.” Jack ran up to the desk grabbing his water bottle and keys. “Boss, I’m taking my lady home. I’ll be back on Saturday.” Jack nodded to Robby.

“Congrats, brother. You two may be the only ones that absolutely should have kids.” He smiled. Jack gave him a quick hug, slapping him on the back harder than usual and ran off.

“It’s cute when he’s all excited. He looks like a puppy.” Dana smiled.

“He is going to drive that woman crazy now.” Robby shook is head laughing.

“Oh yeah.”

[mina-org]

part one - part two - part three - part four (youre here!) - part five- six

a flower box full of dying, turned maroon geraniums stare back at you. fitting, asking simon, expecting anything from simon was the dumbest shit you ever did.

you'd never make that mistake again.

you didn't want him.

but why couldnt you look at him. you couldn't look at him, say anything or move any, it felt like you were choking.

simon? he was fine.

smirking, mocking you, like he hadn't been spamming you.

it doesnt matter though, simon and whatever the fuck is wrong with him isnt your business, not anymore.

you dont owe him anything.

"sorry" stammers out of your mouth as you move past him, as if hes a stranger on the street.

he wont let you though, his fist wrapping around your wrist, johnny's yells turning into howling in this nightmare.

"lets 'ave a chat, love." its a demand, a declaration of his control over you, or the perceived control. the control he used to have.

"could you not hear the phone call? get to fuck and take Johnny with ya." you snap, you pull your wrist away and keep walking.

this isnt right. simon knows you. he knows what days you work, your route there, the drink you buy on the way. he knows you cant stand silence, being alone eats away at you.

you never leave. you can't leave him. why are you walking away?

simons about to grab you and throw you in the boot of his car but Johnny stops him. dragging you through town to the carpark would bring a lot of attention, not ideal when you wanna kidnap a local women</3

theyre sas, they've kidnapped terrorists, this will be easy, they just need to think about it. time and violence solves everything!

gaz cannot believe this shit.

hes done all the heavy lifting, he didnt get to take you out or even text you, hes so much more charming than Johnny, he's great at taking girls out, but you were yarning for simon so it would probably only take him not being a dick, had simon ever even taken you out?

John left your apartment a little while ago because Kate called, he said he'd keep an eye for you but, here you are, emptying out bags, deseptrely trying to fine your phone, while Kyle watches your legs pace, nice and cosy under your bed.

what the fuck is he suppose to do? youve lost something youre gonna check under the bed sooner or later. suddenly no one can answer their fucking phone, ghost was suppose to take you out for coffee, than lunch, then a cheeky 2 for 1 cocktail pitcher, what happened? why are you home? did John take the tool box? how was he going to get out form underneath your bed?

he hears your laptop turning on, soon enough you huffing and puffing. and it slamming shut. soon enough he your footsteps lead into the bathroom and the shower starts and Kyle finally catches a break at least he can get a little show now the cameras are set up.

no.

he has to focus, has to sneak out.

soon enough gaz is back at the flat, meeting up with his Taskforce, whos watching you on the cameras. Kyle would call them a perv but he'd be doing the same if he had an ounce less shame, not a problem for price or simon or Johnny. maybe it comes with age or some shit.

your shower doesnt last forever unfortunately:( so now its Johnny and simon explaining their fuck up, Johnny soon feels a slap to the back of his head from price. Simon and Johnny were in holiday mode and they needed to get it together. you cant slip away.

you wont.

simon wants this done now. but these things dont happen instantly, the walls at the flat are paper thin and neighbours are just so noisy nowadays.

at least they have your phone, you used to always complain about how shitty your family was but simon never quite listened but snooping in your phone was good as your brain, you even used the notes app as a diary! perf

taglist: @skeletonsucker @supernova2205 @wh0re4-alexademi @grr457 @gh0st-spid3r @sweetlittleblackrose @aceywaycy @mooievis @theadultoedge @cheese-pull @imtherain @h0e-02 @misscaller06 @lucilleifer @cherryflavoredguts @junitries @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon @drewsphswife @just-lilita @bvrnxy @crempuffie @erintaro @skyfire93 @my-little-evil-blog @alexalix-z

[spaceycat]

bucky being a human furnace is so canon, right now im mainly going to be posting drabbles because shit be crazy rn and my schedule is FILLED TO THE BRIM... so we're going on a small little tiny hiatus. enjoy this drabble lovelies <3

this is a fluffy fic!! i'm too tired to write smut and i just needed this rn 😭

⋆★⋆ human furnace ⋆★⋆

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: dream a little dream of me by the mamas and the papas (3:14)

You were naturally cold, always wearing multiple layers even when it's reasonably warm outside, a blanket always wrapped around you and the heater cranked so high - but that soon backfired on you.

It was the middle of winter, it was actively snowing outside - the streets being flooded with white snow upon parked cars and the side of the icey street outside your apartment. The problem was:

Your heater was broken.

There was nothing you could do about it, you had no mechanical skills and in a way you would make it worse than what it already was. Every mechanical service was down or busy for the holidays, so you just had to sit in your kitchen - using your oven as a makeshift heater while you were drowning in jumpers and blankets.

That's when you heard your front door unlocked, that's when you dragged your phone out from the many layers on top of you - realising the time, the time that Bucky said he would be over to deal with some work with you and just.. hang out? His text messages are confusing sometimes, but you couldn't expect much from the guy who was born during the 1910's.

And that guy was very much in your apartment now, and you're sitting on the floor in your kitchen like some idiot - you pushed the blankets off of you, creating a lump of fabric in the corner of your kitchen as you quickly checked your reflection in the window above your sink, running into your living room and Bucky was there, taking off his jacket and scarf that was covered lightly in snow. He took note of your shivering and the sheer amount of sweaters and hoodies you had on.

"It looks like you just went into a snow storm y'know." "My body is my own personal snow storm." "Mm.." He just simply hummed at that, placing his messenger bag on your couch before he walked over to you - wrapping his arms around you, his warmth surrounding you.

You weren't particularly expecting to do this, or for him to be this warm. You knew he was naturally warm, from light accidental touches or him placing a hand on the back of your chair instinctively. You silently thanked the super-soldier serum that most likely made him the human furnace that he is.

You leaned into his warmth instinctively, wrapping your arms around him in return after a moment. "You're freezing." "I thought you knew that." "I do now.. it finally makes sense why you're wearing jumpers even in summer." You'd pull back from him, his hand resting loosely around your waist. "My heater is shot, had to resort to desperate things." You tilted your head towards the kitchen in a gesture of the blankets on the ground. "Heater's shot?" He raised a brow at you. "Mhm." "Get yourself some tea.. or just-- something, I guess. I'll fix it." "Buck-- you don't have to." "If it means that I won't have to see you shivering all the time, I'll happily do it."

You eventually returned with a cup of tea, the heat from the mug cupped in your hand slowly warming it up from the cold. In the otherhand, a metal box hopefully containing all the tools that Bucky can do to fix your heater.

He took it from you with a simple "Thanks", you watched him tinker with the machine for awhile - it was definitely a sight you could get used to, your hand keeping your head up as you lean against the arm chair of your couch that let you have the perfect view of Bucky. You felt so warm from his presence it almost cured your temperature dilemma.

After a short while, the familiar humming of the heater started up again. Bucky stood up, closing the box of tools - setting it on the coffee table next you. The soft clang bringing you out of your thoughts. "All done." He sat down beside you, a short sigh coming from his lips as he sat. You looked over to him muttering a "Thank you.", a desperate plea in your eyes for him to hold you close again. He looked at you, a small grin forming on his face as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders pulling you closer to him.

You rested your head on his chest, nuzzling into him a little bit more. His hand that was wrapped around your shoulder was now playing with your hair a small amount, almost as it was normal for him to.

You've been working on the heater since the early hours of the morning, it driving you out of your sleep - so it wasnt a surprise for you to slowly fall asleep against the warmth of the man that was Bucky Barnes.

As he heard your soft breaths, he grabbed the blanket wrapped over the couch that was nonetheless a result of your attempt at keeping yourself warm and draped it over you - placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head. Holding you forever closer as he heard the rain slowly fall outside. He could get used to this too.

[pricegouge]

cellar door

cw: f!reader, implied skinny/fit, sorry. had to go through a window :( horror elements. you've got a live-in.

fucking tuesdays. nothing good ever happens on a tuesday.

hit snooze too many times, found the eggs had gone off only as you were making breakfast, burnt the coffee. you throw in the towel a whole twenty minutes after waking up and dump all your progress, deciding you'll risk being late for work just so you can stop by some place quick and get a breakfast that isn't actively trying to eat you back. you're checking your balance as you walk out the door, distracted by the forgotten subscription renewal that had gone through the night before. fuck, maybe you should skip breakfast after all -?

and then the car door doesn't give when you try the handle.

