#chapter 5: atrophy

[rallentando1011]

Somnambulant Soulmates (rise Donnie x gn reader)

Chapter Warning : threats, self-neglect

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Word Count: 1859

The saccharine savor of saturated soda.

A coppery taste laid pungent on your tongue.

A birthday party.

Concrete but harshly into your skin, the pavement cold, harsh.

Flashes of movie nights and spontaneous excursions and too many late nights spent in a lab and unmistakable looks of betrayal.

Your head was plagued by a dull, throbbing pain, extremities felt all-but-atrophied, throat scratchy with dehydration-

You coughed.

If the resulting thick cloud of dust and dirt beside your head didn’t clue you in, the unsavory feel of the - floor? - ground certainly revealed that you weren’t at home, in the lair, anywhere familiar, for that matter.

It took genuine effort to open your eyes. But despite the difficulty of it-

Wait, where were you?

You blinked rapidly; your vision and mind became increasingly more lucid as you processed - this genuinely wasn’t home or the lair or any place you’d seen in your entire life.

Panic was the worst thing you could do. It was also the easiest.

Worry settled in the pit of your stomach, but instead of allowing whatever sparse contents of your intestines to spill over the silt-like ground, you swallowed, pushed yourself up on aching limbs, surveyed the dim room you inhabited.

The walls consisted of thick concrete blocks, dusty, drab, barren. A small divet in the wall revealed an exposed bathroom of sorts, though its contents were rudimentary at best: a toilet with the complexity and basic mechanics of a chamber pot, a rusty faucet and a drain. There was almost no light, save for the only miniscule source of light a barred cell window on the door.

Door.

Before you could process it, you were upon the door, pushing and pulling in the off chance it was unlocked and you could go scot-free.

It wasn’t.

Okay, time to try something else.

Looking around the room for anything useful sounded promising. It was at least something to do.

You trailed the perimeter like a hyper animal, searching for vulnerabilities or secret levers or buttons or anything that could be of use. The best you could find were sharp pebbles and stones which, okay, in a pinch those might be able to injure or distract someone. Not the best resource but, either to feel more secure or out of genuine regard for the rocks, you slipped them in your pocket.

Some sort of mental warning bell began to ring, a meager voice in the back of your signaling some sort of change or imminent threat.

You swung back around to face the door, your ears perked up, your arms prickled with goose-flesh.

A rhythmic clack sounded from outside the door, the sound vaguely reminiscent of how superintendents in a school stalked down the hallway to penalize a student, the footsteps intent, menacing.

The noise came to a halt in front of your door with an ominous click.

You looked out of the door’s window. The view was no longer just a bare hallway. Someone was there. No one other than the one responsible for your impromptu incarceration.

The spider.

Well, at the moment she didn’t quite look like the spider, down about four feet and a few inches and six legs.

In human form she was less physically daunting, but her predatory persona, wicked grin, not to mention her notorious track record, all classified her as a force to be reckoned with.

“Hello,” was all she said, smug and all too bubbly.

You scowled. Even with all of your ailments, you found quite enough energy to be upset.

“Why are you even here? To gloat?”

Her lack of response and never-changing predatory grin were enough of an answer to you.

You scoffed before she finally said something of substance.

“Big Mama always gets what she wants. That’s not what your confuzzled little mind should be concerning itself with.”

“Really? What pressing matter should have my attention then?”

“Oh, how jocular,” the woman snickered condescendingly. “Perhaps your own well being, hm? Or maybe the turtle’s?”

You clenched your jaw.

Big Mama seemed delighted.

“There exist strict lines between business and personal matters, and you seem to have tangled yourself up in that wobbly web. Frankly, I find scenarios such as yours to be positively scrumptious, and I can scarcely wait for it to unfold.

“After all the flim-flam and busywork and contracts are signed, it’ll be high time to rid myself of all the dispensable details, superfluous items such as yourself.”

“What?” you retracted, shrinking away from the door as if that could save you from whatever the arachnid was talking about.

Big Mama’s amusement as she turned away made it abundantly clear it wouldn’t.

“You broke your end of the deal; it’s null and void. It’s precisely what you’re soon to be: terminated.”

And with that, she walked away, the clicks and clacks of her steps doing nothing to help stop the sinking feeling of impending doom filling the cell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours had passed. And then a day. Two, maybe. It was easy to lose track of time in the lab, with the fluorescent lighting and the droning whir of machines and soul crushing sadness still thick in the air and whatnot. 

Donnie hadn’t drank. Hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten, save for a poptart Mikey’d brought him. Actually, the poptart may have been illusory…

But never mind that, he had more pressing matters to think about and/or actively try to ignore: his emotions.

Yeah. It was unbearable.

Betrayed wasn’t quite the word for what he was feeling, even though he certainly had been; you had to trust someone to be betrayed by them, and he wasn’t quite up to admitting(strike through) saying that yet.

Devastated might suffice. Destitute could also work. Deprived, depraved, despairing…

Okay, at that point his thoughts were merely for alliteration’s sake, not to mention rather pathetic, but that was beside the point. 

But in all honesty, it hurt. Some weird ping of pain in his chest, a dull, persistent ache that hadn’t fled since you left.

Closing himself in the lab proved unsuccessful in dealing with his emotions. Scrolling mindlessly on his phone failed to redress the issue as well. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to work on anything.

With his typical means of squandering emotions proven futile, he was forced to try to come to terms with them.

Ugh, emotions. Needlessly complex and complicatedly useless.

By then, he almost felt numb trying to understand how to feel. It’s just- spending immense amounts of time with somebody was, to put it briefly, extremely validating. Most people sought his company out of convenience or necessity, asking for something to be made or fixed or a crime to be thwarted or just dealing with him because he was part of a “package deal” with his siblings. It was exhausting.

Then you came along and seemed to genuinely want to hang out with him and let him explain his works and it felt good. It felt really good.

Just your presence, just that alone, assured him that some people, or at least one specific person, enjoyed him as he was, liked his company as-is.

Then you admitted it was all under false pretenses.

There it was: the classic feeling of triumph followed by a rug pull of his expectations.

It was devastating.

Welp, that was enough emotional struggle for the day. Helplessly, Donnie plopped his head back into his desk, not even moving to check if anything fell due to the rattle of the table his action caused, and closed his eyes in a restless break.

Suddenly, the whooshing sound of the door coming open startled him back to reality, slowly lifting his head from the cool metal.

Bouncy footsteps moved toward him and a familiar someone plopped in the chair beside him.

“Hey D, have you seen-”

“No, I have not,” Donnie answered April flatly, already knowing the subject - you. “I texted that earlier.”

April shook her phone for emphasis as she kicked her shoes up on the desk. “You didn’t reply. And you didn’t answer when I called.”

“Well. I’d intended to.”

“What’s going on, D?”

He crossed his arms, hugging his oversized hoodie closer to himself. “Nothing is ‘going on.’ Everything’s happy-go-lucky, sunshine and rainbows.”

They stared at each other blankly for a moment until April let out a ‘yeesh.’

“Someone’s in a mood. Did y’all get in a fight or something?”

“Like I said, everything’s fine. Must’ve just left for somewhere else inconspicuously after coming here.”

April deadpanned. “So it makes sense for someone just infatuated with you and who had lunch reservations with me today to drop off the face of the earth?”

“It’s not infatuation! Whatever we have- had, was nothing. I meant nothing.”

A gentle hand rested on his forearm. He shuddered. It retreated.

“So… you guys had a fight?”

“To some degree, yeah. And before you say it, it was not my fault.”

April looked unimpressed. Unconvinced. 

So Donnie said the only thing that could prove it: everything you had confessed the last time he saw you.

April listened quietly, pensively, solemnly. Eventually, she spoke up politely.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. None of that was right, legally or morally or in any way, and I’m not saying we have to forgive right now,” she took in a cautious breath, “but something bad could’ve happened, and we should look into that.”

Donnie furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

“Do you think Big Mama, organized crime boss Big Mama, is above kidnapping or blackmail?”

Huh. He hadn’t thought of that.

April continued. “Look, regardless of mistakes made and secrets kept, we shouldn’t abandon our,” Donnie shot her a testy look, “at least my, friend. We can talk about the whole feelings and deceit mumbo jumbo once we make sure everyone’s safe. And if everything’s fine, you can at least get some closure?”

Donnie pouted for one, two, three seconds before sighing.

“Fine. Why don’t you go fetch the ruffians so they can get caught up on the sitch?”

“Sure thing.”

The moment April left the room to get his brothers, he whipped out his phone and pulled up one of his self-made applications.

Now, some may consider tracking locations without people knowing as immoral or illegal or whatever, but it proved more useful than not, right?

Unfortunately - fortunately? - he had your location and-

Oh.

That was odd.

According to his, highly accurate and precise, records, your location was the Nexus - he rolled his eyes until he saw when it was last updated.

Nearly a full 24 hours ago.

Donnie sucked in a breath through gritted teeth; that was not good.

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but April might’ve been right.

Something terrible happening was becoming more and more likely.

Quickly, the cogs and gears in his mind began to turn, devising a plan of action, just in case that anxious thought proved to be correct.

At least it would give him something to do. You were probably fine, anyway, even if he felt prickles of nerve-wracking dread down his spine, and it didn’t hurt to check.

Not that he cared anymore anyway. Definitely not.

(Taglist~

@rottmntsimp

@envyjmoney

@niphredil-14

@hamthepan

@valeave

@hahahhahananan

(I was right, I’m posting this from prom lol))

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #save rottmnt #save rise of the tmnt #unpause rottmnt #rottmnt donnie #unpause rise of the tmnt #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt fanart #rise season 3 #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt x reader #rise donatello x reader #rottmnt donnie x reader #donatello x reader #donnie x reader #donnie rottmnt #somnambulant soulmates #Soulmates #part 7

[lanitalay]

One Day : Chapter 5

Azriel x reader, based on the Netflix series by the same name

a/n: I haven't forgotten about AFAS but this one is so comforting to write. Also a master post for this series sis on my todo list I just haven;t gotten around to it.

warnings: canon typical mentions of violence, a lil fluff

Word count: 1.6k

Masterlist

You were sitting beside Elain as you had done every morning since the Archeron sisters had arrived at the Night Court. She was no better than yesterday or the day before that. She ate very little and she was almost fighting against breathing. You had never seen anything like it, her body perfectly healthy but her mind… you imagined she was filled with rage and sorrow and grief for her past life. Not that she gave you much of an indication.

Being with Elain was calming in a way, she didn’t move much. You encouraged her to change positions every so often so her muscles wouldn’t atrophy but that was it. Sometimes you thought that your friends assigned you to her because of how Azriel arrived from Hybern. How he was seconds away from death. How you could only say “but I just got you back” over and over as you and Madja worked on his wounds. How you didn’t sleep for days until his eyes opened. How flashes of his too pale skin would cause you to crumble because he looked like a corpse and if Azriel was gone… 

So you painted Elain’s nails,  braided her hair and told her stories of Feyre when she first arrived at the Night Court. You reassured her that she would be back soon and that the three sisters would be safe in Velaris. 

Your favorite story to tell her was of how her sister freed the fae from Amarantha’s reign. How, because of her blood and kin, peace was within grasp. You told her how it felt when Amarantha died and magic returned and the sky at the Dawn Court glittered with the colors of the rainbow. How Thesan arrived at his palace and told everyone in his court of the brave girl who saved them. You told her that you had basically given up hope because if salvation lay in someone falling in love with Tamlin... 

“I only saw him once or twice during the reign but he was the most un-charismatic male I have ever met, we’re lucky Feyre has such a beautiful heart.” 

You didn’t tell her that when you returned to your cottage after the announcement and the initial euphoria there was a tall male with giant wings standing at your door. His head turning the instant a shadow told him you had arrived. 

“I thought maybe you moved.” 

You couldn’t tell her that you ran and wrapped your arms around him. The last fifty years had been an ocean and, just then, you finally found your lifeline. He hugged your shoulders, bringing his head to the crook of your neck and breathed in your unchanging scent. 

After minutes of the embrace that put your heart back together you pulled away and inspected his face. Perfect. He was absolutely perfect. “Az… you’re here.” 

He nodded and grabbed your hands, noticing the way his thumb brushed over your ring finger. 

“Rhys is back home… and I had to make sure you were…” 

“I’m fine, the last five decades have been hell, but I’m fine. What about you?”

“I’ve wanted to say I’m sorry for so long, what I said that day-” 

“I know. You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I do. I was jealous and foolish and it has haunted me ever since.” 

“It’s alright Az, I just… I’m so happy you’re here.” 

The version of events Elain got was “once Thesan returned I knew someone would come for me.” 

You told her how Feyre also had a difficult time with being turned fae, that it was fine for her to take her time to heal. 

After lunch there would be a knock on the door. Sometimes it would be Nesta, sometimes Madja, sometimes Rhys but today it was Azriel. He had made a complete recovery and would often keep you company while you were with Elain. 

He handed you a bouquet of flowers. “Happy anniversary.” 

You felt your cheeks redden at the gesture. “You know it’s not until tomorrow.” 

“I felt like starting the celebrations early, you know, to make up for lost time.” Rolled your eyes as he grabbed your free hand, “come on.” 

Just then Nesta walked into the room, a novel tucked under her arm. “I can stay, y/n, go on.”