"oh, get bent," you hiss through gritted teeth as you try it again, futilely. head tilted back to stare up at the cold, dark sky, pulling at the handle in frustration. once for each of the pale white winter morning stars still glinting away.

it's too damn early for this.

you know yourself too well to even bother checking your coat pockets for your keys, but you do anyway out of desperation. as expected, you come out empty and for a moment you just stand there with your forehead thumped against the door frame while you picture yourself walking out the back door, nose stuck in your phone as you bypass the key holder without so much as a parting glance. you locked the door behind yourself - you know you did, but you try it anyway just to be sure. wouldn't do to pull your landlord out of bed just to have him show up and try the knob, call you an idiot before the sun's even out.

of all the stupid shit you've already pulled this morning, you wouldn't put it past yourself, honestly, but of course securing your house was the one thing you'd managed to complete successfully.

your boss is understanding when you text her. 'take your time. and stay warm!' a point you hadn't considered until she said it, the chill seeping in through the seams of your coat as you stand on your back porch, debating. if you could at least get into your car, you'd have options. potential tools you could maybe use to break in. but as it stands, you've nothing, and a call to your vaguely lecherous landlord is seeming more and more imminent. snow crunches under boot as you round the house, desperate. you'd be proud of how diligent you've been in locking windows, if not for the fact that you could really use an open one right about now. giving in, you pull your phone from your pocket again and grumble when you drop it, fingers gone numb with the chill. crouching low, you dig it out of the snow and check for pavement marks in the low light from the streetlamp across the road. except, your screen isn't the only glass the light catches - a dull glaze reflecting in the basement window before you, rickety casing looking quite promising.

your phone works well enough to use the flashlight, at least. you frown in distaste at the mess of cobwebs on the other side of the window, but between a creepy unfinished basement and an asshole landlord who spends just as much time leering at you as he does belittling your concerns, you'll try your luck with the slumbering spiders.

the panes hang crookedly. two panels, side by side. there's some concern about whether or not you'll even be able to fit through it if you can manage to get it open, but you give it a rough estimate and decide to try anyway - jimmying the first panel until it rocks forward in its soggy frame, enough so that you can squirm a stick between the two where they're latched together, loosely.

probably, you should be concerned how easy it is to knock the lock. you add it to the list of things your landlord will never fix for you.

while the soggy casing had made for an easy in, it's much harder to actually slide the window open. you grunt in effort, cold fingers cramping when you finally get enough space to slip them around the frame. the wood creaks. you worry for a moment that the pane will shatter before it gives an inch, and then nearly topple over when it opens all at once. the cobwebs beyond stretch and warp. snap, brittle with age. snow gives way before you, a small avalanche that collects on the dirt floor below. you're not overly familiar with the basement - have tried all your tenancy to avoid venturing into it - but you remember from the house tour that the north half, up near where the trap door in the front porch opens, at least boasts a cement slab. no such luck here, it seems. the frame digs into your belly when you shimmy through, feet first. there's a small moment of vertigo as you free fall and you can't help squirming in disgust when your hands trail down the slimy blocks that make up the walls. you wipe them off on your jeans as best you can before retrieving your phone from your pocket and throwing the hood of your coat up for an added layer of protection from the general grime.

your flashlight casts a tight circle, a problem seeing as you're slightly disoriented and unsure where the door to the stairway is. you aim it at the ceiling and cringe further into the protection of your coat when it reveals nothing more than a good few decade's worth of cobwebs built up between the beams.

concentrate. somewhere, there's a bare bulb with a pull chain. if you could just -

adrenaline piqued with the stress of your situation, you nearly jump out of your skin when your phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call. irrational anger mounting, you don't even spare a glance at the contact before snapping into the receiver, "Yeah?"

your frustration only builds when you're greeted by the gruff voice of your landlord, made all the more gravelly by the fact that he'd clearly just woken up. "you leave for work yet?"

"john…" the question catches you off guard, gives you pause as you stumble in your efforts to simultaneously use the flash light while also speaking with him. "pardon?"

"have you left for work yet?"

you'd take a deep, calming breath if the thought of inhaling this dank air didn't make you want to hurl, just a little. instead you take a moment to switch the call to speaker phone, move a little further into the room. "can't say i have. why do you ask?"

he grunts, sounding a little perturbed when he continues. "well. might recommend you do."

despite yourself, his presence on the line calms you down enough to brave the cobwebs and you slink forward, trying hard as you can to not process your surroundings even as you search for the door. "why's that?"

"neighbor called, love. said they just watched someone crawl through the basement window."

he gives it all the levity it deserves, but you can't help scoffing at him, nervous humor only building when you hear his jaw clenching on the other end of the line. "sorry. i don't mean to laugh." you pause to collect yourself, take a look around and find your route out. "but i wouldn't worry too much. i locked myself out and decided to try the window instead of bothering you first thing in the morning." a fairly diplomatic way of saying you'd rather navigate the saw bathroom that is your own cellar than deal with him. not too bad, all things considered.

"oh, darl', it's no trouble. climb on back outta that creepy basement and i'll be right over."

for a moment you picture him the way he must see himself: riding up in his battered yet dependable pick up just to save you from the cold. hard telling what makes your stomach turn more, him or the mud which gives under your boot, soft belly of your house. you step up onto the cement slab just as a series of thuds overhead draw your attention - heavy enough to rain dust from the rafters. panda, you imagine, her wide haunches bunching as she thunders through the house, far too heavy for a cat. you should probably put her on a diet. "your house is haunted," you accuse instead by way of reply, eager to steer the conversation away from him coming to save you and rendering your whole excursion null.

"might be," he muses. "but don't fret, love. ghost likes pretty things like you."

"right." you'd roll your eyes if you weren't so busy focusing on your footsteps, picking your way carefully lest you step on a mouse carcass or something equally heinous.

"anyway, what's your plan? the inner door on the porch will be locked too, won't it?"

the one into the dining room, he means. the one you're definitely guilty of never locking because panda likes to spend her evenings in the entry and you don't see the harm when there's a perfectly functional locked door on the enclosed porch. "it's not," you hedge, unsure if you want to be telling your landlord this considering it's his property you're putting in danger.

"darl'," john drawls, and you cut him off before he can add a good reprimand to the list of things you've had to endure this morning.

"yes, it will be locked after this, i promise. i just didn't realize how easy it would be to come in through the basement window."

"always the easiest ones to go through," he grumbles, and you think you hear his car door slam in the background of his call.

"i told you not to bother coming," you groan, kicking over a stack of old paint cans in your haste to make it to the door. like it's a race, like if you make it into the house before he can get there then he won't make you even more late for work, loitering around to check for damages to his basement window and jawing at you about home security.

the door's an old thing. thick wood gone warped and wilted with the damp. it's swollen in its frame, fights you when you try to pull it from the jamb. you grunt loud enough that you don't quite catch your landlord's response, and then zone him out altogether as the door finally yanks free and light spills in from above, the trapdoor at the top of the stairs wide open, overhead porch light glowing cheerily - unawares of the omen it brings. you shuffle back a step, another, try to hide among the shadows of the cellar even as your landlord's deep voice carries on. your fingers scrabble over the screen, smother the unit in your coat - anything to keep his commanding voice from carrying because you know. you know you didn't leave the light on, much less the trap door open.

nonsensically, your thoughts scatter, imagine panda investigating the porch, the staircase below. your head swivels behind as if to check for her even as you keep slinking sideways, skirting the ring of light until your back presses against the grit of the wall - instinctual, easily defensible.

"john," you hiss, risking the light of your phone enough to take it back out, turn off the flashlight, take him off speaker phone, call for help. keep at it even as he carries on, much too loud to hear you.

"- and who would i be if i didn't come to help, hm? can't have you -."

"john! fuck -! listen to me!" you're not even sure he hears you, quiet as you're being. he certainly doesn't stop droning on, though he stops when he hears you squeak, foot catching on something low and soft which pillows your fall when you collapse onto it, cold blankets enveloping you, damp and sweaty.

you gag as you roll, stop dead when another series of thuds echo over head. other direction now, back the way they'd come. your eyes track the path, land on the halo of light spilling through the door just as the intruder's shadow cuts across, impossibly big with the exaggerated angle. without the added light from your phone, you're plunged into relative darkness, the small circle of thin amber light ringing the door scattered by the severe contour of the man upstairs. there's nowhere to hide, really, and your only option is to keep slinking back into the recesses of the basement, too afraid to try scurrying back out the window lest he sees your legs kicking as you try to heave yourself out.

boots lumber into view first, heavy and mud-caked. instinctively, your eyes fall to the dirt you're treading over and seek out the treads. broad, huge. deep scores indicating how heavy he is, how many times he's worn a path into the ground. among them you spot tiny paw prints, almost as disturbing. panda follows after, bobbing into view as she weaves between his legs with a silent cry for attention until she detects you, golden eyes glinting ominously as she scans the basement before leading him in, making a beeline for you the moment she alights on the landing.

traitor.

he's not far behind, ducking through the door while you try to shoo your own car. you force your limbs to move and slide further along the wall, folding under the empty, built-in shelf your shoulder bumps into as you go. it's filthy, cobwebs clinging to the skin of your face as you settle, but you clamp a hand over your mouth and stifle the whimper that builds, ears strained for any movement in the darkness laid out before you.

john's still in your ear, quieter now. as if he knows something isn't right. "sweetheart?" he prompts, and you feel a tear slip down your face when you realize that despite taking him off speaker phone, you'd never turned the volume down. your thumb finds the side buttons now, clicks until john's breathing is no more than a comforting whisper, no louder than your own.

no louder than the response you risk, voice hollow, only really audible on the plosives. "john, there's someone here."