“Where are we going?” You asked as Azriel picked you up and launched into the sky. 

“You’ll see in a few minutes.” 

You landed on a little cove by the Sidra. “I figured you needed a break from the house.” You nodded and sat on the shore, your feet just touching the water. Gentle waves lapping at your legs. He sat down next to you. 

“You never told me what actually happened with Lenus.” 

“We just stopped loving each other… and he cheated.”

Azriel looked like you had just said something ridiculous “Lenus cheated on you?”

A nod “yep.”

“Lenus, glasses Lenus? Lenus the scribe?” 

“She was also a scribe. Get this, I caught them in the library.” 

“No you did not.”

“I most certainly did. Anyways, after that I put everything of his in a box and threw it away. Haven’t heard from him since.” 

“If I ever see him again, I’ll kill him.” 

“You don’t have to kill him, just remind me to never date a scribe ever again, please.” 

“Noted.”  

“Have you ever dated someone in the last fifty years?”

“No.” 

“Really?” You raise a brow at him. 

“We had to keep the court running, I was busy.”

“Yeah, yeah… Az?” 

“Do you think you have a mate?” He looked up and thought about it. 

“I hope I do, but who knows.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” 

“Why?”

“Well I’ve been alive for so long and I haven’t felt it yet. But the Archerons were turned and immediately found theirs.” 

“But Rhys was over 500 when he met Feyre, so… there’s still hope. You’re what? 499? Still have one year to find them.” 

You splashed water on him “you’re so dumb sometimes.” 

You spent the rest of the day in the cove. But even the longest day of the year had to end so when the sun was setting, Azriel flew to your apartment. “Home sweet home.” He said as he put you down. 

“I haven’t been here in weeks, there’s nothing to eat.”

“Let's go to a restaurant then.” Azriel grabbed your hand and led you to a small place at the end of your street. You always came here when you wanted something with noodles. You were led by an employee to your usual table, a small booth near the back. Just big enough for Azriel to fit comfortably but hidden away from curious fae. 

You ordered what you always get and so did Azriel. While you waited for the food you took Azriel’s hand in yours, feeling his pulse, confirming it. “I still can’t believe you’re alive.”

That arrow was straight through his chest. 

“It’s going to take a lot more to kill me.” 

You lifted your gaze to meet his. His breath caught in his throat at the intensity, like a switch had flipped. “Promise me I’ll die first.” 

The air got thicker and Azriel’s wings tensed. “What?”

“I can’t watch you die Az, I- I won’t survive it. So just promise me I’ll die first.” He grabbed your hand with both of his. 

“It's ok. See? You patched me up good as new.” He wasn’t getting it. Tears began to pool in your eyes as you pleaded. 

“Azriel-” you said so low he could barely hear it “please…” He saw your chest heaving and  knew what was happening. So he pulled you next to him with both arms and made a shield with his wings and shadows. “Breathe, y/n. I’m right here. I’m right here.” 

You were sobbing now, clutching his leathers as if he would float away. He held you firm against his chest. His heart a little faster than normal, but steady. It was the greatest symphony and the most beautiful prose. You kept your ear pressed against his chest. He was mumbling “I’m here, I’m ok, It’s alright.” Over and over. 

You were back in your apartment now. Azriel had asked for the food to go and brought you back home. So now you sit on your couch, the food getting cold on the coffee table. Hugging your knees to your chest as Azriel draws circles on your back.  The crying stopped a while ago. The mortification on the other hand… You hid your face in your knees. “I’m embarrassed.” 

“Why? At least you didn’t have a panic attack in the middle of a one night stand.” He attempted to joke. 

“I always keep it together.”

“You don’t have to.” 

“It just- it keeps me awake at night, the arrow right through your chest. Your heart-” a gulp “I could feel your heart desperate for relief, the ash and the blood loss put so much of a strain on it- you didn’t see how close you were to being gone and- I close my eyes and I see you on that table limp and-” You hadn't spoken with him about any of this. He woke up and you were your usual self, if a bit sleep deprived. 

“I never thanked you” , his hands still drawing circles on your back,“thank you for healing me.”

“Anytime Az,” you lift your face from your knees and give him something that resembles a smile. With his thumb he brushes away a few tears and some strands of hair stuck on your face. “Are you hungry?”

You nod. 

“Then let's eat.”

#acosf #acowar #acotar #acofas #acomaf #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #rhysand #a court of silver flames #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #one day series #azriel x reader #azriel

[agentmarcuspike]

okay so as i’m getting back into writing fanfic i’ve also been getting back into reading it, and oh my god are there a lot of talented people out there. i’ve mainly been consuming joel miller and the last of us stories, and i wanted to share with you some that have really made an impression on me, or that i’ve thoroughly enjoyed. so here here are my march/april ficrecs!!

(dividers by @saradika​) (header by me)

« ATROPHY » @yeyinde

joel miller x f!reader, written in 3rd person, 10k words, angst with a side of poetic smut 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield.

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin.

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop.

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

i seriously read this twice in one day. what the hell.

« TENDER / AND WHAT’S LEFT »  @moondirti​

joel miller x f!reader, 4.3k, smut and angst and everything you could wish for

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronze at this time of day, you know you can't touch him to feel the sun.

But he looked tired, even in his sleep.

« MOMENTS »  @charnelhouse​

joel miller x f!reader, 2k, dangerous smut

You and your willingness to offer up your body because to have Joel at all feels akin to owning a panther.

You think you’d be happy being attached to him, growing out of him. Addicted to the way he feels in your cunt. You want him to infect you. You think that’s what your sex is like. Joel and you infect each other until the other burns away.

You can only allow him to take you, dragging you like a violent tide and hope he’ll bring you to shore.

honorable mentions, by the same author: «darlin’» and «teacups»

« adjustments » @softlyspector​

joel miller x f!reader, 9.4k, fluff (and a lil smut as a treat)

i DEVOURED this, and thank GOD there’s a sequel: «settled»

« for the things they hold dear » @cruelfvkingsummer​

joel miller x f!reader, age gap, smutty..., mean mean man

But everything that was ripped away from him had bloody, ragged claw marks on them.

“I found us a cabin up north.”

cruel summer (chapter 1-3) @proxima-writes​

joel miller x f!reader, no outbreak, age gap

🔨🏡😒👙

« SPEAKEASY » @toxicanonymity​

joel miller x f!reader, 1.5k, smut smutty smut smut

🤠🍻🗣🎯

« 2002 » @wheresarizona​

joel miller x f!reader, pre-outbreak, 900 words, sexy AND adorable

💑💖🛋☔️

« what he didn’t do » @pedgeitopascal​

joel miller x divorced!reader, pre-outbreak, 4.9k, SLOW BURN ♡

🔧👕🥃💋

« stay in bed » (chapters 1-8) @psychedelic-ink​

joel miller x f!reader, tommy miller x unrequited reader, sloooow burn 

👬💗💃🗽🖼

« one thing missing »  (part 1-4) @joelscruff​

joel miller x f!reader, 16k and counting, friends to... lovers?, ellie!!!

⛺️😴👨‍👩‍👧🐏

« a safe haven » (chapters 1-5) @pedgeitopascal​

joel miller x f!reader, jackson era, ellie makes a friend

🐎👨‍👧🍻💃🕺🏻

« close your eyes » @lovers-liability​

joel miller x f!reader, angst AND smut, all you need is love

🌲❤️👫🌲

i might be adding to this list, and also making another one once i have more! in the meantime check out my ficrec tag!

[lightandheatao3]

The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 11: The Bolt

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Chapter Summary: Spencer has a plan. Derek wants to talk.

Read chapter 11 on AO3 or under the cut. Please check AO3 for content warnings. All comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated <3 I would love to know what you like about the story :)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

He twisted the bolt, gripping it with all the meager strength he could muster. For the first time, he was truly glad that the others had refused to let his muscles atrophy into nothing, despite his protests.

His finger tips had developed calluses over the past five food delivery cycles since he’d started working the thick, entrenched bolt loose. It was spot welded, but water had dripped onto it and anointed it with blessed rust.

In stolen moments, when nobody was paying enough attention to wonder why he lingered just that little bit longer at the sink, he worked away at it.

Now, as they all slept, he gave it one final twist.

Then it was his.

The rusted, two inch long, half inch thick bolt sat in his palm looking entirely not worth the effort. It was brittle, but it had a surprisingly sharp edge on the bottom.

It was fine. It was good enough to serve its purpose.

Now, it was all about the timing.

The next delivery would be soon after they all woke up, if everything went to schedule. They had built their sleep cycle around it, so it resembled something like breakfast.

He had to make his move when he knew she’d be watching.

Quick enough that the others couldn’t stop him. Effective enough that she would have to intervene immediately, without having time to gas them.

A shuffling sound from somewhere to his left alerted him that one of the others was awake.

Just in time, he deftly slid the bolt into the hole he’d created in the elastic waistband of the scrub pants the Unsub had dressed him in. The years of practicing sleight of hand as a child had payed dividends throughout his adult life.

“What are you doing?” whispered a groggy Derek, leaning against the empty door frame of the tiny, prison-like bathroom.

“Just needed some water,” he whispered back. “Couldn’t sleep.”

It felt like they were meeting in the dead of night, like it should be dark. It reminded him of the whispered moments they used to have in dark motel rooms on cases when neither of them could keep the nightmares at bay.

Derek folded his arms over his chest. “I’m glad I got you alone for a second,” he said, glancing backwards to where the others soundly slept. “I want to talk to you.”

He sat down on the closed toilet lid like it was a chair. Spencer considered dodging past him, but instead he leaned back so he was sitting on the edge of the low sink. It almost felt like they had privacy.

“What’s up?” asked Spencer, like they’d just run into each other at the water cooler at work.

Whatever Derek had to say, hopefully he would get it over with quickly. He wanted to care, really. He did. But he had more important things to focus on than trying to conjure up his absentee feelings for a heart to heart.

“I just wanted to say… You know I love you, right?” he said, nudging Spencer's leg with his foot. “I know I’ve been kind of a dick, but it’s just because…” he looked out at the grey concrete and the solid steel door. “Well. You know.”

Spencer softened. Something close to sympathy crept its way through the invisible glass bubble that was separating him from the rest of them, and he almost felt it for real. “I know,” he said. “Me too.”

“Good,” said Derek. “Because I’m worried about you, pretty boy. You’re really freaking me out.”

Spencer stared at him blankly. “I think you have bigger things to worry about right now, man.”

Derek huffed. “Maybe. But I’ve got a bad feeling. I mean, none of us are really okay right now. I get that. I know I’m not. But you’re being weird, even for you. Do you realize you’ve stopped quoting statistics at us? You’ve been in the hospital recovering from gunshot wounds and still quoting stats at me,” he said. “I don’t like you being this quiet.”

“I don’t have any good statistics for this situation,” he said. “Do you really want to hear the chances of us being found alive after so long?”

“It’s not just that,” said Derek. “It’s like a part of you has shut off. I’m worried. I’ve seen you do some reckless, self-destructive shit over the years, especially when you get it into your head that it’s the only way to protect other people.”

Spencer’s mind raced. Could he tell what he was planning? What was he getting at?

“I’m fine,” he said. “I mean, not fine, but you don’t have to worry. It’s like you said, withdrawal has screwed up my neurotransmitter levels, and the lack of vitamin D and iron aren’t doing any of us any favors. But I’ll be okay once we get out of here,” he explained, trying his hardest to sound reassuring despite his complete inability to believe for a single second that he was ever going to be okay again.

Derek smiled tightly, straining to keep his voice light, even as his nails dug into his biceps. “I want to believe that, pretty boy, I really do. But the thing is, I think you were pretty fucked up before we ever woke up in this godforsaken bunker, and that you’ve probably been seriously depressed for a long time, because the thing is, happy people don’t do heroin. And I think if we get out of here, you fully intend to go right back to shooting up.”

He sounded like he was speaking to one of his kids. Spencer had been there once when his son had come home from kindergarten crying because another boy pushed him, and Derek had sounded exactly like this when he tried to talk his son through how to handle the situation.

“What’s your point?” he asked.

He hadn’t intended to sound petulant or sarcastic, but even he could hear how it came across.

Derek grit his teeth. When he spoke, he forgot to whisper. “My point, is if that’s the only future you’re capable of imagining for yourself right now, you might not be motivated to do everything in your power to keep yourself safe.”

Spencer stood up straight.

He knew. Derek knew.

“Whatever happens, Derek, you have to know that I am doing everything I can to get you out of here. To get all of us out,” he said calmly, stepping towards the doorway and the main room.

Derek put his arm across the exit, blocking him in.

“Give it to me, Spencer.”

"Give you what?" he shot back.

"Man, I saw you. You might be quick, but I know what to look for. Just hand it over."

The sound of the others stirring caught both of their attention. “What’s going on?” came JJ’s voice.

As soon as Derek turned his head, he took his shot.

He ducked under his arm and darted into the room, pressing himself against the corner farthest from the half-awake group.

Derek cursed and swung around to face him. The others scrambled to their feet.

“What’s going on?” repeated JJ urgently.

“You’re the one who said it first,” pointed out Spencer, still focused on Derek. “We need to do something extreme.”

“We doesn’t have to mean you, Spencer,” he said, stepping forward.

“Then who? You? I don’t have kids waiting for me to come home to them.”

Four sets of eyes widened in shock and comprehension.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” asked Emily, raising her hands and taking a step forward.

Faster than the rest of them could get to him, he pulled out the bolt, pressing the sharp, ragged end to his wrist. “Stay away!” he shouted.

JJ lunged for him. He pressed harder, ready to move, but Derek grabbed her and hauled her back.

“Everyone calm down!” yelled Derek.

“Spencer, what the fuck are you doing?” shouted Emily, who for the very first time since waking up in the bunker, looked like she was about to fall apart.

He glanced up at the camera. “I wanted to time this better,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Emily, I’m sorry,” he said, meeting her eyes.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” said Hotch, putting a hand on Emily’s shoulder and as she clasped her hands over her mouth and fought back tears. “This isn’t the way, Reid. We don’t even know if they’re watching.”

“No, but it’s close to the next delivery and she likes to time them for dramatic effect. Have you noticed that? I’m willing to bet she is watching. Besides, I’m on camera now. We won’t have another shot at this.”

Rossi raised his hands. “It doesn’t need to be you. I’m a lot older. I’ve got less on the line.”

“Nobody is doing anything,” said JJ furiously. “This is ridiculous! Don’t you fucking dare, Spencer, or I swear to god I will never forgive you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “There’s no time to discuss it.” He glanced up at the vent, afraid he had already waited too long. “This instrument is imprecise, but if I do it right I'll have three to five minutes. That number goes up if you put pressure on the wound. She won’t have time to knock you out if she wants to save me, so someone is going to be coming into this room. Be ready for it." He took a ragged, steadying breath. "She’s not going to let me die. It’s going to be alright.”

He shot one last guilty look at Emily. This was cruel on all of them, but after everything, it felt like it was cruelest on her.

“You promised me you wouldn’t do this to me,” she said through silent tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said one last time.

He pressed down on the bolt, driving the sharp edge into his wrist hard, and dragging it up his forearm in one swift and violent motion. No hesitation.

Somewhere, a vast distance away, he heard screaming.

He was utterly transfixed as dark, shining red came pouring out of his arm.

After a small eternity, there were people, grasping at him, pulling at his body. The waterfall on his arm was covered by a pair of strong, dark hands, holding his skin together like Atlas held the world.

Oh.

Oh.

There it was.

All those things he hadn’t been feeling, there it all was.

The edges of his vision darkened. All around him there was noise, but he couldn’t extrapolate meaning from any of it.

All that existed in the world was the unyielding, crushing hopelessness that came rushing into his body with every drop of blood that rushed out.

Had this unbearable, all encompassing sadness been with him the whole time?

He’d been telling himself the same thing that he told the rest of them. He was doing this because somebody had to.

He was doing it because he had the least to lose.

He didn’t really believe she’d let him die if she could help it, and if she couldn’t help it, then at least he’d given them a chance. It was a noble sacrifice.

“Hang on, Spencer,” came a voice from somewhere above him. “Just hold on.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

As consciousness slipped away from him, he finally understood that the awful truth.

He realized that he didn't really want to wake up.

#criminal minds fic #spencer reid angst #aaron hotchner #bau team #bau team as family #criminal minds evolution #criminal minds #emily prentiss #derek morgan #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds hurt/comfort #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fanfic

[disturbedbydesign]

Special Girl - Part 1

Summary: You arrived at Harvard as a shy, nerdy girl. You never thought a guy like Lloyd Hansen would notice you. But Lloyd saw you—really saw you—and for a time you became his special girl. Now, years later, you're stuck in a sexless marriage. Unloved and unfucked for months, you've decided enough is enough. The fact that Lloyd has been keeping tabs on you for years has nothing to do with it... or does it?

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Chapter WC: 5.6K

Warnings: DUBCON (alcohol use/manipulation); INCREDIBLY unsafe/unhealthy/deadass wrong BDSM practices (Lloyd doesn't do safewords or aftercare); plus-sized reader/fatphobia; cheating; degradation; bondage, spanking/whipping, gagging; knife kink; blood kink; CNC roleplay; gunplay; rough oral (m receiving); explicit sex (O,V,A); unprotected sex (Lloyd doesn't wear condoms, ok?); unwanted pregnancies/abortion; physical intimidation/abuse; general toxicity; Lloyd is a psycho and he's fucking mean—Dead Dove Do Not Eat! 18+ only, no minors.

Series Masterlist

Part One

Every day feels the same, and that sameness is going to kill you soon. It’s been killing you slowly for years, but today it ends—one way or another. Six months, you’d told yourself. Six more months and you’re done.

You wake up next to the man you call your husband but he feels like a stranger to you. He grumbles as he throws the covers off and rips open the curtains, shoving his boxers down and kicking them into the corner instead of placing them in the hamper like you’d asked him more times than you can count. He showers with the door open, and the sight of his naked body makes you angry. He hasn’t fucked you in 5 months and 29 days, and you almost tell him, “Today’s your last chance, Michael,” but you don’t. You won’t beg for it. Not anymore. He has to want you.

Your 6-year-old son whines and struggles as you try to get him ready for school. Harrison hates school and he hates you for making him go there. You cook their breakfast and pack their lunches while they eat. When they’re done, you pour Dunkin breakfast blend into a crimson travel mug with the Harvard seal emblazoned on it, add just the right amount of 2% milk to turn it from black to caramel, and hand it to your husband. He thanks you with a kiss on the forehead—never the lips—and then leaves for his bright shiny law office in McLean.

You were going to be a lawyer once. You and Michael met at Harvard Law, and you both had the same idealistic dreams back then—you wanted to do immigration law, he wanted to work for the Innocence Project—but then you got pregnant and the smell of money wafting off the white-shoe firms was too tempting for Michael to pass up. You told yourself you’d go back to work once Harrison was older, that you wanted to be a hands-on mom for the first few years of his life, but you knew even then it was a lie you told yourself and everyone else. Seven years at Harvard, all that money and time and hard work, and for what? Washing skidmarked underwear and making PB&J with the crusts cut off.

What a fucking waste. You can hear it in his voice—that gleeful sneering tone that makes your blood run hot. So disappointing, Porkchop. So ordinary. So boring. I thought you wanted more than this. I thought you were special.

But Michael likes you at home. He likes a clean house and a hot meal and a child raised by its mother. He likes that your brain has atrophied in this endless cycle of cook-clean-chauffeur-shop, that you’re no longer smarter than him, that you rely on him for money even though you should be making six figures right now, too. He likes the big, beautiful house in the D.C. suburbs, the senators and lobbyist neighbors, the private schools and the fancy cars. He likes to answer for you when people at dinner parties and cocktail hours ask you what you do for a living: “Oh, she doesn’t work.”

You still don’t know what you did to make him hate you so much. (Actually, you do know, but Michael doesn’t.) It’s not even hate, though—it’s worse, it’s indifference. In some ways it’s so much crueler. At least with hatred, there’s some passion behind it. If you hate someone, it means a part of you still cares, still wants to love them—that maybe a part of you still does. You of all people would know.

You don’t hate Michael; you hate yourself for choosing this life with him—this boring, ordinary life—when you could have had something more. Maybe not what you wanted, who you wanted, but being hurt by him would have felt better than the endless parade of nothing you feel now. Did you ever love Michael? You think you must have at some point but you can’t remember why. Was it because he showed you that love didn’t have to hurt, that you could be more than someone’s dirty little secret? It’s been so long since you felt that way, though. Maybe it’s just another lie you tell yourself. 

You drive your son to school and he makes a scene at drop-off, begging you to take him back home. When Harrison is angry, which he is more and more lately, his ocean blue eyes turn stormy. That’s when you see it most clearly—when you see him—and you know the answer to the question you’ve refused to entertain for the last seven years. It wouldn’t matter anyway; he’d made that very clear the first time. You were only ever meant to be a secret indulgence, a toy he could take out of its hiding place and play with and throw away when it bored him. Besides, you know who he is now—what he does. There’s no room for you in his life, and certainly no room for Harrison.

And you’d be fine with that. You would, but he just won’t leave you alone.

You return home and you clean clean clean until everything sparkles and shines. You turn over endless piles of laundry. You pick up dry cleaning and drop off more. You eat a salad. You go to the gym and work it off. As your muscles burn and the sweat drips down your back, you force yourself to remember what it felt like to carry all that weight. Your body is screaming at you to stop but you keep going. Another pound or two, you think, and maybe my husband will touch me.

But that’s not why you work out—not really. You do it because you like the pain. You miss it. You haven’t felt that good pain in years but your body remembers it, remembers him.

Even when Michael was interested in fucking you, it was never what you wanted. There was no passion to it, nothing primal and animal that told you that he absolutely had to have you. Michael’s go-to move was poking you in the leg and saying, “Wanna do it?” and then engaging in bare-minimum foreplay before 15 minutes of missionary with the lights off. You could set a clock by it, but you told yourself it was ok because it was what you deserved. It was the punishment for your crimes, and living with it was your form of atonement. At least he made you cum sometimes.

But not like he did. Never like he did.

You shower at the gym and leave to pick up Harrison. It’s a Wednesday and he has Pee Wee football practice after school so you’re greeted with a smile instead of a scowl. Besides for pizza and superheroes, football is the only thing that makes your son truly happy, but for you it’s just hours and hours of practices and games and more laundry to do and the disapproving stares of the other mothers when Harrison breaks the no tackling rule. He’s big for his age already—tall and broad, built tough—and the rules of flag football mean nothing to him. One more hit, the coach had told you last week, and he’s out.

You sit at the far end of the bleachers, away from the other mothers and their death stares. They’ve all complained to the coach and you don’t blame them—if it was your son getting hurt instead of doing the hurting, you would feel the same way. You say a quick prayer to whatever god is listening that Harrison plays by the rules today and then you check your email on your phone. You’ve got a few Amazon shipping updates, a check-up reminder from Harrison’s dentist, and a message from the alumni association reminding you that the Harvard-Yale game is next weekend. You delete that one as aggressively as possible, and when you return to your inbox, there’s a new message.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think the sender was spam—just a nonsensical jumble of letters and numbers—but you’ve seen ones just like it many times before. The subject line is blank, and when you open it, there’s just two words: “Hey, Porkchop.” You look up and across the field and you see him standing in the parking lot, leaning against your car with his arms crossed. Your heart starts pounding when you make eye contact and it jumps into your throat when he gives you a cheeky little wave. 

You know he’s been watching you. His emails and texts over the years always made it clear that he’s keeping tabs. You never respond but they’ve been more frequent lately. Then six months ago he sent you a picture—-taken through the blinds in your bedroom—-of you and Michael having sex with a one-word message: “Boring.” Ever since you’ve felt his presence. Everywhere you go, you feel his eyes on you. He’s been telling you things he couldn’t possibly know if he wasn’t watching. He’s even started talking about Harrison—”Good looking kid,” he’d said in an email with a picture of Harrison at his first football practice attached. “Looking strong out there.”

You never thought he’d actually show up. You just assumed he’d been taunting you and teasing you and leading you on like he always did. But here he is in the flesh, wearing a black turtleneck and tight white pants and sporting a Tom Selleck mustache that should not be attractive but very much is. You grab your purse and hurry around the field to the lot, and as you approach him, he’s focused on the field, on Harrison.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Lloyd?” you whisper-shout at him when you’re close enough.

“Aww, come on, Porkchop.” He looks you up and down and flashes you that smug smile that haunts your dreams. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “I mean it.”

Lloyd takes you by the elbow and grips your arm hard, dragging you around to the back of your car with a few long strides. No one on the field can see you now, which should frighten you knowing what you know about the man in front of you. But you’re not afraid of him—-at least not like that. Lloyd likes to hurt you in other ways. 

“I can be wherever the fuck I want to be,” he snaps. “Besides, I thought you’d be happier to see me. You seem like you could use a little attention.” Lloyd removes his hand from your arm and runs it down your flank, grabbing at your hip and giving it a squeeze. “I gotta say, Porkchop, I liked you better with a little meat on your bones.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” You move to swat his hand away but he catches your wrist and you can’t help but look up into his piercing blue eyes—your son’s eyes. “Let go of me,” you whisper, but you don’t mean it. 

He chuckles and drops your wrist, running his hand across his chin. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll play nice.” He leans down close enough that you can feel the icy mint of his breath against your lips. “For now.”

“What do you want, Lloyd?”

“Today’s the day, right? D-Day? Last chance for ol’ Mikey to lay some pipe or you’re through?”

Your mouth drops open but only a tiny squeak comes out. How the fuck does he know that? The only person you told was your therapist.

“Oh, Porkchop. I know you’ve gone stupid on me since you had the kid, but when are you going to get it through your pretty little head that I know everything. I see everything. There isn’t a thing you can do or say or even think that I can’t find out about if I want to.”

“And why do you want to?” The words fly out before you can stop them. “Why the fuck do you even care, Lloyd? Why are you doing this to me?”

He cocks his head to the side and gives you a half smile that makes his dimple pop, and you see that little twinkle in his eyes that comes out to play when he’s feeling especially cruel.

“You know why.”