"what's that, darl'?"

your breath hitches before you can respond, the low click and hum of a bare bulb flickering to life leeching your words. it floods the room in fits and starts, turns the man's movements jagged and inhuman as he lowers his arm back to his side until finally it settles into a constant, thin and yellow. he stands directly below the bulb, the shadows of his face severe and gaunt, an odd contrast to his broad stature. for a long moment, he just lingers there, dark gaze shifting slowly around the room. you follow it, try to see what he sees, figure out if there's anything that could give you away.

you don't make it that far, eyes catching on all the accoutrement that lines the walls. bed, stool. small pile of familiar books.

a cat litter box.

disinterested in you when you're not giving her treats or pets, the moment shatters as panda returns to him, headbutting his boots cheerily and begging for pets. he crouches to pick her up and she climbs onto his shoulder with a familiarity that unsettles you further, speaks to how long he's been spending his days with her. she doesn't move when he does, enjoys her high vantage as he cuts across the room, boots squelching in the dirt. he passes by you on his way to the window and shuts it easily, warped wood barely giving him any trouble. in the muted light from the window, you see the odd shadows of his face which you'd noted before are simply the hollows of a skull motif on the balaclava he wears.

"darlin', you still there?"

but you're not, boots tearing up the mud as you scramble out from your hiding place. panda follows you, the familiar heavy thud of her paws when she jumps from her perch a comfort. she passes you on the stairs even as you take them two at a time, chest puffing with the steep incline. at the top you turn and slam the trapdoor down, the white of his mask all you can see peering up at you from the darkness before the door falls into place. there's nothing on the porch heavy enough to brace it, but you try anyway, pulling the cheap patio set closer and shepherding panda through the inner door in the same move, the little shit apparently more afraid of you and your erratic movements than she was the basement dweller with the skull mask.

you lock the inner door after you fall through it, watch in horror through the transom as the furniture heaves, a powerful quake that tosses them to the side before the door creeps open, hollow eyes checking for a trap before heavy, gloved fingers wrap around it properly, push it wide.

impossibly, he seems even bigger here, above ground, where you have a better gauge of normalcy. he eclipses the whole room, blots out the overhead light when he looms closer to the door, dark eye pressed against the pane so he can peer through a fractal in the glass, same as you'd just been. you back further into the dining room, bump against the table just as you feel his gaze on you. it distracts you from the sound of the key in the lock, the creak of the hinges what finally compels you to fucking run.

keys in hand this time, you book it out the back door and slam head first into a sturdy chest, legs flailing under you until john helps right you, fingers bruising hard on your arms as he tries to shush you into submission. he won't let you go no matter how much you shriek, just pulls you to his chest and smothers your cries there, orders you to tell him what's wrong even as he walks you back up the stairs.

somehow, between your shouting and your panting and your sobbing, he gets it: man down there; living there.

"oh, honey, that's just your ghost," he soothes, wrangling you through the screen door with a grip on your jaw which he uses to tilt your head the intruder's way, makes you watch as he lumbers closer, john's voice a low scratch of whiskers against your ear. "told you he liked you."

[bunnyyyuu]

includes: f! reader, aged up! yuuta + maki, lesbian fetishizing, jerking it, car sex, spanking, strap on, cunnilingus, 69 (mentioned), pervy yuuta kinda

yuuta is really happy for you and maki! he really is.

he’s a huge sweetheart, extremely supportive. anytime you two post one another on your instagram stories with whatever romance song is currently trending, he’s the first to like and reply to it. he’s always saying something about how cute you two are. on your anniversaries—whether it be three months or your two years—he’s texting both of you at midnight a loving “happy anniversary! i'm so happy for u two :) the cutest couple ever”. and he really does mean all that stuff, really.

but yuuta would be lying to himself he said that he wasn't using his unrelenting support for your relationship as a way to soothe his guilt. because he does feel bad about it.

jerking off to his two best friends? how could shame not eat away at him, chomping at the very essence of his soul. he’s always prided himself on how much love and care he has for his friends, how could he do this?

unfortunately for him, though, the thought is just too addicting. so, he’s making up for it by being your number one fan.

his head is thrown back uncomfortably against the wood of his headboard, which would normally bother him if he wasn't so occupied with his leaking dick. he’s rubbing circles with his thumb over the slit, an impossible amount of pre just oozing out of the pretty pink tip.

yuuta’s always had such a vivid imagination and an almost photographic memory, tools that aided him greatly in these desperate nights.

he thinks about the goodbye kisses—though just fleeting pecks, really—you press against maki’s lips in his backseat when he’s dropping you off after a trio hang out. he insists that he’s not third wheeling, and he also insists that you and maki need to sit together in the back. he really doesn't mind sitting in the front alone, really. especially not when he can imagine you and maki in his backseat.

he thinks about you two making out: lewd moans slipping into each other's mouths, the gloss coating your puffy lips smearing across maki’s face, the way her hands crawl under your shirt and fondle your tits.

he thinks about maki’s mean hand slamming into your cunt as you soak the leather of his seats; not that he cares about those seats anyway. he thinks about the downright nasty sounds of your sopping pussy squelching around her fingers as she cruelly plunges them in and out and in and out.

he thinks about your squirt tainting his car, leaving a mess of the liquid all over. the smell of sex, of pussy, lingering in his vehicle for days.

he thinks about how maki hugs you from behind a lot. the way her calloused hands snake up from your ass to grab your hips with unnecessary force for a simple hug before wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling your back against her chest. though, even when you two think you're being sneaky, he notices—of course yuuta would notice that.

he thinks about her bending you over a counter or the edge of your bed. your skirt flipped up, panties no where to be found, as she leaves bright red hand prints all across your ass. she’d have some wicked grin on her face as you let out little ah! ah!’s everytime her palm made harsh contact with your butt, your legs behind you flailing. her free hand would be gripping your hip the same way she does in those hugs.

he thinks about that gleam in your eyes when you're watching maki train. it's not innocent, it's not admiration, it’s something much worse. the way you chew on ur bottom lip and cross your legs over one another, resting your elbow on your knee and chin on your fist. you're watching her like a hawk, pulling her into a hug once she’s all done and sweaty with a little “you did so good! you're so strong!” he sees you feel up her arms or her thighs after.

he thinks about how that strength translates into the bedroom. how she’d pin you down completely with no effort at all as she rams the strap in and out of your aching pussy. she’d have you crying out, begging for something, you’re not even sure what. she’d make you cum over and over until your cunt was sore, slapping you around and using you. he tightens his grip on his dick just a little, precum stickying his hand.

he thinks maybe it's the opposite. maybe all of maki’s brashness, the chip on her shoulder disappears once you're between her legs. lapping at her sex like it's your very last meal, spewing praises against her clit. she's moaning so softly, scarred legs shaking. she's on the verge of tears as you bring her to her upteenth orgasm. you pull away after far too long to mumble sweet nothings at her, your beautiful face absolutely soaked in her. god, yuuta would kill to see that.

he thinks about you two sixty-nining—

“shit,” he hisses out when his phone, placed carelessly in his mess of blankets dings. he scrambles with his free hand, the other still holding a vice grip on the base of his impossibly hard cock.

a text. from you.

“wanna come over? me and maki miss u”

pump! pump! pump! he stares at the text with bleary eyes before finally spilling his hot cum all over his hand, nodding frantically at your words on the screen.

he types back swiftly with his non cum soaked hand.

“ofc :)”

[frmisnow]

play pretend ! 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ nsfw.

the premise of being fuck buddies with your best friend, is hilarous.. and scary. but what if you start feeling more? it's just play pretend and sexual desires right?

warnings / includes — suggestive themes, heavy fwb, pomegranate metaphor for bloody love bc you can not stop me, bit of angst

you don't think you've ever needed something or someone as bad as you needed jungkook.

the sex was consuming, long lasting, always playing somewhere in the back of your head. you can't ever focus anymore. sometimes you wondered how it was to him, if he also felt rushed handprints of yours from last night still on his body, if he could still feel your mouth tracing over his neck, licking over his tip. weather he could still feel the fingernails digging into his skin, roughly like a promise. you were curious weather he also couldn't quite wash it off, no matter how many times he showered. all that was left to do, to fill the need, the growing void between your legs everytime he left, was meet him once more. and bury yourself into him.

you hoped that the fingernails digged into him so hard that it'd leave a mark, one that everyone who even dared to touch him in ways you did, would stumble across.

he loved tattoos, it was just another one, wasn't it?

and you firmly believe that you florish under his touch, that he makes you happier, in more ways the just the sexual.

you knew he didn't quite knew what love was but the way he held you after cleaning you up during one of his rougher times, makes you remember the warm feeling you last felt, years and years ago.

but that thought nonetheless, was utterly terrifying.

it's days like these, when he moans how bad he needs you, groans how much he 'fuckin' loves you' as he's chasing release, that your heart aches in a manner that hurt. you want to reach out for the nearest sharp tool next to the kitchen counter he takes you on, bare him your heart like a little pomegranate, so he could eat you whole and kiss you with the same red liquor staining his lips that was once flowing through your veins.

but you don't, because you don't want to scare him. he doesn't know you like this, and he shouldn't — vulnerable and blood soaked, that would be a terrible sight to feast upon.

“say it again,” you manage to gasp, as he spirals closer to the edge, his voice breaks, heavy with urgency. “i love you. god, i love you so much.”

you haven't talked since then.

days into weeks, and weeks turn into a month, no call, no seeing, no texting. you waited for it, for him but when he finally came thorugh it came as a surprise:

you had given him keys to your apartment a while back, before this whole.. thing even happened though he rarely used them. you didn't expect to see him, nursing on one of your old whiskey bottles, when you came home from work.

when he sees you, his mouth shapes into a tiny 'o' and he reaches forward to hug you, he smelled like the cigarettes he had promised to drop soon — or atleast that's what he said a month ago.

he doesn't pull back, his fingers digging into you in the exact same way you wanted to mark him always.

"i was stupid." is all that he whispers into your hair, burrying his nose in the slope of your neck as if he had missed the scent of you and wanted to firmly inhale your soul, you'd probably let him.

in a matter of seconds he drops onto his knees, the sound dull, echoing through the kitchen as he wrapped his arms around your waist tightly, "i was stupid to think that the whole 'no expectations' thing would work."

"jungk-"

yet he doesn't let you speak, looks up at you, and you don't think you've ever seen him so fragile. not even when you used to strip him out of his clothes was he so bare and seemingly at your mercy then he is now. you're sure if you could see his hands that were currently wrapped around you, you'd see a pomegranate of his very own that he would offer you in the following.

"i need you more then i've ever needed anyone." he sounds breathless, like just looking at you sucked all of the air out of his lungs, "i don't think i can live without you."

he shakes his head, "i can't even do a month without you. i see you everywhere, in every movie, i see you and me, in every piece of literature, i suddenly find you in every goddamn thing."

now is your turn to feel like you can't breathe, but you can manage to whisper the three words that have been coating your brain for so long before you get onto your knees as well, so you could kiss eachother and share the air that you've been missing.

two pomegranates turn into one, and you're the happiest you've ever been.

[foldingfittedsheets]

Sometime around 5am I felt my beloved get up. This wasn’t so unusual because when they have to open at work they’ll do that, and sometimes when they want to work out. I fell back asleep.

An indeterminate time later they gently caressed my arm to stir me. “Love?”

“Hmgh?”

“I smell a lot of smoke and it woke me up. Do you smell smoke?”

“No.”

Remembering my nose is stuffy they asked, “Can you smell right now?”

“No.” This was delivered with sullen finality. I hate talking when I’m trying to sleep, it wakes me up too much.

They went away again. I pulled their pillow over my head and tried to sleep more. A week or so ago I had also woken up to smoke at 4am and nothing bad happened. The smoke alarm never went off and I just decided the neighbors had fucked something up and smoked us out a bit.

I was starting to doze off when my beloved came back to inform me, “I called the fire department.”

This gave me some pause because I don’t think it would have ever occurred to me to call the fire department for an issue so clearly under their purview. I was reassured that they’d come look into it and I could sleep. I squished my beloveds pillow harder onto my head and turned up the bedroom air purifier.

My beloved returned, causing a very pitiful whine to erupt from me. “I’m sorry,” they said with every sincerity, “they need to come check in here.”

I sleepily processed this and realized because we sleep naked I was fully tits out with my ass in the air as I’d kicked blankets off. I tugged blankets up to cover me and my beloved tucked me in.

What happened next was the most surreal experience. Through the filtering haze of the pillow on my head and air blowing fiercely I could hear the murmur of deep voices. Around my bed I felt the footfalls of a heavy tread, random events joined the dissonant party, closet doors squeaking, sounds I couldn’t pinpoint. I was aware of the presence of strangers in my sanctum while my blankets were the only thing between them and my nakedness. In a sleep drunk haze it felt like being high, an experience so surreal I was only loosely tied to reality.

The voices faded. I felt the room wiggle the way it does when the front door closes downstairs. I shoved off my head pillow and texted my beloved to ask if everything was okay. They said yes, the firemen tools hadn’t registered anything and they were going to check with the neighbors and that my beloved emailed the property owners about the event. They apologized for waking me. I apologized for sounded mortally wounded and asked if they were coming back to bed and they said yes.

Eventually we got back to sleep.

[felikatze]

ISAT and Ludonarrative Harmony: Combat is a Storytelling Tool

Or: How Siffrin is stuck in the endgame grind, forever

Please Note: This is primarily aimed at an audience that already played In Stars and Time, because I am bad at explaining things, and it's good to already know what the fuck I'm talking about. I tend to only bring up game elements as I want to talk about them.

Spoilers for.... all of ISAT! Especially Act 5!

(image to show how i feel posting this and as an attention grabber over my wall of text)

To pull a definition of ludonarrative harmony out of a hat, game writer Lauryn Ash defines it as follows:

Ludonarrative harmony is when gameplay and story work together to create a meaningful and immersive experience. From a design implementation perspective, it is the synchronized interactions between in-game actions (mechanics) and in-world context (story).

It is, generally speaking, how well game mechanics work hand in hand with the story. I, personally, think ISAT is an absolute masterclass of it, so I want to take a look at how ISAT specifically uses its battle system to emphasize Siffrin's character arc and create organic story moments. I want you to keep this in mind when I talk here.

So, skills, right? If you've played any turn-based RPG, you know your Fire spells, your "BACKSLASH! AIRSLASH! BACKSLASH!" and the many ways to style those.

Well, what does casting "Fire" say about your character? Not all that much, does it? Perhaps you'll have typical divisions. The smart one is the mage, the big brawny one is your tank, the petite one's the healer. And that's the barebones of ISAT's main party, but it's much more than that.

Every character's style of combat tells you something about them. Odile, the Researcher, is the most well-travelled and knowledgable of the bunch. She's the one with the expertise to keep a cool head and analyze the enemy, yet also able to use all three of the Rock-Paper-Scissors craft types.

To reflect her analytical view of things, all her skill names are just descriptive, the closest to your most bog-standard RPG. "Slow IV" or "Paper III" serve well to describe their purpose. The high number of the skills gives the impression there were three other Slow skills beforehand - fitting, considering the party starts at level 45, about to head into the final dungeon. She's also the oldest, so she's the slowest of the bunch.

Isabea, the Fighter, has all his skills in exclamation points. "YOUR TURN!!!" "SO WEAK!!!" "SMASH!!!" they're straightforward, but excited. He's a purposefully cheerfull guy, so his skills revolve around cheering on his allies. He's absolutely pumped to be here, and you see that from his skill names alone.

Mirabelle, the Housemaiden, is an interesting case. She's by all means the true protagonist of this tale - She's the one "Chosen by the Change God," the only one who survived the King's first attack, the only one immune to his ability to freeze time, the only dual-craft type of the game - just a lot of things. And her skill names reflect that facade she puts on herself - she can do this, she can win! She has to believe it, or else she starts doubting. This is how you get "Jolly Round Rondo" and "Mega Sparkle Heal" or "Adorable Moving Cure." She's styled every bit a sailor scout shojo heroine, and her moveset replicates the naming conventions of "In the name of the moon, I'll punish you!"

Even Bonnie, the Kid, who can't be controlled in combat, has named craft skills. And they very much reflect that Bonnie is, well, a kid. "Wolf Speed Technique" or "Thousand Blows Technique" are very much the phrasings of a child who learned one complicated word and now wants to use it in everything to seem cooler than they are, which is none, because they're twelve.

Siffrin's skills are all puns.

You have an IMMEDIATE feel for personality here. Between "Knife to Meet You!" and "Too Cleaver by Half," you know Siffrin's the type to always crack a joke no matter the situation, slinging witticisms around to put Sonic the Hedgehog to shame. It's just such a clever way to establish character using a game mechanic as old as the entire history of RPGs.

This is only the baseline of the way the combat system feeds into the story, though.

The timeloop, of course, feeds into it. Siffrin is the only character who retains experience upon looping, whereas all other characters are reset to their base level and skills. And it sucks (affectionate).

You're extremely likely to battle more often the earlier in the game you are - after all, you need the experience (for now.) Every party member contributes, and Siffrin isn't all that strong on their own, since they focus on raw scissor type damage with the addition of one speed buff. (Of course it's a speed buff. They're a speedy fucker. Just look at him).

At first, the difference in level between Siffrin and the rest of the group is rather negligible. Just a level or two. Just a bit more speed and attack. And then Siffrin grows further and further apart. Siffrin keeps learning new skills. He gets a healing skill that doubles as an attack boost, taking away from both Mirabelle's and Isabeau's usefullness. He gets Craft skills of every type that even give you two jackpot points instead of one - thus obliterating Odile's niche. Siffrin turns into a one-person army capable of clearing most encounters all on their own.

Siffrin's combat progression is an exact mirror of story progression - as their experience inside the loops grows, they also grow further and further away from their party. The party seems... weaker, slower, clumsier. Always back at their starting point, just as all of their character arcs are reset each loop. Never advancing, always stagnant. And you have Siffrin as the comparison post right next to them.

I also want to point out here a change from Act 2 to Act 3 - Siffrin's battle portrait. He stops smiling.