Lloyd grabs you by the throat and shoves you against the back of your SUV, kissing you so hard and deep that your legs threaten to give out. His thick mustache tickles your nostrils and it’s a new sensation. He was clean-shaven back at Harvard: one of the football team’s rules (and pretty much the only one Lloyd didn’t break). You moan into his mouth—-you can’t help it—-and the only thing holding you up is the hand around your neck and the weight of his broad, heavy body pressed against yours. You can feel him smirking against your lips after your moan slips out, and by the time he pulls away, you’ve soaked through your panties. You haven’t been kissed like that since your wedding day—the last time you saw him, when you did the thing you try so hard not to think about but always come back to when you’re alone in the tub with just enough time to rub one out in between supper and bathtime. The thing that changed everything and nothing at all.

“Here,” he says. “Take this.” He hands you a slip of paper with an address on it—some bougie D.C. neighborhood near Embassy Row. “I’ll be there Friday night and Saturday but Sunday morning I’m gone. No telling when I’ll be back. Do me a favor and make the right choice for once.” He grabs your face in his large hands and leans down to whisper, low and gravely, against your forehead. “Don’t disappoint me again.”

Before you have a chance to answer, a huge black Suburban with tinted windows pulls up and Lloyd hops in the passenger seat.

“See you soon, Porkchop,” he says, half hanging out the open window. “Tell the kid Daddy says hi.”

***

“Oh come on,” your roommate Shay begged. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

You had zero desire to go to the Phoenix club party but it was Harvard-Yale weekend and the Crimson had absolutely slaughtered the Bulldogs that afternoon. Shay was dying to go and she’d been trying to drag you out for weeks.

“I won’t even get in,” you told her. “I’m just a freshman and I… I just won’t. It’ll be embarrassing.”

You didn’t tell her the real reason you didn’t want to go, which was that you packed on the freshman 15 and then some and you didn’t want to be the fat girl left out in the cold while your much thinner, much hotter roommate got into the party.

“Babe, they let all the girls in, and that goes double for freshmen.”

“And that’s supposed to make me want to go?” you replied. You knew the reputation that the finals club parties had on campus, and you knew it wasn’t the safest place for a drunk 18-year-old girl to be, especially on the night of The Game. “Those guys are so sketchy.”

“Yeah, but they have the best booze,” she said. “And we’ll watch out for each other. Come on, please?”

You sighed and rolled your eyes, but part of you couldn’t help but be curious about the legendary party scene at the clubs. And on Game Day? After a win? It was bound to be wild.

“Alright,” you agreed. “Just this once. But I’m not getting wasted. I’m considering this more of a sociological experiment.”

“Whatever gets you out the door, nerd,” she replied. “Now let’s find you something to wear that isn’t that ratty old hoodie and jeans.”

You were freezing cold and terribly uncomfortable in the dress and heels your roommate chose for you. The dress was stretchy enough to fit you but you didn’t consider it flattering. You told her as much but she assured you you looked great. 

“Your tits look incredible in that dress,” she insisted. “Seriously, I can’t look away.”

You took the compliment but you still felt exposed. You never wore tight clothes, preferring to hide your chub under layers of fabric or loose-fitting dresses. You’d always been a bigger girl but your first few months of college, even without being a heavy drinker, saw you tipping the scale much higher than ever before. The skin-tight green dress you were wearing was making you feel vulnerable and you could tell the discomfort was written all over your face. 

“It’ll be fine,” Shay promised you as you walked to the Phoenix.

You could hear the crowd two blocks away, so loud that the whooping and cheering and chanting of “Fuck Yale” could probably be heard all the way in New Haven, and when you rounded the corner onto Mt. Auburn, you saw the epic line.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, though the sound of the crowd drowned it out. 

The line to get in was around the block and then some, and it was almost all scantily clad girls, many of them freshmen you vaguely recognized. You saw the hot blonde from your psych class with a group of her equally hot friends at the front of the line being waved in by a guy at the door, and you saw him laugh in the faces of the two guys after them and send them on their way. 

“There’s no way we’re getting in. Let’s just go somewhere else,” you told Shay, but you were really more concerned that she would get in and you wouldn’t.

“We’re getting in,” she said, “and we’re not waiting on this fucking line either.”

Before you could argue, Shay was dragging you toward a girl about 10 people back in line.

“Hey, cousin!” Shay yelled, and she shoved her way into the line next to her cousin Maddie.

Maddie was a sophomore and had been hooking up with one of the Phoenix guys. You felt awful cutting the line, and the girls behind you were quite vocal about how pissed they were about it, but Maddie silenced them with a simple, “Hush, freshmen,” and before you knew it, you were standing at the door in front of the guy who held all the power. 

“Hey Mads,” he said. “See you brought some fresh meat.”

“This is my cousin and her roommate,” Maddie said. “Be nice”

The guy looked Shay up and down, clearly approving of her, but when he took a look at you, he started laughing. You almost ran away crying right then but you forced yourself to make eye contact and smile.

“Oh, Lloyd’s gonna love this one,” he said. “Entrez, mademoiselles. Down the rabbit hole you go.”

On your way down the stairs, you asked Maddie, “What was that supposed to mean? Who’s Lloyd?”

She just laughed. “Lloyd Hansen? The football player?”

“I’m not much of a sports fan,” you replied.

“Well he’s basically a god on the team, and he’s only a junior. But I’d stay away from him if I were you. He’s… well, I’ve heard some stories and none of them are good.”

You really did mean to heed her advice, you did, but two hours and several vodka cranberries later and you were drunker than you’d ever been in your life. You didn’t feel sick, just completely out of control, but you liked the feeling. You were always so buttoned up and guarded and it felt so fucking good to just let go for once. Shay stuck by your side as promised and the two of you danced and drank and danced and drank more.

You don’t know exactly when it happened—-you were out of it then and time has only muddled the memory further—-but at some point, you found yourself alone in the courtyard out back. You looked around for Shay but she was nowhere to be found. There was a group of guys nearby, and through the din and the ringing in your ears you could hear them laughing while one of them made oinking and squealing noises. You knew without knowing that they were laughing at you, and as you shoved your way through the crowd and back inside you heard one of them shout “Get ‘er done!”

It came on you suddenly—-that feeling that your bladder might burst. You needed to find a bathroom and quickly. You asked the person closest to you and she pointed in the direction of a huge line of girls.

“Fuck,” you shouted to no one, and then you felt a tap on your shoulder.

When you turned around, you were eye-level with the incredibly broad chest of one of the guys you’d seen outside.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, and you looked up into the prettiest blue eyes you’d ever seen, framed by long lashes that most women would kill for. “You lost?”

“I… uh… my friend is…” you stammered, having trouble finding words with this beautiful guy towering over you. “I… is there another bathroom here?”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Members only, but I’ll make an exception for you.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the stairs. “Come with me.”

The ground floor of the Phoenix looked like some sort of Gilded Age mansion, probably because that’s exactly what it was. Every inch of the place reeked of old money. You followed the handsome, brown-haired stranger up to the second-floor hallway and he opened a door into a large, well-appointed bedroom.

“Master bathroom’s right through there,” he said. “It’s the nicest one in the house.” He cocked his head to look at you. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?”

“No,” you said. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good girl.”

It felt like ages before your bladder was finally empty. You used some expensive French lavender soap to wash your hands and dried them on a plush hand towel with the Phoenix insignia embroidered on it. When you exited the bathroom, the brunette was sitting on the four-poster bed sipping a honey-brown liquid from a crystal tumbler. His dress shirt was unbuttoned to his chest, his crimson tie hanging loose, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow revealing thick, veiny forearms dusted with hair. You found yourself speechless and staring; he was gorgeous, tall and broad with a chiseled face and an athlete’s build. You had no idea what he was doing with you. 

“You want a drink, sweetheart?”

“I, uh, I shouldn’t,” you said. “I need to go find my friend.”

“Just one drink,” he said. “Come on. This whiskey is older than my dad. I promise you’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“I don’t really drink whiskey,” you replied, but he was already up, taking three long strides toward the bar cart in the corner.

The glass clinked three times as he dropped in ice cubes from a silver bucket, and you watched as he poured you three fingers of the liquid gold. You didn’t want it but you took it anyway. You didn’t even know him but some part of you—something deep-down and driven by primal instinct—didn’t want to disappoint him. The first sip burned like hell and you coughed after you swallowed.

“Easy, easy,” he said, rubbing your back with one of his large hands. He sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him.  “Come sit for a minute. Talk to me. I’m so fucking bored.”

You sat down next to him—close but not close enough to touch—and he watched as you pulled your skirt down where it was riding up. 

“So, uh, what’s your name?” you asked, braving another sip of the whiskey, which you had to admit was growing on you just as the heat in your belly was growing as you drank it.

“Uh, Lloyd Hansen?” he replied, sounding a bit miffed at the question. “You may have heard of me? I was the guy on the field today who knocked the Yale QB on his ass about a dozen times?”

You vaguely remembered hearing the name Lloyd Hansen but you didn’t remember where you’d heard it. You thought to yourself that it must have been someone talking about the game.

“Congratulations on the win,” you said. “I don’t really follow football but, you know, fuck Yale.”

That was the first time you heard Lloyd laugh, and he did it with his whole chest.

“Fuck Yale indeed,” he said. “And now that you know who I am, I want to know who you are and how you ended up at my party. I’ve never seen you around before. I would remember you.”

You told him your name, that you were a freshman and that you didn’t really go out much. You knew you sounded like a complete loser, but the alcohol was like a truth serum and you ended up telling him that you were more into studying than partying.

“So you really are a good girl, then?” he said, his hand inching closer to your thigh. The deep pitch of his voice was almost as intoxicating as the drink in your hand. “How refreshing.”

He placed his drink on the nightstand and moved closer to you.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, and you nodded. “All the girls that come around here, they’re so fucking boring. So ordinary. Just a bunch of dumb bitches with rich and powerful parents who are only at Harvard to fuck around for four years and find a husband.” He ran his pointer finger down your thigh and toyed with the hem of your dress and you shivered as he leaned in close and spoke low in your ear. “But not you. You’re something special. I knew it the second I saw you.”

“I… I’m nobody,” you said. “I’m not special.”

His lips brushed the side of your neck and your eyes fluttered closed. “Yes,” he purred. “You are.”

Your memory gets hazy then. You remember Lloyd on top of you, kissing you and groping your tits through your dress. You don’t remember him taking it off you, or his clothes coming off, but you remember the feeling of your knees hitting the plush Persian rug as he pushed you down on the floor in front of him. He sat on the edge of the bed, long legs spread wide on either side of you as his fisted his cock in one hand and grabbed the back of your head with the other.

“You know how to suck a dick?” he asked, and you shook your head no.

You’d only ever given handjobs before and you’d never seen a dick as big or as thick as Lloyd’s. You were terrified. You didn’t know what you were doing and you didn’t really want to do it but, again, you couldn’t shake the feeling of not wanting to disappoint him. You didn’t want to be boring or ordinary. You wanted to be the girl he thought you were. You wanted to be special. 

“Open your mouth,” he demanded. “Stick your tongue all the way out.”

You did as he asked and he slapped your tongue with the head of his cock a few times before he told you to lick it. When you did, you tasted something salty—not exactly a bad taste, but strange.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl,” he said, gripping your head tighter. “Now wrap your lips around it. Yeah. Just like that. Fuck, I knew those dick-sucking lips of yours would feel good. Now open up your throat and breathe through your nose. I’m gonna fuck that pretty face of yours.”

He put his other hand on the back of your head and started to move you deeper onto his cock, and when he hit the back of your throat, you gagged and tried to pull away.

“Ah ah ah,” he said, “you can take it. Come on. Just relax.”

To this day, you don’t know how you didn’t throw up on him. He stood up and held your head in place as he fucked his way past your gag reflex and down into your throat over and over again, with fast harsh thrusts that had your mascara running rivers down your face and your own spit dripping down your chin onto your bare chest.

“That’s my good little cocksucker,” he said. “So fucking good for me. Look so pretty when you cry.”

Your nails dug into the hard muscle of his thighs as you let him use you, not knowing how long it was going to take or what exactly was supposed to happen. All you knew, looking up at him as he fucked your windpipe raw, was that he was the hottest guy you’d ever seen. The way his jaw clenched as he grunted, the deep V-cut that framed your face as he pushed and pulled you, the veins popping in his neck and his arms—-it was all too much. He was too much. The ache between your legs was getting unbearable and you took one of your hands off his leg and started to rub your clit.

“Oh, you love choking on my dick, huh? My pretty little slut’s gonna make herself cum with my fat cock down her throat, isn’t she?”

You moaned onto his flesh—his filthy, cruel words only making you want to please him more. You wanted to cum so badly but your own fingers just couldn’t get you there. You didn’t have enough time anyway, though, because Lloyd’s grip on your head tightened to the point of pain.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he said, pulling out of your burning throat and leaving you coughing and gasping for air. “Look up at me. I’m gonna paint that pretty face white. Open your fuckin mouth.”

You tried to keep eye contact with him but it was hard while you were still trying to catch your breath and keep from coughing.

“Look. At. Me,” he barked.

You stared into his lust-blown blue eyes as his mouth dropped open, his lips forming a perfect pink O as he huffed out air. Then you heard him grunt and you felt the first spurt hot against your cheek. The second one barely missed your eye but you kept them open, and he smirked down at you as he pressed the tip of his cock to your tongue and shot straight into the back of your throat. You gagged on it and swallowed and he laughed at you before gathering the cum off your face with his fingers and shoving them in your mouth.