Battles keep getting easier. This is true both for the reason that Siffrin keeps growing stronger even when all enemies stay the same, but also for the reason that you, the player, learn more about the battle system and the various encounters, until you've learned perfect boss clear strategies just from repetition. Have you ever watched a speedrunner play Pokemon? They've played this game so many times, they could do it blindfolded and sleeping. Your own knowledge and Siffrin's new strength work in tandem to trivialize the game's entire combat system as the game progresses.

(Is it still fun? Playing it over, and over, and over again? Is it?)

You and Siffrin are in sync, your experience making everything trivial.

As time goes on, Siffrin grows to care less and less about performing right for their party and more and more about going fast. A huge moment in his character is marked by the end of Act 3; because of story events I won't delve too deeply into, Siffrin has grown afraid of trying something new. And his options of escape are closing in. They need an answer, and they need it fast. He doesn't have the time or patience to dumb himself down, so you unlock one new skill.

It doesn't occur with level up, or with a quest, or anything at all. At the start of Act 4, it simply appears in Siffrin's Craft skills.

(Just attack.)

No pun. No joke. Just attack. Once you notice, the effect is immediate - here you have it, a clear sign of how jaded Siffrin has become, right at every encounter. And it's a damn good attack, too! The only available attack in the game that deals "massive" damage against all enemies. Because it doesn't add any jackpot points (at least, it's not supposed to), you set up a combo with everybody else, but Siffrin simply tears away at the enemy with wild abandon. Seperated from the rest of the party by the virtue of no longer needing to contribute to team attacks (most of the time. It's still useful if they do, though).

Once again, an aspect of the battle system enhances the degree of separation between Siffrin and the static characters of his play. You're incentivized to separate him, even.

Additionally, there are two more skills to learn. They're the only skills that replace previous skills. You only get them at extremely high levels, the latter of which I didn't even reach on both of my playthroughs.

The first, somewhere in the level 70 range, Rose Printed Glasses, a paper type craft skill, is replaced by Tear You Apart. It's still a pun about paper, but remarkedly more vicious.

The second is even more on the nose. At level 80, In A While, Rockodile!, a rock type craft skill, is replaced by the more powerful Rock Bottom.

I didn't get to level 80. If you do, you pretty much have to do it on purpose. You have to keep going much longer than necessary, as Siffrin is just done. And the last skill he learns is literally called Rock Bottom.

What do I even need to say, really.

Your party doesn't stay static forever, though.

By doing their hangout quests, side quests throughout the loops that result in Siffrin and the character having a heart to heart, all of them unlock what I'd call an "ultimate" skill. You know the type - the character achieved self-fulfillment, hit rank 10 on their confidant, maxed out their skill tree, and received a reward for their trouble.

These skills are massively useful. My favorite is Odile's - it makes one enemy weak to all Craft types for several turns, which basically allows you to invalidate the first and third boss, as well as just clown on the King, especially once Siffrin starts racking up damage.

But the thing is. In Act 3, when you first get them, yeah, they're useful. But... do you need them? After all, they're such a hassle to get. You need to do the whole character quest again, you can't loop forward in the House or you'll lose them. If you want to take these skills to the King, you need to commit. Go the full nine-yards and be nice to your friends and not die and not skip forward or skip back. Which is annoying, right?

Well, I sure did think so during Act 4. After all, a base level party can still defeat the King, just with a few more tricky pieces involved. Siffrin can oneshot almost all basic enemies by the time of Act 4. It's this exact evalutation that you, the player, go through everytime you return to Dormont. Do I want this skill, still? Would it not be faster to go on without it? I'm repeating myself, but that's the thing! That's what Siffrin is thinking, too!

I also want to take a quick moment to note, here - all skills gained from hangouts have art associated with them, which no other skills do. This feature, the nifty art, hammers home these as "special" skills, besides just how they're unlocked.

Siffrin also has one skill with associated art.

Yeah, you guessed it, it's (Just attack.)

At first, helping the characters is tied to a hefty in-game reward, but that reward loses its value, and in return devalues helping Siffrin's friends every loop. It's too tedious for a skill that'll make a boss go by one turn faster. You, the player, grow jaded with the battle system. Grinding experience isn't worth it, everybody's highest levels are already recorded. Fighting bosses isn't worth it, it's much faster to loop forward.

Isn't this what all endgame in video games looks like? You already beat the final boss, and now... what challenge is left? Is there a point to keep playing? Most games will have some post-game content. A superboss to test your skills against, but ISAT doesn't have any of that. You're forever left chasing to the post-game. That's the whole point - to escape the game.

As most games get more difficult as time passes, ISAT only gets easier. The game becomes disinterested in expanding its own mechanics just as I ran out of new things to fight after 100%-ing Kingdom Hearts 3. Every encounter becomes a simple game of "press button to win."

The final boss just takes that one up a notch.

Spoilers for Act 5 ahead boys!

In Act 5, Siffrin utterly loses it. His last possible hope for escape failed him, told him there's nothing she can do, and Siffrin is trapped for eternity. So of course, they go insane and run up the entire House without their party.

This just proves what you already knew - you dont need the party to proceed. Siffrin alone is strong enough. And here, Siffrin has entirely shed the facade of the jokester they used to be. Every single skill now follows the (Just attack.) naming conventions. Your skills are: (Paper.) (Rock.) (Scissors.) (Breathe.)

To the point. Not a moment wasted, because Siffrin can't take a moment longer of any of this. Additionally, his level is set to 99 and his equipment becomes fixed. You can't even pick up items anymore! Not that you needed them at this point anyway, right? Honestly, I never used any items besides the Salty Broth since Act 2, so I stopped picking items up a long time ago. Now you just literally can't.

Something I've not talked about until now - one of the main equipment types in this game are Memories, gained for completing subquests or specific interactions and events. They all by and large have little effects - make Odile's tonics heal more, or have Mirabelle cast a shield at the start of combat. For the hangout events, you also gain an associated memory that boosts the characters' stats by 30. It lets them keep up with Siffrin again! A fresh wind! Finally, your party members feel on par with you again!

...For a time. And just like that, they're irrelevant again, just as helping them gave Siffrin a brief moment of hope that the power of friendship could fix everything.

In Act 5, your memory is set to "Memory of Emptiness." It allows you to loop back in the middle of combat. You literally can't die anymore. Not that Siffrin could've died by this point in the first place, unless you forgot about the King's instant-kill attack. This one memory takes away the false pretense that combat ever had any stakes. Siffrin's level being set to 99 means even the scant exp you get is completely wasted on them. All stakes and benefits from combat have been removed. It has become utterly pointless.

Frustrating, right? It's an artistic frustration, though. It traps you right here in Siffrin's shoes, because he hates that all these blinding Sadnesses are still walking around just as much. It all inspires just a tiny fraction of that deep rolling anger Siffrin experiences here in the player.

And listen, it was cathartic, that one time Siffrin snapped and stabbed the tutorial Sadness, wasn't it? Because who enjoys sitting through the tutorial that often? Siffrin doesn't. I don't, either.

So, since combat is an useless obstacle now meant to inspire frustration, what do you do for a boss? You can't well make it a gameplay challenge now, no. The bosses of Act 5 are an emotional challenge: a painful wait.

First, Siffrin fights the King, alone. This is already nervewracking because of one factor - in every other run, you need Mirabelle's shield skill, or else you're scripted to die. You're actually forced to fight the King multiple times in Act 3, and have to do it at least once in Act 4, though you'll likely do it more. Point is: you know how this fight works.

You know Siffrin's fight is doomed from the outset, but all you can do is keep slinging attacks. Siffrin is enough of a powerhouse to take the King's HP down, what with the healing and buff skills they have now, not to even mention you can just go all in on damage and then loop back.

(And no matter which way you play it, whether you just loop or use strategically, it reflects on Siffrin, too. Has he grown callous enough not even death will stop their mission? Or does he still avoid pain, as much as he can?)

This fight still allows you the artifice of even that much choice, not that it matters. The other shoe drops eventually - Siffrin becomes slower, and slower. Unsettling, considering this game works on an Action Gauge system. You barely get turns anymore. The screen gets darker, and darker. Until Siffrin is frozen in time, just as you knew he had to be, because you know how this encounter works, know it can't be cleared without Mirabelle.

And, then, a void.

Siffrin awakens to nothingness. The only way to tell you've hit a wall is if Siffrin has no walking animation to match your button inputs. You walk, and walk, until you're approached by.... you. The next enemy encounter of the game, and Siffrin's absolute lowest point: Mal Du Pays.

Or, "Homesickness," in english. If you know the game, you know why it's named this, but that's not the point at the moment.

Thing is, where you could damage the King and are damaged in turn, giving you at least a proper combat experience, even if its doomed to fail, Mal Du Pays has no such thing.

You can attack. You can defend. But it is immune to all attacks. And in return, it does nothing. It's common, at least, for undefeatable enemies to be a "survive" challenge, but nope. The entire fight is "press button and wait." Except, remember the previous fight against the King? The entire time, you were waiting for the big instant death attack to drop. That feeling, at least for me, carried forward. I was incredibly on edge just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And, as is a pattern, Siffrin is, too. As Siffrin's attacks fail to connect, they start talking to Mal Du Pays.