“Clean your plate like a good little girl,” he said. “Come on. Suck.”

And you did, because the way he looked at you when you started to lick the cum off his fingers—there was something reverent about it, with more than a hint of amusement.

“I knew you’d be good,” he said when you’d licked him clean. “Fat chicks really do give the best head.”

You felt your cheeks blaze with embarrassment and shame and you would have started to cry if he hadn’t already fucked all the tears out of your face. You started to gather your clothes but he grabbed you by the arm and yanked you up off the floor. 

“Aww, don’t worry, Porkchop,” he said, pulling you against his bare chest. You looked up at him, horrified, but he wore a smug, satisfied smile as he ran his hands down your body, grabbing handfuls of flesh at your sides and your hips and finally taking two handfuls of ass. “Just means there’s more of you to love.”

“Get off me,” you cried, and you tried to push him back but he held you tight.

“Quit fucking struggling,” he snapped, his grip on you tightening to a bruising pressure. “You think I’m being mean? If you want mean, little girl, I can show you mean. But I’m dead serious. The guys make fun of me for it but I fucking love me a fat girl. Of course, I can’t actually be seen with one. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I fucking hate you, you asshole,” you screamed. “Let me go.”

“No,” he said, his mouth a hard line. “I’m not done with you, and you’re not done with me, but there are rules to this.”

“Fuck you and your rules. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

He grabbed your neck and pressed lightly on the sides, bringing his face down to yours—so close his lips grazed yours when he said, “You don’t really mean that, do you, Porkchop? It would be such a disappointment if you did.”

You opened your mouth to speak—-to scream or to cry you don’t know—-but he silenced you with a deep kiss. You hated yourself for returning it, for opening up for him and letting his cruel tongue inside. But fuck he felt good—-his lips and his hands and his rock-hard body. You never dreamed a guy like Lloyd would ever look twice at you. Even through your drunken haze, you knew you were being used—-that you were easy pickings for him that night and he took advantage of you—-but you didn’t care. He felt too fucking good for you to care. 

He made you cum on his fingers and his tongue three times that night before he kicked you out.

“Sorry, Porkchop. No girls in the house past sunrise. I’ll be seeing you real soon, though.”

You wanted to tell him he wouldn’t, that you’d just used him the way he used you. but you knew even then it was a lie. Any self-respect you had went out the window the moment you met Lloyd Hansen.

PART TWO >>>

#lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen #chris evans #chris evans characters #the gray man #special girl

[tehrevving]

Chaos Theory Chapter 5

Chapter 5 is up! And we're picking mushrooms when everything goes wrong.

The sharp fingers of his gauntlet prick against your scalp, making you shiver. His hand is on your head, against your hair and the prickling at the base of your neck surges. He smells like leather, warmth, and the strange atrophy and disarray that follows him. Light, murmured words fall like molasses from his lips as the familiar tingle of a cure slides down your spine.

#ffvii #ffvii fanfic #ffvii rebirth #vincent valentine #vincent valentine x reader #rev writes #my writing

[oneshotnewbie]

Is there a tiny little chance that you will update <Missing for a Decade> soon? I absolutely love this idea, and I would love to read more of it!! <33

Supergirl - Missing for a Decade Part 5

Trigger Warning: This one-shot includes the topic of abduction and mentions of abuse. These plots are presented. If this triggers you too easily or you just can´t handle those subjects, I urge you NOT to read this work. I am NOT embellishing this topic under any circumstance. Read at your own risk.

Authors Note: Here you have a new chapter ♥ I'm going to edit the older chapters again since I don't like them and they seem a bit inconsistent when I look at this current chapter

ᕚ---ᕘ

"You came to talk to me about your sister and niece before you take them home?" the older gentleman asked, clearing his throat and turning completely to the women who had entered his office. "Yes,"

"I have treated more than hundred kidnapping victims, but none like your sister. Despite her captivity, she is open to other people and hardly scared which fascinates me. She is very strong," The doctor folded the remaining files on his desk and clasped his hands on the table in front of his torso, fingers locked tightly together. "You know, every victim presents a new challenge and it is like reading a map of battered bodies that have been unjustly violated"

Both Alex and Kara interestingly pulled a chair from the corner and listened to the doctor go into more details about your health, the various tests and examinations that they did on you.

"She is chronically underweight, physically atrophied. She has anemia, vitamin D and iron deficiencies, and some skin lesions and inflammation from the lack of natural light." he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and rolled them up. "Y/n Danvers shows signs of severe violence over the last few years. Broken bones that healed incorrectly and scars all over her body"

The grey-haired hesitates with another answer and bows his head down, wanting to give Kara and Alex a moment to digest the information. The office is suddenly quieter than it was at the beginning of the conversation. "What about Gracie?"

The man in front of them started to smile and looked at the two older Danvers with glittering eyes. "Despite the circumstances, your sister did a good job. Grace Danvers is a bright little girl with particularly good language skills despite her young age"

"Any signs of injury? Does she have bruises or healed broken bones?

He shook his head violently and took away all their fears with immediate effect. "No, she is a perfectly healthy girl. No vitamin deficiencies or signs of violence. No evidence of past fractures or other medical conditions. If I did not know better, I would say that her mother endured all of the abuse to protect her daughter"

The Danvers sisters nodded in unison and thanked your doctor for treating you so lavishly. Kara put one foot in front of the other as she left the office and waited for Alex to join in step. Together they walked back to your hospital room while going over the details of the injuries you had sustained in their minds.

ᕚ---ᕘ

A week had passed in which you slowly regained your strength in the hospital, slowly got used to your sisters around you and were able to get closer with them. While you were still adjusting to your new, free life, your little daughter explored everything she could get her hands on; running around the hospital with either Kara or Alex always by her side, having her aunts wrapped around her little finger since day one.

You stood nervously with your back to one of your older siblings, staring longingly out the window while your bony hand rested on the pane of glass. A sinister life stretched out behind it; a life you no longer knew. "I do not know if I am ready yet.." you replied to Kara, who sat on your bed and waited for you to take the first step outside. The first step to freedom and into a new life.

"There will never be a perfect moment, sweetheart. Nobody wants to imagine what you went through, but Alex and I will be by your side and support you. No matter how long it takes"

You nodded, saw her soft smile in the reflection and turned to her. The blonde extended her hand. You walked the last few inches that separated you, grabbed her hand so she could pull you into her arms. "Grace is already at the car with Alex and Maggie, trying out the new Nemo seat we bought for her"

You laughed briefly at the thought of how long and in how many stores the redhead must had been, desperate to find a car seat with your daughters favorite fish on it. She had wished for this one and, at the tender age of four, had already threatened not to sit in anything else but this one.

"We can go as soon as you are ready," softly, she kissed your dry and straggly hair, wrapped her arms tightly around you and savored the closeness she had missed so badly. You too snuggled up to her chest like a cat, took a deep breath of her perfume, which she still wore after all these years and let the moment sink in.

Kara´s heartbeat accelerated in your ears and her grip on you became tighter. A slight tremor emanated her body and her swallowing became stronger and heavier.

The sadness that overcame her was like an old friend who had accompanied her on the journey over the past few years. Not intrusive, but always in the foreground; always aiming to get her attention and cause deep pain where your love and closeness once found its place.

It stroked her hair every time she walked into your old room, whispered softly in her ear as in silent moments, she slid down the wall and broke down crying. Never leaving her side and always staying with her. The crushing feeling of never seeing you again, never hearing your footsteps creaking on the floor and never catching the sound of your voice ever again.

Your disappearance painted her world gray, pouring concrete over the once colorful rainbows of your being. You were the biggest concern between all the others. Your sisters were worn down by this eternal struggle - the circle of cause and effect, crime and punishment, guilt and innocence, victim and perpetrator. She had not stopped fighting this fight, but she wished she could.

And now she could finally feel the sun and see the colors again, the warmth she longed for and the soft melody of your voice that returned. "I have missed you so much," she said carefully, rocking you gently in her arms. Kara did not want to let go of you, she had been longingly waiting for this moment for too long.

"After all these years, have you stopped looking for me?"

"Yes, we did," she whispered into your hair, the pain in her voice clearly audible as salty tears strayed onto them. The blonde rested her trembling chin on the top of your head, gently stroking your shoulder while her other hand nervously played with your fingers. It was not until she composed herself that she pulled away from you just inches to look into your eyes. "We all spread out across National City and knocked on every door. We questioned alleged witnesses. But nobody had seen you or knew where you were."

Tears rolled quietly down your face, which Kara caught with the soft pads of her thumbs. Although you had asked the question yourself, your stomach still cramped completely when receiving the given information. Your family had fought through the struggle of your disappearance and given themselves up in the process. They had long since lost hope.

"I am sorry I caused you such pain," you looked at your hands and waved them around as if seeing them for the first time before closing your eyes for a brief moment. Shortly after, you opened them up again and stared at your sister with blank eyes. Kara´s on the other hand were blood red and swam behind thick glasses.

She quickly fell to the ground and knelt in front of you. Her warm hands were placed on your cheeks, her thumbs inevitably caressing them. "You are not to blame for what happened to you and you are not guilty for surviving it. Sure, we suffered pain because we thought we lost you forever, but you know what outweighs that pain?"

You shook your head and cocked it to the side, her hand now clasped between your shoulder and ear. She smiled at you briefly and pulled you to the front so your face was buried in her shoulder. "You are back and our hearts are whole again. You are so strong, a fighter and fought your way through everything that came your way. You do not have to be sorry. It. is. not. your. fault."

#b!danvers #b!d #baby danvers x lena luthor #baby danvers imagines #babydanvers #baby danvers #baby danvers imagine #babydanvers x maggiesawyer #baby danvers x eliza #baby danvers x maggie sawyer #baby danvers x kara danvers #baby danvers x alex danvers #alexdanvers #alex danvers x maggie sawyer #alex danvers x reader #alex danvers imagines #alex danvers imagine #alex danvers #alex danvers x baby danvers #alex danvers x y/n #alex danvers x you #kara danvers x maggie sawyer #kara danvers imagines #kara danvers x reader #kara danvers imagine #kara danvers #karadanvers #kara zor el #kara danvers x danverssisters #kara danvers x baby danvers

[fullscoreshenanigans]

I wonder how much time Chris has been in coma. He was hit at the head by a bullet but his brain was spared (if i remember, they said that the wound is only exterior) (which is good, i'm not sure they could have done anything if the wound had been actually deep and touched the brain, Chris would have died)

but he has been unconscious for a long time and had still crutches when they find Emma.

So it mean that his awakening was "recent" if he still needed crutches (so reeducation).

How severe was his wound? for how much time was he in coma?

Have you theories about it?

Fun fact: Chris was originally supposed to wake up during the Seven Walls arc.

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 5)

But yeah after they arrive at the paradise hideout his condition is "conveniently stable" so Shirai could utilize it to facilitate more drama if he needed to or just keep it as is, and he ended up going with the latter.

(Chapter 126 | Mystic Code Book Chapter 7 Series Timeline)

We don't know the exact date he was shot, but he spent roughly half of October 2047 and at least thirteen days of November 2047 comatose.

After that, it's arbitrary, even if one wants to be canon compliant.

If you want it to take a while for him to wake up, the explanation can be Peter wasn't careful while transferring him from the paradise hideout to Grace Field headquarters, and Chris suffered brain trauma they weren't aware of until they did tests at a hospital.

If you want him to wake up shortly after they arrive in the human world, like in one of Shirai's drafts of chapter 179, you can still have his recovery span the course of months since muscle atrophy occurs rapidly.

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 6; I would have been up for this version)

(Muscle Atrophy in ICU Patients article)

You can also prolong his recovery further by introducing a psychosomatic component. In addition to the physical harm that befell him, the mental trauma of the bunker raid resulted in a combination of him not waking up for however long one wishes to keep him in a coma and possibly hampered his physical therapy for months to over a year even after working to rebuild all the strength he lost.

There are a lot of ways you can adapt it to fit within the phrasing presented by the kids when explaining their trip to Emma in the epilogue:

"Able to walk again" meaning it did take him some time, although we never see him using crutches like Dominic or Sonya.

(Chapter 126 | Chapter 157 Bonus Sketch | Chapter 98)

Also it's never focused on, but Sonya uses a cane like her dad post-timeskip.

(Chapter 104 | Chapter 106 | Chapter 111)

#where's my deleted scene of Sonya and Lucas having a moment to talk about their canes </3 #whenever I think of Chris in a coma I think of tutu's “the least they could have done is shoot christie omg” S2e04 reaction post #how dogshit does your adaption have to be for people to hope the 7yo gets shot jfc kjdchkdf </3 #naehja #FSS Asks #FSS Chatter #The Promised Neverland #Yakusoku no Neverland #TPN #Mystic Code Book #TPN Timeline #TPN Chris #TPN Dominic #TPN Sonya #Chris #Dominic #Sonya #Cuvitidala Arc #TPN 105 #King of Paradise Arc #TPN 126 #Human World Arc #TPN 179 #TPN 181 #Post-Canon #TPN 181.4 #Long Post #“Eventually‚ he prioritized Norman and Ray's despair over Chris waking up” yes Shirai feed my REN angst lol #the promised queueland

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

A collection of Hinny-centric drabbles, microfics and one-shots written for the Ginny Lovers Discord server 5-Year Ginnversary Bingo game.