But he gets no response, as you get no attacks to strategize around. The wait for anything to happen is utterly agonizing. You and Siffrin are both waiting for something to happen. This isn't a fight. It just pretends to be. It's an utter rugpull, because Siffrin was so undefeatable for most of Act 4 and all of Act 5 so far. It's kind of terrifying!

and it does. It finally does something. Ma Du Pays speaks, in the voice of Siffrin's friends, listing out their deepest fears. I think it's honestly fantastic. You're forced to just sit here and listen to Siffrin's deepest doubts, things you know the characters could not say because it references the timeloops they're all utterly unaware of. This is all Siffrin, talking to himself. And all you, all Siffrin, can do, is keep wailing away on the enemy to no effect whatsoever.

So of course this ends with Siffrin giving up. What else can you do?

And then Siffrin's friends show up and unfreeze them and it's all very cool yay. The pure narrative scenes aren't really the main focus but I want to point out here:

A) Mirabelle is in the first party slot here, referencing how she's the de facto protagonist, and Bonnie fills in the fourth slot left empty, which shows all characters uniting to save Siffrin

B) this is the only instance of the other party members having act specific battle icons: they're all smiling brightly, further pushed by the upbeat music

C) the reflecting shield Mirabelle uses to freeze the King uses a variation of her hangout skill cut in, marking it as her true "final" skill and giving the whole fight a more climatic feeling.

It's also a short gameplay sequence with Siffrin utterly uninvolved in the battle. You can't even see them onscreen. But... it feels warm, doesn't it? Everybody coming together. Siffrin doesn't have to fight anymore.

At last, the King is defeated. Siffrin and co. make for the Head Housemaiden, to have her look at Siffrin's sudden illness. Siffrin is utterly exhausted, famished, running a fever. And this isn't unexpected - after all, their skills in Act 5 had no cooldown. For context, instead of featuring any sort of MP system, all skills work on a cooldown basis, where a character can't use it for a certain number of turns. The lowest cooldown is actually Siffrin's Knife to Meet You, which has a cooldown of 1. In universe, this is reasoned as the characters needing a break from spamming craft in order to not exhaust themselves.

Siffrin's skills in Act 5 having no cooldown/being infinitely spammable isn't a sign of their strength - it's a sign that he refuses to let himself rest in order to rush through as fast as possible.

Moving on, Siffrin panics when seeing the Head Housemaiden, because seeing her means one thing: the end. Prior to this in the game, every single time you beat the King, the loop ends when you talk to the Head Housemaiden.

Reality breaks down, the whole shebang. It's here that Siffrin realizes - they don't want the loops to end, because the end of their journey means their family will leave, and he'll be alone again. The happiest time of his life will be over.

Siffrin goes totally ballistic, to say the least.

As it turns out (and was heavily foreshadowed narratively), Siffrin has been using Wish Craft to subconciously cause the timeloop because of their abandonment issues. It's rather predictable if you paid attention to literally anything, but it's extremely notable how heavily Siffrin is paralleled to the King, the antagonist they swore to kill by themself at the start of Act 5. The King wants to freeze Vaugarde in time because it is, in his mind, "perfect," for accepting him after he lost his home - a backstory he shares with Siffrin.

Siffrin has become the exact antagonist he swore to kill, and it's shown by how the next fight utterly flips everything on its head.

Siffrin is the final boss.

In a towering form made of stars, Siffrin looks down at their friends. His face is terrified, because of his internal conflict; he can't hurt his friends, but he can't let them go, either. The combat prompt is simply changed to "END IT!"

This fight is similar to the previous, in that you just need to wait a certain number of turns until its over. However, this time, it's not dreadful suspense. It's... confusion, and hesitance.

You have two options for combat: Attack your friends, or attack yourself.

And... you don't really want to do either, I think. I certainly don't. But what else can you do? It's Siffrin's desires clashing in full force. Attack your friends, and force them to stay? Or attack yourself, and let them go safely without you?

Worth noting, here - when you attack Siffrin's friends, you can't harm them. Isabeau will shield all attacks. And when you attack yourself, Mirabelle will heal you back to full. And the friends don't... do anything, either. How could they? Occasionally, Mirabelle heals you and Isabeau shouts words of motivation, but the main thing is...

(Your friends don't know what to do.)

None of them want to harm Siffrin. Both sides simply stare at each other, resolute in their conviction but unwilling to end it with violence. It's of note that this loop, the last one, is the only loop where the King isn't killed. Just frozen. And now here is Siffrin, clamoring for the same eternity the King was. Of course everything ends in a tearfilled conversation as Siffrin sees their friends won't leave him, even after the journey ends, but I still have to appreciate this moment.

Siffrin is directly put in the position with their friends as his enemies, forced to physically reckon that keeping them in this loop is an act of violence, against both their friends, and against himself.

It's a happy ending. But... what does it mean?

Of course, ISAT is obviously about the fear of change. Siffrin is afraid of the journey ending, and of being alone. However, ISAT is also a game about games. Siffrin is playing the same game, over and over, because it's comforting. It's familiar. It's nice, to know exactly what happens next. These characters might just be predictable lines of dialogue, but... they feel like friends. Have you ever played a game, loved it, put countless hours into it, but you never finished it? Because you just couldn't bear to see it end? For the characters to leave your life, for there to be a void in your heart where the game used to be?

After all, maybe it became part of your routine! You play the game every day, slowly chipping away at it for weeks at a time. For me, I beat ISAT in four days. It utterly consumed me during this time. I had 36 hours of playtime by the end. Yeah, in that week, I did not do much more than play ISAT.

And once i beat it, i beat it, again. I restarted the game to see the few scenes I missed, most specifically the secret boss I won't talk about here. I... couldn't let go of the game yet. I wanted to see every scrap I could. I still do. I'm writing this, in part because I still do. It's scary to let go.

Ever heard the joke term of "Postgame Depression?" It's when you just beat a game, and you're suddenly sad. Maybe because the ending affected you emotionally and you need to process the feelings it invoked, or you search for something that can now fill your time with it gone.

The game ends, for real this time, the last time you talk to the Head Housemaiden. But Siffrin gets... scared. What if everything loops back again? And so, his family offers to hold his hand. They face the end, together.

For all loops, including the ending, you never see what happens after. After they leave the loop for good. Because the loop is the game itself. It's asking you to trust that life goes on for these characters, and it holds your hand as it asks you to let go. There's a reason for Siffrin's theater metaphors. He is the actor, and the director, asking everyone to do it over one more time. He's a character within the game, and its player.

There's a reason I talked about endgame content. This, the way it all repeats, there's nothing new, difficulty and stakes bleed away as you snap the game over your knee - it's my copy of White 2 with two hundred hours in it. It's me playing Fire Emblem Awakening in under 3 hours while skipping every cutscene. Are you playing for the sake of play, for the sake of indulging in your memories, because you're afraid of the hole it'll leave when you stop?

Of note: the narrative never condemns Siffrin for unwittingly causing their own suffering. He's a victim of circumstance. It's seen as endearing, even, that Siffrin loves their friends to the point of rather seeing the world destroyed than them gone. But Siffrin is also told: we'll stay with you for now, but we'll part ways eventually. And one day, you'll have to be okay with it.

Stop draining the things you love of every ounce of enjoyment just because you're afraid of what happens next. I'm not saying to never play your favorite games again. Playing ISAT a second time, I still had a lot of fun! I saw so many new things I didn't before, and I enjoyed myself immensely, reading the same dialogue over and over. But... it makes me look at other games I love and still play, and makes me ask... is this still fun? Do I still need to play this game to enjoy it? Even writing this is an afterimage of my enjoyment, but it's a new way to interact with the game, to analyze it through this lens. Fuck, man, I write fanfiction. Look at me.

All of this, fanart, fanfic, analysis, is a way to prolong that enjoyment without making yourself suffer for it. Without just going through the motions of enjoyment without actually experiencing any. But one day, the thing you love won't be fun to talk and write and draw about. And it's okay. You'll have new things to love. I promise.

In the end.... I'm certain I'll replay ISAT one day. Between great writing, art, puzzles and unresolved mysteries, it's my shoe-in for game of the year.

But I won't replay it for quite some time. I've had enough, for now, so I let my love take other forms.

Siffrin is never condemned, because love is no evil. Be it love for another person, or for a game. And please, if you're overempathetic - it's still a game, at the end of the day. The great thing about games is that you can always boot them up again, no matter how long its been.

A circle within a circle indeed.

To summarize:

The repetitiveness of ISAT's combat, lack of new enemies, and Siffrin's ever increasing strength eventually allows you to snap the combat over your knee, rendering it irrelevant and boring. Though this may seem counterproductive at first, it perfectly mirrors how Siffrin has also grown bored with these repeated encounters and views them only as an obstacle to get past. The reflection of Siffrin's own tiredness with the player's annoyance increases the compassion the player has for Siffrin as a character.

Additionally, the endgame state of the combat system serves as commentary on the state of a favorite game played too often, much like how Siffrin has unwittingly trapped themself in the loop. Despite the game having no more challenge or content left to over, a player might return to their favorite game anyway, solely to try and recreate the early experience of actually having fun with it. This ties into ISAT's metanarrative about the fear of change and refusal to let go of comfort even when the object (here, your favorite video game) offering that comfort has become utterly bereft of any substance to actually engage with. Playing for the sake of playing, with no actual investment to keep going besides your own memories.

Later on, stripping away even the pretense of strategy for a "press button and wait" format of final bosses highlights the lack of options at Siffrin's disposal and truly forces the player into their shoes. Truly, the only way to win is to stop playing.

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae!! I wanted to request a story where doctor!Remus and you are dating. You're out with James and Sirius whilst he's at work and you pass out/are sick/whatever you think fits the story and they freak out and take you to the hospital, where Remus sees you and loses his mind. He takes care of you and the guys are there for moral support. Also, reader is afraid of doctors in general but specially needles so putting that IV on is a hassle in itself hehe.

Thanks in advance!!!!

Hi, thanks for requesting!

cw: fear of hospitals and needles, somewhat angsty, mention of vomit (in the past tense, if that helps), this was sort of weird to write because I don't usually write reader arguing with their love interest like this but I hope it came out okay

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You’re alerted to Remus’ arrival by Sirius’ shrill voice. 

“Finally! I’ve been texting you.” 

“We’re not really encouraged to be checking our phones during busy shifts,” says Remus. He sounds sharp and tired, and you look up from where your head rests on James’ shoulder just as he comes to a stop in front of your chair. A creased brow and gentle hands feeling at your forehead. “Hi, darling. Seems like that flu’s gotten a bit worse, hm?”

“You told us to check in on her,” Sirius goes on, “and we did, and we found her basically in a puddle of her own sick.” 

“She’d been sick in the toilet, and then fell asleep on the bathmat,” James clarifies. “But she seemed really very ill.” 

“Let’s go back,” Remus slides an arm around your waist, hoisting you up against his side and helping you walk towards the double doors that lead out of the waiting area. “What was her temp at when you found her?” 

“We don’t know.” Sirius trails behind, exasperated. “We couldn’t figure out where you kept your thermometer, and she was hardly in a state to say.” 

Remus makes a worried humming sound. “How are you feeling, dovey?”

“Tired,” you sigh, hoping you’re not leaning too hard against him but having a difficult time recalling what walking normally feels like, “‘nd my head hurts.” 

“She seems a bit better than when we first found her,” James says. You think you detect some worry in his tone as well. “She was just waking up then, and Sirius got her to drink some water in the car.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you’ve been taking very good care of yourself,” Remus murmurs, just for you. He kisses your head. “Poor love, I knew I shouldn’t have come to work today.” 

“M’alright,” you say, letting him help you onto a small cot in a curtained-off room. Sirius and James file in behind you, and Remus shuts the curtain once they’re inside. 

You look at him, and your surroundings, the machines and tools and the overwhelming harshness of it all, start to sink in for you. 

“Can you take me home?”

Remus’ expression is gentle. “Not yet, sweetheart. You should be feeling much better once I do, though, yeah?” He brushes a piece of hair away from your face, encouraging you to lie back on the pillow. “Would one of you want to hop up here with her?” he asks the other boys, then to you: “You don’t mind sharing your bed, do you?”

“No,” you say, somewhat bemusedly. Sirius grins at you, climbing over you to lie down by your side. 

“Thanks. I’m just gonna get your vitals now, dove.” 

You feel a bit silly, but your nerves worsen as Remus checks you over, sticking plasticy things in your ear and cold metal on your back and making his various concerned faces. He must notice something when he takes your pulse, because he thumbs over the skin of your forearm comfortingly. Sirius, noticing, works an arm under your shoulders and pulls you close to his side. 

“Alright,” Remus says in what you recognize to be his most soothing voice, “look at Sirius for me, please.” 

You, of course, look in the opposite direction of where he wants you, and he’s taking your arm, pushing up your sleeve. 

“Remus.” Betrayal sounds in your voice as you pull away from him, holding your arm close to your side. 

He sighs. “You need fluids and medicine to get better. You want to go home, yeah?” 

“I don’t want an IV,” you say in a tight voice. 

Remus softens. He rubs your leg through your pajama pants. “I know, babydove, but you need to have one. I’ll get it over with as quickly as I can.” 

“I had to have one last summer, when I got dehydrated,” James pipes up. He’s stolen a small stool likely meant for the doctor and is swiveling back and forth restlessly. “It wasn’t as bad as you might think. I hardly remembered it was there most of the time.” 

“I just don’t want to,” you say again, voice going quiet and frail. Your vision starts to blur. 

“Take a deep breath,” Remus coaches in that lulling voice. It’s half working, a familiar sort of comfort wrapping like a blanket around your frazzled nerves. You feel torn between your trust in your boyfriend and your absolute terror of everything that happens in a hospital. “You’re alright, yeah? This is the last thing you have to do for me. After, you can rest or have a nap, and when you’re well enough you can go home, okay? I might even be able to go with you.” 

You shake your head wordlessly, feeling ridiculous and childish but altogether petrified as you wipe tears from underneath your eyes. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” His brows pinch, and he leans over, kissing your temple. “You’ll be okay, I promise. Look over at Sirius, yeah?” 

You cry but don’t resist as Sirius uses the arm around your shoulders to turn your face away, feeling Remus take your arm in his grasp. His fingers press gently into the crook of your elbow. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sirius says quietly. He touches his lips to your forehead. “You’ve got this, babe, it’ll be over before you know it.” 

Remus is obviously doing his best to make good on this promise. He ties the tourniquet quickly, and something cold and wet swipes over your skin. The bite of the needle doesn’t come as a surprise, but you take in a tiny, petrified breath anyway. It rasps wetly in your throat. 

“You’re alright,” Remus murmurs, undoing the tourniquet as he speaks. “You’re doing so well, almost done now.” 

You’re not in pain, necessarily, but the sensation of a foreign object in your arm is distinctly unsettling, and Sirius makes a soft sound of distress when your weeping worsens. None of this is helping your headache, either. Your sinuses throb. 

“There.” You hear tape ripping, and then Remus is pressing it carefully over the spot in your arm. “There, done.” 

Sirius lets go of your face. The moment you turn around Remus’ is on you, brushing away your tears and kissing your hairline apologetically. 

“That’s it, darling, you can relax now. You did so well. Do you feel alright?” 

“He means are you cross with him,” James translates helpfully. 

Remus gives his friend an exasperated look, but his smile is sheepish. “That too, I suppose.” 

“Honestly?” Your voice is pitchy. It scratches against your flu-torn throat. “A little, but not really. I’ll get past it.” 

Remus gives a little laugh. “Oh, my love.” He bends forward, wrapping you up in a hug. “Thank you. I can live with that.” He holds the back of your head, rubbing between your shoulder blades firmly. When he lets you go, it’s with a kiss to your brow. “Sirius, get out of her bed. She needs to rest.” 

“Excuse me?” Sirius is affronted. “I think I’ve just proven I make an excellent pillow. And where am I supposed to sit? James has taken the only stool.” 

“He can stay,” you tell Remus. 

“Thank you, gorgeous. See? Jamie, come over here so we can watch a film on your phone.” 

Remus rolls his eyes, stepping aside to let James scoot by on his stool. “Fine, but try to get some actual sleep. I want your temperature down when I come back to check on you, yeah?” 

“You’re the doctor,” Sirius points out, getting cozy on his side of the bed as you and James scroll through films. “What’s she supposed to do, will it down? Sod off.” 

Remus heaves a long-suffering sigh, pulling off his gloves and dropping them in the trash can. “So glad you’re here.” 

“And where would your girl be if we weren’t, Rem?” asks James, looking up from his phone to raise his brows. “She’s lucky to have us.” 

Remus rolls his eyes, leaving the room. “Aren’t we all.”

[americas-ass-writing]

Bouquet

Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: Steve unveils a bouquet of secrets.

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: mentions of injuries, mentions of a hospital/ medbay, being soaked, I'm probably switching between tenses, probably more mistakes

A/M: this is a little birthday gift for the lovely @anika-ann 🩷 idk if you remember but we did have a little conversation about Steve using flower codes like this 🥰 I hope you enjoy!

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Dating Steve Rogers had it's perks. Like falling asleep in a warm embrace, endless treats because he felt like it, fresh flowers every Monday, surprise visits for lunch, the list goes on. But it certainly also had it's downsides. Waking up to an empty bed because he went on his morning run, waking up at 3am to an emergency callout, being alone and worrying while he's on a mission. Overall it was great though. You've never felt as loved before.

With Steve came his little disfunctionsl family that never failed to show up for you when Steve was out of town. May it be Tony bringing you a treat or Natasha inviting you for movie night or just going on a walk with Clint and Lucky. It was like you were part of their family and you're pretty sure you are.

The day started off like any other when Steve was out on a mission. You woke up to an empty bed, missing the heat Steve usually brought along throughout the night. By the time you finally convinced yourself to get up and ready for the day you usually already have a morning text from him. Every single one no matter how small or articulate brought a smile to your face. It meant he was safe and that was the most important thing. It also made you miss him more and often led to worry that it might have been the last morning text you'd ever receive from him.