Chapter 10 - That Next Great Flighty Temptress

Fair warning: I sobbed while I was writing this. It's set in the afterlife so, y'know, everyone is dead - but hopefully it is ultimately a positive story. Feel free to scroll on by if that isn't your bag.

Rating - Teen and upwards

Read on AO3 from the beginning or continue below the cut for the latest chapter (1039 words)

When death came for Harry Potter, for the second and final time, he was alone. 

He was, he decided, glad about that. He could see the appeal to stepping out into the night with all those he loved and who loved him in return there to bid him farewell, but he’d never been comfortable with a fuss being made of him. No, far better to simply slip away quietly and unnoticed. The father and grandfather in him did feel guilty about it, but they would have their chance to mourn him. He just preferred it to be once he had already gone rather than before.

He had often thought, over the years, that having some experience in the business of dying might, eventually, prove helpful and when he opened his eyes, he decided he had been quite right on that score. It was all so familiar to him; the silence, the solitude and the unrelenting misty whiteness. He knew, immediately, what it meant.

Now as then, he found himself completely naked, but this didn’t perturb him; he simply willed some clothes into existence. It wasn’t until he was buttoning the jeans at his waist that he realised that his hands were no longer wizened with age. Now, that was a surprise. He wondered what he would see if he could look at his reflection, and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a floor length mirror in a carved wooden frame appeared next to him. 

He hadn’t seen the man staring back at him for years - decades even. His hair was raven black rather than iron grey. His face was unwrinkled. His torso was once again leanly-muscled, showing no hint of the atrophy of old age. Then again, had ever truly seen this man before? He ran his hand lightly across his unmarked chest, free from the twin scars that had marred it since he was seventeen, then peered more closely at the glass, pushing his hair up and away to see, for the first time ever, an unblemished forehead. That he could see it clearly even without his glasses made it just a little sweeter. Death, it seemed, suited him.

With a sigh, stooped to pick up the soft grey t-shirt that was still on the floor at his feet, and pulled it over his head.

“Oh. That’s a shame.”

Harry gasped. Her voice, her wonderful voice, came from behind him. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Tears welled in his eyes. Slowly, he turned around to face her.

“Gin?” he whispered, not really believing it.

“Hey there, stranger,” she said, softly. "It's been a while.”

“It has,” he agreed, his voice cracking with emotion. “Too long.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she told him.  

He raised his eyebrows. “All this time?”

She shrugged. “Yes. I couldn’t bear to go on without you. I’m glad you’re here now. You… er… you look good.”

“Thanks. So do you.” 

And she did - she really did. The Ginny in front of him was the one he always saw in his mind's eye. Her hair, long and vivid and tumbling over her shoulders, seemed to glow like the sunset in the soft white light that surrounded them both. Her skin was smooth and creamy and he knew it would feel like warm silk under his fingers.

Then he met her eyes, blazing hard through her tears with a look that was so familiar that his breath caught in his throat. He barely had time to register it before she was running toward him, and throwing her arms around him. Though there was absolutely no one watching as he bent his head and kissed her, Harry was sure that this time, several sunlit days really did pass before they broke apart, their salt-streaked faces split into huge grins. 

Ginny reached up and stroked her thumb across his cheekbone, wiping away his tears with a tender gesture he’d seen her offer to each of their children so many times over the years. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too,” he murmured.

“What happened?” she asked. “To you, I mean. Can you remember?

Harry frowned. “I’m not sure, actually. I must have been asleep. The last thing I remember is going to bed.” He paused, not quite trusting his voice. “Not… not our bed. I’ve been sleeping in the spare room ever since… Well, ever since you died. I couldn’t bear it, you not being there.”

She looked away from him for a moment. “I was worried, you know? That you might try to come and join me before your time.”

“I thought about it,” he confessed. “For a long time. In the end, though, I just couldn’t do that to the kids. And… and the last few years have been good. Not like they were, like they should have been, with you there too. But there were a lot of happy times. I mean, I got to meet my great-grandchildren. And I’m glad about that.” 

The expression on Ginny’s face was heartbreaking. “I wish I could have been there.”

Harry swallowed hard. “So do I.”

For a moment, they simply stood, holding one another. Then Ginny took a pace back, letting her fingers slide down his arm until they were hand in hand. “Come on. We have a train to catch. I expect that there are a lot of people waiting for us.”

Looking around, Harry realised that whiteness around them had solidified into something more tangible. Now, he could clearly see a familiar, if very much cleaner, railway station platform. As he watched, he thought he detected movement in the misty distance, and sure enough, the fog eventually cleared to allow a train to pass through, slowing as it pulled into the station. 

Holding tight to his wife’s hand, Harry chose a carriage and opened the door, turning to help Ginny board behind him. They curled up together on the well worn moquette seat, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and moments later, there was a jolt as the train began to move again.

“Where do you think we’re going?” asked Ginny, her breath soft and warm against his chest. 

Harry looked down at his wife and smiled. “On.”

#harry potter #ginny weasley #hinny #harry x ginny #ginniversary bingo #i made myself cry #i am very very sorry for what i have done

[aftgficrec]

Anonymous asked: Do you have any recommendations for any new twinyard bonding fics, with or without Nicky. Or even any with Nicky and one twin?

NB: original ask here in new twinyards bonding post

We’ve got a trove of Nicky and the twins for you, including a WIP age reversal fic where college-aged Andrew and Aaron raise young Nicky. It is ‘Home’ by allfortheBoyds. -A

previous recs: Nicky & the twins

Nicky bonding with both or one twin here

Nicky’s relationship with the twins here

new canon compliant bonding: Aaron & Andrew & Nicky here

‘Travelers’ series Part 4 here

‘My brother under the sun’ here

‘Abject apathy,’ ‘Oh Brother Of Mine,’ ‘Atrophy,’ and ‘Promises Kept’ here 

‘Aaron Minyard Ficlets’ and ‘Frazzled Bird’ (completed) here

‘a working thing’ and ‘AFTG/TFC minifics…nicky's pills’ here

‘Step Up/Dance AU’ here

‘This is our beginning’ here

‘We're the giggle at a funeral’ here

‘This is After’ and ‘innocence died screaming’ here

‘Direct Lines to The Heart’ here

‘get what you give’ here 

‘Microsleep’ here

‘Odd Eye’ here

‘You know I don't care’ here

‘on the taste of home (let it go down easy)’ here

‘Paper Cut Hearts’ here 

‘I Found Love Where It Wasn’t Supposed to Be’ here

Nicky & Aaron

‘Aaron loses his shit’ here

‘Aaron figuring out that he’s asexual…’ here

‘Misunderstandings’ here

‘Wear it on your finger’ here

‘aaron minyard + memories of nicky’ here

‘skeletons in the water’ here

‘Five Times Aaron’s Soul Tried to Find a Home…’ here

Nicky & Andrew

Nicky and Andrew’s relationship here

‘maybe we could’ here

‘Something Good’ here

‘Enough’ here

‘The One Where Andrew Tries to Kill Nicky’ here

‘Affection can be shown in so many ways,’ ‘It's a Home,’ and ‘The World on Mute’ here 

‘I am not a library’ here

‘Truth Time’ here 

‘Nicky sees Andrew dance’ here

‘Treacherous’ and ‘Andrew Minyard...does not have a crush’ here

‘Mixed Tape,’ ‘Nicky goes to the bank,’ ‘before nicky goes back to germany,’ ‘Andrew kept Nicky close,’ and ‘Andrew appreciates Nicky’s selflessness’ here

‘Just closed eyes with nothing behind’ here

‘everything has changed’ here 

‘That One Time Andrew Made Nicky Glad…’ and ‘Nicky & Andrew prompt’ here

‘don't look away’ here 

‘hiding out at the winter formal’ here

‘white soap’ and ‘Bloom Where You're Planted’ here

‘losing battle’ and ‘married to my enemy’ series here

‘haven't got a clue’ and ‘Congrats on the sex’ here

‘The Morning AUs Chapter 25: Conversion Camp AU’ here

you may also like

‘Way Down We Go’ here

‘TFC High School AU’ series here

‘Take This Heart (Put Yourself In It)’ here

‘two peas (in a pandemonium)’ here

‘Foxes and Fruitcake’ here

‘I learned from my pain’ here 

‘Andrew seems to be developing separation anxiety’ here

‘another turning point…’ here

‘The Before and After’ here

Nicky & the twins

The Cousins series by onedayanauthor [Rated G/T/M, 22318 Words, 5 complete works, Updated April 2023]

Part 1: A Place of Your Own (G, 5098 Words) Nicky had only had custody of the twins for a week and a half, and he was already entirely exhausted and overwhelmed. 

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced drug use

Part 2: Food Anxieties (G, 2760 Words) Nicky takes Andrew and Aaron to get fast food right after they move into the Columbia house. Andrew has some lingering food anxiety due to previous foster families withholding food or being stingy with food.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced child neglect, tw: food insecurity

Part 3: Making Ends Meet (M, 3583 Words) Aaron asks Nicky how they were able to afford the Columbia house and is surprised by Nicky's answer.

Part 4: Actions Speak Louder (G, 8769 Words) Nicky gets the twins to agree to go to a Christmas festival, but will the twins actually show up?

Part 5: Bonding Moment 2.0 (T, 2108 Words) Turns out Nicky is actually RIPPED and Aaron is just finding out.

NB: Part 2 of this series focuses on Nicky & Andrew and parts 3 and 5 focus on Nicky & Aaron

Why do we break the ones already broken? by KweenKevin [Not Rated, 845 Words, Complete, 2018]

Part 5 of Does that make me crazy? 

A Nicky Hemmick character study.

tw: homophobia, tw: conversion therapy, tw: religious trauma

Better Weather by PluckyYoungMan [Not Rated, 24656 Words, Incomplete, Updated Oct 2022]

A series of oneshots based upon Tilda putting Aaron and Andrew in the foster system, but not ending up taking Aaron back. After her passing Nicky learns of their existence, and elects to take them in when they’re almost thirteen. Nicky is in way over his head with the twins varied and often conflicting issues. Ultimately this is a story about family, and about healing, but it is a long and often painful road along the way.

tw: self harm, tw: blood, tw: body horror, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: homophobia, tw: religious trauma, tw: self harm, tw: manic episode, tw: disordered eating, tw: drugs, tw: alcohol, tw: violence

this is a big world by PoolToast22 [Rated G, 2212 Words, Complete, 2022]

the one where Andrew tells Aaron about his and Neil's relationship

i don't need this city (i could leave in a heartbeat) by crazy_stupid_potato [Rated T, 3285 Words, Complete, 2023]

Andrew has a bad time and decides to run away. But what he didn't think he'd discover is that: sometimes there are good police officers, and that Nicky fucking adores him.

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon

Home by allfortheBoyds [Rated T, 14316 Words, Incomplete, Updated June 2023]

Nicky is younger, his parents still suck and Aaron and Andrew make sure he has a home

tw: child abuse, tw: homophobia, tw: religious trauma, tw: conversion therapy, tw: confinement, tw: disordered eating, tw: bullying

Wherever you go, I‘ll be there beside you (‘Cause you are my brother) by allfortheBoyds [Rated G, 2031 Words, Complete, 2023]

Nicky becomes a father, the twins are there to support him

Little Secrets by nerdzeword [Rated T, 3696 Words, Complete, 2019]

Part 2 of Little Miracles series, part 1 here

Nicky had spent his entire life hiding who he was. You would think it would be easier to finally tell people.

Heimkehr means Homecoming series by This_Witch_Writes [Rated T/M, Collection with 3 complete works, Updated Dec 2022, Locked]

Part 3 here 

Part 1: But Cass, she could've been [T, 31241 Words] Cass discovers Drake's true nature with the next foster child she takes in, a year after Andrew was adopted by Tilda Minyard. Disgusted and heart-broken, Cass travels to South Carolina.

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: vomit, tw: violence, tw: homophobia, tw: assault

Part 2: A little closer to home [M, 48508 Words] Cass came back for Andrew after Nicky took custody of him and Aaron once she learned to truth about Drake. She settled in Columbia to be close to them and 18 months later the family has reached some kind of balance. And then Kevin Day shows up at the Foxes hotel room after the Winter Exy Banquet with a ruined hand and a wild story. No hope of a quiet year really.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: torture, tw: blood/gore, tw: homophobia, tw: assault, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, implied/referenced child abuse, tw: nonconsensual drug use

Some would sing and some would scream by Helpneedmorefanfics [Rated E, 14168 Words, Complete, 2021]

"Alright. Luther got out of prison, along with everyone else involved in Andrew's previous cases," Nicky says and Kevin sucks in a sharp breath and grabs at the other's arm, horrified. Nicky nods gravely, eyes serious and steady. "I'm going to go kill them all."

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: murder, tw: arson

A first by LetThemCuddle [Rated G, 3930 Words, Complete, 2023]

Nicky comes down with a mild flu. It's not a big deal. The twins are suffering from unwanted emotions.

All I want for Christmas (is some peace) by sapphosgaycousin [Not Rated, 2214 Words, Complete, AFTG Exchange 2022]

Nicky just wanted to have a cozy christmas, but there is no such thing when you're parenting your cousins.