Deciding you need to get ready to head to work you made your way to the bathroom and from there your day just turns south. The toothpaste you could swear was full last night was suddenly empty, the new fancy hair tool blowed out a fuse and your makeup just doesn't wanted to turn out the way you need it to. Cutting your losses you grabbed your lunch, shoved it in your work bag and headed out.

The way to work was not better. It was raining cats and dogs and on top of that storming so bad your umbrella didn't held a chance. You arrived at the office wet, cold and with a deep regret of not listening to Steve who told you to keep a change of clothes at work. Settled in at your desk you just had to vent about the morning you had. Steve always encouraged you to text him about everything, even if he couldn't answer right away. So you did just that before starting up your computer and trying to find the best position to stay out of the ac blasting air your way. You managed to get some tasks done despite your manager scrambling all the plans once again and soon found yourself taking out your lunch. The red container lid made you stop. Red was pre cut onions and garlic... Purple was your lunch. Your shoulders sacked as you opened the container and did indeed find onions and garlic chopped into cubes. Well this wouldn't suffice as lunch and it was still storming outside. What were you supposed to do? Maybe the break room had some leftovers you could grab if no one claimed them before you. Just as you were about to head there you spotted a familiar brunette at the reception. Her green eyes met yours as the receptionist points your way and her face lit up with a smile. Oh you were never happier to see Wanda strolling in for a lunch date than today!

The bag from your favourite sandwich place made your mouth water as you meet her halfway only to usher her back to your cubicle.

"You're wet!" Her concern made you remember that you where still in your now only a bit dryer clothes from this morning. As you explain the situation to her she frowns. "Well I've been shopping before this. You can change into the clothes I got so you won't get sick." Wanda's eyes are full of concern as she pulls some pieces out of a brown paper back. A pair of dark blue jeans, white sneakers and a nice blue sweater land in your hands before she ushers you off to the bathroom to change. You're so glad you share the same shoe size, the wet shoes bothered you the most. As you return she already has the sandwich, a softdrink and your favourite side set out for you, alongside her sandwich and a soup. The soup is quickly shared between you and your break is filled with laughter, reassurance that Steve will return in one piece and a warm hug goodbye. Wanda takes along your wet clothes, promising to dry them and leaves you with a new rain jacket she bought today because she thought it was pretty. As you go back to work, refueled and with your mind refreshed you never even think about the fact that you and Wanda don't share the same size.

During the second half of your shift you get a text informing you that the sent out team, alongside your beloved captain, is on their way back but that Steve is injured and probably needs surgery. They asked you to come in after you're done for the day so you're there when he wakes up. You spent the time left from your shift worrying about him and as soon as the clock strikes 4pm you're on your way out.

The rainjacket Wanda suplied you with comes in handy with the awful weather. Luckily you make it to the subway before the 5pm rush and board the line that stops closest to the tower. It takes you half an hour till you finally step into the lobby of the tower and rush to the elevator where your second favourite blonde is already waiting for you. Clint gives you a wave and an encouraging smile before he ushers you into the elevator. "He's fine. Already awake from surgery but still a bit loopy from whatever they pumped into him to make him sleep. Loverboy got shot when he went back in for hostages, you know how he is." Clint explains and hands you the cup he was holding. You know it's your favourite tea without even trying and thank you with a small smile. "He's stupid sometimes..." You attempt to joke and Clint gives you a smile and a nod.

"That he is. But he'll be fine. So throw those worries out and please enjoy him drugged up on anesthetic while it lasts. It's a rare opportunity." That is true. Normally his system burns through anything in minutes if not even seconds. The medbay team had been struggling for years till they finally figured something out that worked. And even that didn't stay long in Steve's body. You follow Clint to the room that your boyfriend is in and already hear the laughter of his best friends. Clint throws you an I-told-you-so smile before he leads you inside. Your eyes immediately fall on your boyfriend, bandaged up, with his hips awkwardly lifted as Bucky seemingly helps him get his underwear on, with the blanket hiding his modesty. Both Sam and Bucky are laughing but stop as soon as they see you. Bucky finishes what he's been doing and keeps his hand on Steve's chest to keep him from sitting up.

Your boyfriend immediately perks up when he sees you. "Sweetheart!" His goofy smile immediately falls into a deep frown when he takes you in. You step closer and cup his face softly. "Hey..." You say quietly but his frown is still in place. "You're sad..." He says it with such disappointment that you almost think he's gonna fight the entire world for you. "A bit yeah... I'm worried." You say and try to smooth out the frown on his forehead. He throws the arm that's not in a sling out to Bucky. "Buck! Give me my phone!" The order is barked a bit too loud. Everyone is confused for a moment. At the silence and lack of phone his eyes snap to Bucky with a venom you have never seen on your boyfriends face before. "Phone. Now." He barks so serious you almost ask yourself if the anesthetic already wore off. "Why?" Bucky asks, the confusion still on his face.

"She's sad! I need to send a code to Clint so he asks her to join him on a walk with Lucky!" He explains as if it's super obvious. You're confused... a code? To Clint? Your eyes wander from Steve, to Bucky over Sam and then to Clint. Bucky looks like he's mentally facepalming himself, Sam stands there as if his mother caught him doing something that's definitely forbidden and Clint hides his amusement behind his cup of coffee. "Steve. Clint is in the room with us." Bucky deadpans and Steve looks to Clint. He lights up a bit. "Oh good! Clint! Code hyacint!"

Clint chuckles and shakes his head, looking at you. He's enjoying the free show way too much after an exhausting mission. Steve's face grows angry but before he can snap at Clint you pull his attention to you. "Code hyacint? Steve what's that supposed to mean?" You ask and he just blinks at you.

"It means... That... I text that to Clint when you're sad. You like dogs and nature so I ask him to take you for a walk with Lucky." Your confusion melts away to adoration. That's so cute and considerate. You smile at him and press a kiss to his forehead.

"That's very kind of you Stevie. But I'd rather stay here and be with you at the moment. Is that okay?" You asks sweetly and he beams at you. "Yes! Do you need anything? I can text a code to someone else!" He offers with childlike excitement.

"There's... more than one?" You ask, your unsure gaze snaps at Bucky's stifled chuckle. "There's an entire bouquet." Sam grins, seemingly more comfortable with the situation now. You're confused once again. An entire bouquet? How many exactly where there?

"Don't be mad. I just don't want to lose you." Steve pouts at you. "Lose me? Steve that's insane you wouldn't lose me..." You're interrupted by a sob from your boyfriend.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me! You're my one shot at love! I'm sorry for going behind your back but when I'm not home I need all the help I can get!" Tears stream down his face as he grabs your hand a bit tighter as if you'd run away if he didn't.

"S...so I asked them to help me! I thought of scenarios and what could help you. And then I made up a flower code for it. Like when you told me about your morning and how your clothes were wet I texted Wanda code rain lily so she would bring you new clothes. Or last week when you were sad about that friend canceling your dinner I sent Nat code sunflower for a movie night and Tony code dandelion so he'd bring your favourite snacks." You try to wipe away the tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry! Will you forgive me?" His sobs break your heart.

"Stevie... There's nothing to forgive... Am I a bit disappointed your friends played along without telling me? Yeah. But you just did it out of the goodness of your heart." You coo and his tears slowly stop.

"We were forced!" Sam exclaims while Bucky chuckles. You look at them with an eyebrow raised before Clint gets your attention with his confession that he just did it so he could spend more time with you. Your heart melts a little at that.

After explaining everything a bit more, Sam and Bucky being banned from the room by Clint and Steve falling asleep again you sit nest to his bed and hold his hand. Clint sits on the opposite side of the bed and reads a report on his phone while sipping coffee. Steve's act of love and service still tumbles around your mind and you can't hold yourself back any longer.

"How many codes are there?" You ask. Clint looks over his phone to you. He seems to think if he should reveal even more about their system. "Several." He answers and lowers the phone. "It started with a few but as your relationship grew so did the codes. Some were brought up by Steve and others... we're brought up by us." You lift your eyebrows in surprise at that. You don't even need to ask before Clint continues. "Yes by us. We all really like you and when he's home Steve really hogs all of your time. So it became a little competition who would get to spend time with you when he wasn't around. Wanda started it. She came up with the code to bring you new clothes... Which she did today. Tony quickly caught on what she was doing and showed Steve ten more scenarios that could happen." You chuckle at that.

"How did you keep up with all that? A list?" Your eyes wander to Steve's sleeping form. He truly is the perfect partner. How could anyone be as considerate as him? Get all his friends to go along with it so he wouldn't lose you? He would never have even without them. And his friends loving you so much they'd want to spend time with you? Your heart fills with warmth and happiness at the thought alone. And to think you'd been nervous that they wouldn't like you.

"Yeah. We have a list and we had a whole briefing." You laugh at that and Clint smiles. "He was all captain mode. He's very serious about you... Even our reassurance that you wouldn't leave him didn't calm him down." You softly start to brush your thumb over the back of Steve's hand that you're holding. "Well don't tell him or anyone else that you were right... I would never leave him. Especially not when he has such a big heart." Clint laughs and shakes his head. He pulls out his phone again and smirks at you. You know there's no promise that he'll keep that a secret but at least he won't tease Steve with it.