The Highs and Lows of Pre-med Majors by Harmonique [Rated G, 4575 Words, Complete, 2023]

Part 4 of AFTG whump, part 2 here

Sometimes, Aaron was questioning himself on the stupidity of his decision about being a premed student and an athlete. He couldn’t remember the last time he had more than four hours of sleep, and he still was behind classes. Thankfully, he wasn't a student-athlete... wait

tw: vomit

Nicky & Aaron

The Foxes: Finals Edition by LetThemCuddle [Rated G, 1747 Words, Complete, 2022]

Nicky and Aaron make a deal. Aaron will nap when Nicky demands it, and Nicky promises to wake Aaron up at the exact time he wants.

Aaron & Nicky hcs by @foxes-evermore [Tumblr, 2016]

Nicky & Andrew

I'm Proud of You by kevindaysleftpinkytoe [Not Rated, 1860 Words, Complete, 2023]

Andrew is tired tonight.

tw: self harm, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: negative self image, tw: depression, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: panic attacks

Andrew thinks he is unlovable hc by @knox-knocks [Tumblr, 2021]

Andrew, Nicky, and hugs meta by @i-did [Tumblr, 2021]

Nicky meta by @sinistercacophony [Tumblr, 2021]

Not a sociopath by @i-want-delfeur [Tumblr Fic, 2018]

I have about 4,000 questions about Nicky and Andrew’s relationship meta by @sirencalll [Tumblr, 2016]

Art

Happy Twinyard day art by @jegulus4life

Nicky’s instagram: Lake with ducks art by @/lis_photoart on instagram

Nicky as their best mum = a threat art by @/joonaxrt on instagram

#fic #nicky hemmick & aaron minyard & andrew minyard #nicky hemmick & aaron minyard #nicky hemmick & andrew minyard #nicky hemmick/erik klose #universe: pre canon #universe: canon divergent #au: kid fic #theme: parenting #theme: foster care #theme: andrew's past #theme: families #theme: fluff & angst #theme: fluff & humour #theme: angst with a happy ending #theme: trauma #theme: hurt/comfort #theme: emotional hurt/comfort #theme: mental health issues #theme: sickfic #tw: self harm #tw: blood/gore #tw: body horror #tw: child abuse #tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: homophobia #tw: religious trauma #tw: conversion therapy #tw: drugs #implied/referenced rape/noncon

[eoieopda]

thoroughfare: texas (kth)

I met you there in Texas, somewhere on the thoroughfare / On the side of the road in some torn up clothes, with a pistol in my pocket

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Reader Type: Multi-Part (1/5) ⇢ Masterlist Word Count: 1.6K Summary: You didn't have an escape plan when you left your old life behind, but you did come across a get-away car. Content: (Series) American Roadtrip AU; strangers to lovers; slow-burn; angst; smut // (Chapter) References to past relationship violence (not depicted); hitch-hiking; mention of blood (heel blisters); reader has a gun in her possession (not used); tw: Texas. A/N: This was originally going to be a one-shot, but now it's going to be a mini-series of vignettes! Here's state #1 on their 5-state trip West. Based on Ethel Cain's song by the same name.

DISCONTINUED

Freedom is a fickle thing. 

You spent your whole life waiting to leave home. To live on your own terms, with what you owned depending solely on what you’d earned yourself. When you got on that bus in Birmingham, that’s what you thought you were driving towards: a new slate.

Independence that made your giddy stomach flip with anticipation — a roller coaster going up, up, up. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, starting over alone, but nobody said it would be this hard. 

Not that you’d have listened if they did. 

For a while, you made it work. You found a hole in the wall to live in and a job that filled both your pockets and your pantry. You made friends, and you made time for yourself. You took the knife you’d stolen from your brother on your way out of town and whittled yourself a place in the world. And you were fine that way, accountable only to yourself.  

Free, you'd thought, free at last. 

Then he came along.  

That green-eyed, black-hearted son-of-a-bitch slithered around your heart like a copperhead, hissing honeyed words into your ear all the while. He was easy to love and that was precisely the problem. It made him impossible to leave.  

The thought must have crossed your mind a hundred times or more. You repeated those plans like prayers in your head every night before you climbed in bed beside him. But you didn’t leave and then you couldn’t. Eventually, it became too difficult to tell what he gripped tighter: your finances or your wrists. 

The only thing that hit harder than he did was the realization that you’d cornered yourself in a trap you'd built yourself. In doing so, you took a match and kerosene to any bridge leading somewhere familiar.  

Safer.  

Now, you stood on your front porch with all you could carry shoved hastily into a duffle bag. Burdens all slung over your shoulder; you took your first deep breath in recent memory. The thought spread over the open air when you exhaled a rueful laugh: if you had any matches left on you, you would’ve lit this place up, too.  

Instead, you’d opted — for once — to extinguish a fire. You’d do the wise thing and snuff out the flame before the backdraft could turn you to ash, too. Tucked into the back of your Levis, unloaded, was the revolver you’d stolen from the lockbox under the bed. If he was stupid enough to look for you, he’d find it pressed between his brows.  

Would he remember in that moment that he was the one who taught you to shoot? 

You set out on foot from there, leaving everything too heavy to hold in your wake. With the hot wind cracking like a whip against your bare legs, every step you took was erased mere seconds after being imprinted in the dirt. Having no path back home — to him — meant there was only one way left for you to go. 

Decidedly underfunded and underfed, you were thankful to be above water for the first time in a long damn time. The wind resistance made each step harder than the last, but you were grateful for the way it breathed life back into your bones. You greeted the burn of that effort like an old friend; with muscles no longer atrophied from all that time spent crouching in place. 

So, you walked, and walked, and walked over that arid ocean until your blistered heels begged you to stop.  

Three miles outside of San Antonio, you finally heeded their cries. You sat down, roadside, with your denim shorts in the dirt and your duffel bag behind you. Initially, you intended for that duffle to anchor you through unrelenting wind. Though forceful, it didn’t alleviate the heavy heat weighing down your shoulders. Thankfully, that duffel served a second purpose: it kept your tired frame from collapsing under the unforgiving, south-central sun. 

The only chill to be found was the Ruger’s cool metal against the sweat-slicked small of your back. Despite its capacity for violence, its hard presence against your skin felt safer than the blanket you carried with you through childhood. It didn’t entirely prevent your eyes from scanning the area for any hint of movement — but it sure as shit helped. 

As you watched dust swirl in miniature twisters across the cracked asphalt, you wondered if this town had always been so peaceful. Though run-down, it wasn’t as ugly a place as it felt. Maybe there was some timeline in which this could’ve been home.

Maybe —

As soon as that thought crossed your mind, the quiet you relished was replaced by the squeal of balding brakes. With a groan, you clambered to your aching feet just in time to eye the pickup truck slowing to a stop in front of you. Your right hand shielded your eyes from the glaring white overhead; your left moved slowly until it rested at the base of your spine.

Shit!

It wasn't loaded, but he didn't need to know that.

The stranger’s charming smile triggered something feral in the cellar of your brain. Fight or flight? He seemed to sense the panic in your pulse, even with the distance. Slowly, his hands left the steering wheel to be held where you could see them.  

“Hey, baby, don’t run – I'll take you anywhere you need to go, so long as you can point me to the I-10.” 

You blinked at him, then glanced down at your worn-out Doc Martens. By now, you were sure there was blood pooling in your socks. Worse, there was dirt sticking to every droplet of sweat on your body, turning all your hard-fought softness into something coarse.

If I end up dead, you thought, at least the truck I’d die in is air-conditioned.  

With a shrug, you grabbed your duffel off the ground and tossed it into the truck’s bed. He was beaming at you through the window when you crossed back to the passenger side. He was magnetic, you’d admit, but you knew better by now than to trust a charmer. 

His excited hand slapped the steering wheel as you settled in beside him and the way you flinched wasn’t lost on him.  

“Ah, sorry to make you jump, doll. I’m just glad to have found someone out here,” He chuckled through a sheepish smile.  

Rubbing his hand nervously over the back of his neck, he elaborated: “I’ve been driving around for a while, looking for a single soul to give me directions. Until I saw you sitting there, I thought I’d never get back to the highway.” 

“What made you think I’d help?” You asked with a flat tone and furrowed brow.  

If you could admit he was magnetic, you could admit that you were the opposite. Your stony gaze was more likely to repel others than attract them. The thing is, you neither wanted nor intended to be that way. His warmth was as confusing to you as his apparent faith in others. 

Had he met “others”? Awful, the whole lot of them. 

The stranger put the truck back into gear and resumed his southbound route. “You look like someone who knows where they’re headed,” He hummed, “Someone who wouldn’t steer me wrong.”  

Your disbelieving cackle caused him to glance over at you. Even the bemused twitch of his eyebrow didn’t undermine the self-assured grin lighting up his face.  

“The only place I’m headed is anywhere else.” With a sigh, you rolled your neck to face forward. Smirking, you gestured beyond the windshield, “And by the looks of it, you’re headed further away from the highway.” 

“Shit!” He muttered. With no one nearby to get in the way — or, more importantly, to cite him — he abruptly turned over the double-yellow to correct course. His tires nipped at the gravel when he ventured slightly off the road. “See? Kismet.” 

“Kismet?” 

Another glance your way, another smile.  

“Means fate,” He explained, though you already knew the definition of the word.

It was his hopefulness that confounded you, as well as the gratitude you didn’t do more than the bare minimum to earn. Then there was the way his uniquely boxy, mega-watt smile never seemed to leave his face. He held out his hand to shake before you could ask what the hell he was so happy for.  

“Taehyung,” he offered.

You supplied him with your hand as well as your name. Then, you gave into the ongoing conversation he seemed so intent on having. “Where’s the highway leading you, Taehyung?” 

“West,” was his reply and it earned him an eye roll and a snort. Of course, he was headed west; it was the only direction his chosen route could take him. Undeterred by your reaction, he looked back over at you and asked, “Wanna see it with me?”

“Why west?” You asked. Deep down, you didn't care. The only question bouncing around your skull was why me?

He had stars nestled in the warm brown of his eyes as he looked at you. That spark — that authentic, puzzling optimism — was the only reason you didn’t laugh right in his face when he answered: “’Cause love’s out there and I can’t leave it be.” 

At this, you grimaced without meaning to. He couldn’t be that naïve, could he? Thinking he’d find some fairy-tale ending where the sand met the sea? 

“Honey, love’s never meant much to me,” You started, but you quickly — and unexpectedly — turned on a dime when you watched the light in his smile start to waver, “But I’ll come with you, if you’re sure it’s what you need.”

Tagging: @borahae-k @i-purple-buff-bunni @pamzn @myimaginationsrunningwild @nonbinary-demonbrat @mgthecat @btschimeyplanet @yoongiphoria @tornparts

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Likes are always appreciated, but it's feedback that means the most — whether that's in a reply below, or in a reblog! Thank you for reading <3

#re: thoroughfare #bts #bts army #bts v #bts taehyung #bts kim taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts angst #bts series #bts imagine #bts scenarios #kim taehyung fanfiction #kim taehyung fanfic #kim taehyung fic #kim taehyung angst #taehyung fanfiction #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fic #taehyung imagine #taehyung angst #taehyung x reader #taehyung x you #taehyung x y/n #taehyung series #kth #jade writes

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chapter 5. Crime

Beyond individual justice

The notion of justice is perhaps the most dangerous product of authoritarian psychology. The state’s worst abuses occur in its prisons, its inquisitions, its forced corrections and rehabilitations. Police, judges, and prison guards are key agents of coercion and violence. In the name of justice, uniformed thugs terrorize entire communities while dissidents petition the very government that represses them. Many people have internalized the rationalizations of state justice to such an extent that they are terrified of losing the protection and arbitration states supposedly provide.

When justice becomes the private sphere of specialists, oppression is not far behind. In stateless societies on the cusp of developing the coercive hierarchies that lead to government, the common feature seems to be a group of respected male elders permanently entrusted with the role of resolving conflicts and meting out justice. In such a context privilege can become entrenched, as those who enjoy it may shape the social norms that preserve and amplify their privilege. Without that power, individual wealth and power rest on a weak foundation that everyone can challenge.

State justice begins with a refusal to engage with human needs. Human needs are dynamic and can only be fully understood by those who experience them. State justice, by contrast, is the execution of universal prescriptions codified into law. The specialists who interpret the laws are supposed to focus on the original intention of the lawmakers rather than the situation at hand. If you need bread and stealing is a crime, you will be punished for taking it, even if you take it from someone who doesn’t need it. But if your society focuses on people’s needs and desires rather than on the enforcement of static laws, you have the opportunity to convince your community that you needed bread more than the person you took it from. In this way the actor and those affected remain at the center of the process, always empowered to explain themselves and to challenge the community’s norms.

Justice, in contrast, hinges on judgment, privileging a powerful decision-maker over the accusers and defendants who powerlessly await the outcome. Justice is the enforcement of morality — which, in its origins, is justified as divinely ordained. When societies shift away from religious rationales, morality becomes universal, or natural, or scientific — spheres ever further removed from the influence of the general public — until it is shaped and packaged almost exclusively by the media and government.

The notion of justice and the social relations it implies are inherently authoritarian. In practice, justice systems always give unfair advantages to the powerful and inflict terrible wrongs on the powerless. At the same time, they corrupt us ethically and cause our powers of initiative and sense of responsibility to atrophy. Like a drug, they make us dependent while mimicking the fulfillment of a natural human need, in this case the need to resolve conflicts. Thus, people beg to the justice system for reforms, no matter how unrealistic their expectations are, rather than taking matters into their own hands. To heal from abuse, the injured person needs to regain control over her life, the abuser needs to restore healthy relations with his peers, and the community needs to examine its norms and power dynamics. The justice system prevents all this. It hoards control, alienates entire communities, and obstructs examination of the roots of problems, preserving the status quo above all.

Police and judges may provide a limited degree of protection, especially for people privileged by racism, sexism, or capitalism; but the greatest danger facing most human beings is the system itself. For example, thousands of workers are killed every year by employer negligence and unsafe working conditions, but employers are never punished as murderers and virtually never even charged as criminals. The most workers’ families might hope for is a monetary settlement from a civil court. Who decides that a boss who profits from the deaths of workers should face no worse than a lawsuit, while a wife who shoots her abusive husband goes to prison and a black teenager who kills a police officer in self-defense gets the death penalty? It certainly isn’t workers, women, or people of color.

For every human need, a totalitarian system must provide it, subdue it, or substitute a surrogate. In the above example, the justice system frames the killing of workers as a problem to be addressed with regulations and bureaucracies. The media assist by focusing grossly disproportionate coverage on serial killers and “cold-blooded murderers,” almost always poor and usually not white, thus changing people’s perceptions of the risks they face. Consequently many people fear other poor people more than their own bosses, and are willing to support the police and courts in targeting them.

To be sure, in some cases the police and courts respond when workers or women are killed — though this is often to offset popular outrage and discourage people from seeking their own solutions. Even in these cases, the responses are often half-hearted or counterproductive.

Meanwhile, the justice system serves quite effectively as a tool for reshaping society and controlling lower class populations. Consider the “War on Drugs” waged from the 1980s up to the present day. Compared with work and rape, most illegal drugs are relatively harmless; in the case of those that can be harmful, medical attention has been thoroughly demonstrated to be a more effective response than prison time. But the justice system has declared this war to shift public priorities: it justifies the police occupation of poor neighborhoods, the mass imprisonment and enslavement of millions of poor people and people of color, and the expansion of the powers of police and judges.

What do the police do with this power? They arrest and intimidate the most powerless elements of society. Poor people and people of color are overwhelmingly the victims of arrests and convictions, not to mention daily harassment and even murder at the hands of police. Attempts to reform the police rarely do more than feed their budgets and streamline their methods for imprisoning people. And what happens to the millions of people in prison? They are isolated, killed slowly by poor diets and miserable conditions or swiftly by guards who are almost never convicted. Prison guards encourage gangs and racial violence to help them maintain control, and often smuggle in and sell addictive drugs to fill their wallets and sedate the population. Tens of thousands of prisoners are locked up in solitary confinement, some for decades.

Countless studies have found that treating drug addiction and other psychological problems as criminal matters is ineffective and inhumane; mistreating prisoners and depriving them of human contact and educational opportunities has been proven to increase recidivism.[84] But for every study that showed how to end crime and reduce prison populations, the government has gone and done the exact opposite: they cut educational programs, increased the use of solitary confinement, lengthened sentences, and curtailed visiting rights. Why? Because in addition to a control mechanism, prison is an industry. It funnels billions of dollars of public money to institutions that strengthen state control, such as the police, the courts, surveillance and private security companies, and it provides a slave labor force that produces goods for the government and private corporations. Forced labor is still legal in the prison system, and most prisons contain factories where prisoners have to work for a few cents an hour. Prisons also have the modern equivalent of the company store, where prisoners have to spend all the money they make and the money their families send them, buying clothing, food, or phone calls, all at inflated prices.

The prison system is beyond hope of reform. Reformist prison bureaucrats have given up or else come to support prison abolition. One high ranking bureaucrat who directed juvenile corrections departments in Massachusetts and Illinois concluded that:

Prisons are violent, outmoded bureaucracies that don’t protect public safety. There’s no way to rehabilitate anyone in them. The facility produces violence that calls for more of the facility. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Prisons offer themselves as a solution to the very problems they’ve created. Institutions are set up to make people fail. That’s their latent purpose.[85]

These are not problems to be solved with reforms or changes of law. The justice system has set its priorities and arranged its laws with the specific purpose of controlling and abusing us. The problem is law itself.

Often, people who live in a statist society assume that without a centralized justice system following clear laws, it would be impossible to resolve conflicts. Without a common set of laws, everyone would fight for her own interests, resulting in perpetual feuding. If methods of dealing with social harm are decentralized and voluntary, what’s to keep people from “taking justice into their own hands?”

An important leveling mechanism in stateless societies is that people sometimes do take justice into their own hands, especially in dealing with those in leadership positions who are acting authoritarian. Anyone can abide by her conscience and take action against a person she perceives to be harming the community. At best, this can push others to acknowledge and confront a problem they had tried to ignore. At worst, it can divide the community between those who think such action was justified and those who think it was harmful. Even this, though, is better than institutionalizing imbalances of power; in a community in which everyone has the power to take things into their own hands, in which everyone is equal, people will find it is much easier to talk things out and try to change the opinions of their peers than to do whatever they want or cause conflicts by acting as a vigilante. The reason this method is not used in democratic, capitalist societies is not because it does not work, but because there are certain opinions that must not be changed, certain contradictions that must not be addressed, and certain privileges that can never be challenged.

In many stateless societies, bad behavior is not dealt with by specialized defenders of justice, but by everyone, through what anthropologists call diffuse sanctions — sanctions or negative reactions that are diffused throughout society. Everyone is accustomed to responding to injustice and harmful behavior, and thus everyone is more empowered and more involved. When there is no state to monopolize the day-to-day maintenance of society, people learn how to do this for themselves, and teach one another.

We do not need to define abuse as a crime to know that it hurts us. Laws are unnecessary in empowered societies; there are other models for responding to social harm. We can identify the problem as an infringement on others’ needs rather than a violation of written code. We can encourage broad social involvement in the resolution of the problem. We can help those who have been hurt to express their needs and we can follow their lead. We can hold people accountable when they hurt others, while supporting them and giving them opportunities to learn and reestablish respectful relationships with the community. We can see problems as the responsibility of the entire community rather than the fault of one person. We can reclaim the power to heal society, and break through the isolation imposed on us.

#acab #anarchism #daily posts #communism #anti capitalist #anti capitalism #late stage capitalism #anarchy #anarchists #libraries #leftism #social issues #economy #economics #climate change #anarchy works #environmentalism #environment #solarpunk #anti colonialism

[ltleflrt]

Ltleflrt's Writing Year In Review

Not a lot of writing got done this year, but considering the level of burnout I've been experiencing in the last 3-5 years, I'm very happy with what I've gotten done :)

Total 2023 Wordcount: 67,799

Total 2023 Kudos: 247

Total 2023 Hits: 2,734

My 2023 Fics:

Peace: 18,643 (WIP)

Fenris didn't have much reason to smile and laugh in his life, until he came to Kirkwall and Hawke gives him a reason to. Fenris doesn't want to disrupt the fragile sense of peace he's found by putting his heart in the hands of another mage, but Hawke's flirting and kindness are difficult to resist.

This is a rewrite of my very first fic Peace Begins With A Smile, and technically most of the wordcount is from there. But I've got many more chapters written than posted, and I know for a fact that I added AT LEAST 10k words to the original story, so I'm keeping that posted wordcount for this year's stats :D

Peace began as a writing exercise, just to keep my creative muscles from atrophying. I had replayed DA2 early in the year, and fell down the Fenhawke rabbit hole again, and it made me want to re-read my own story. I hadn't read it in like 10 years, so it was very eye opening to see just how much I've improved and how much my writing style has developed in that time. I wanted to rewrite it with my new skills, and wow it's a BIG difference.

Reaching Out: 22,825 (WIP)

Everyone knew Malcolm Hawke was a good man. A hero in the eyes of his wife and children, and a respected pillar of the community. At least until rumors of magic started to circulate, and he had to move his family in order to protect them. He'd do anything to keep his family safe, a responsibility he passes on to his eldest son when illness takes him away. Mal Hawke not only bears his father's name, but also the weight of his father's legacy. Everyone, including himself, expects him to step into his father's role, to pick up those responsibilities and carry them with the same steadfast strength. An expectation that is tested when the Blight hits Lothering, and is strained to a breaking point by the lawless and chaotic City of Kirkwall.

This is my biggest 2023 project, all original words. Once again, DA2 infested my brain, and I got an idea for a new version of Hawke that has me really excited. Plus, I have always wanted to write a Fenhanders fic, so this is going to be it! I got stuck, and have been distracted by BG3, but I still have big plans for this fic. (SO big, omg this story is going to be so long lol)

Something to Hold: 14,733

He did not hear the telltale clank of Templar armor behind him. It was probably a local. All Anders needed to do was act as if he were a simple traveler passing through. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth mentioning to any searching Templars who might follow. Don’t run, act natural, don’t run, act natural, he thought firmly as he forced himself to keep an even pace. The only sign he gave that he recognized he was no longer alone on the road was to move to the edge to give the approaching stranger space to pass him. His heart beat like bird wings against the cage of his ribs as the sound of horse hooves and cart wheels grew closer. His fingers began to tingle with magic, and he curled them inward to hide any wayward sparks. Anders tried to keep his shoulders loose instead of tucked up tense around his ears. When the wagon drew up alongside him, Anders kept his eyes forward and prayed to the Maker that the stranger would ignore him. As was the case with most of his prayers, the Maker didn’t listen. On one of his many escape attempts Anders meets the Hawke family. And forms a special connection with the eldest son.

This was an excuse to write porn lol

I love "what if they met before canon" fics, and I decided to write one of my own. It turned out longer than I thought it would (shock!), and planted the seed for Reaching Out. It can stand alone, but I'm treating it as a prequel :D

Bathed in Starlight: 3,336

“You should have brought a torch,” Gethin scolds lightly as he comes to a stop next to Astarion’s discarded armor and clothing. It’s folded neatly, the armor stacked methodically. Astarion affects an air of carelessness, but he keeps his few belongings tidy and organized. Gethin suspects it’s his way of exerting a modicum of control over his life. “Or stayed closer to camp.” Astarion flashes a fanged smile at Gethin over his shoulder, seemingly unsurprised at his presence. “You know how much I enjoy a nip of danger, darling.” When Gethin’s lips tighten with disapproval, Astarion’s smile droops into a pout and he sighs dramatically. “There was nothing to worry about, was there? Here you are, with enough light for both of us.”

OMG a new fandom! *excited bounce*

I picked up Baldur's Gate 3 on launch day because the bear sex scene in the trailer hooked my interest (yes, I'm a closet furry), and the game has taken over my life. I did not expect to fall in love so hard, with the characters, the story, the gameplay, with my OCs, and one particular elf. But here we are, and I'm gonna fic about it.

This is just a canon conversation that I needed to write from the POV of my Dark Urge OC. Nothing special about it. And of course it had to include bathing. If I never wrote anything else for BG3, I needed to make sure I added my signature to the fandom :D

The Sun, The Moon, and The Night: 8,262 (WIP)

Caelnir and Kestrel are half brothers who were swept up by the mindflayer nautiloid at the same time. When they crash back to Faerun, they meet a pale elf who manages to snare both of them with his charms.

This is the bastard that has distracted me from my other WIPs. Yeah, yeah, I'm mad about it too, but I'm also gonna keep writing it lol

I don't normally create OCs. Like, there's Gabe Hawke and JM Shepard, but they've got more of a canon framework than most RPG playable characters. I have no emotional connections to any of my Dragon Age wardens, and the one inquisitor I care about has just the baaaarest hint of backstory. I can't even think of OCs I've created for other RPGs, because I don't care.

But oh boy, I care about Kestrel and Caelnir. A lot. Mostly because I created them with the same face shape, and I thought it would be funny if I somehow made them brothers even though one is a high elf, and the other is a drow. But they're half elves. What if their mom was just a slutty slutty human who traveled a lot? BOOM. The boys came to life, and now I'm writing fic. And since they both romanced the same character in the game, it's a poly fic. I love the challenge of poly fics, and I also hate the challenge, WHY AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF??

Oh yeah, because Astarion is my blorbo, my boys are precious and special, and I'm the self insert slutty slutty human mom ;D

My writing in 2023 has been nothing like previous years. The fics I've written have gotten very little attention compared to what I'm used to, even going back to my very early days of posting, but I'm having fun and I've got a few friends who are intensely interested in the stuff I'm creating. I'm just happy to be writing!

My plans for 2024 are to keep plunking away at the WIPs in this post. I don't see myself going back to any of my Destiel WIPs, posted or otherwise, any time soon. I think my brain needs a break from the Winchesters for now.

(Of course, there's a shitload of Winchester Inspiration in some of my new OCs, but like...they don't have American accents, so they're TOTALLY DIFFERENT PEOPLE LOL)

Anyway, Happy New Year! Here's to many more fics, both written and read, in our future! 🍾🎆🥂

Previous Years

#ltleramblings #year in review #2023 year in review #oops i ficced #long post

[sirowsky-stories]

The Flowers Always Know

Chapter 5 - Is This Goodbye?

Description: Having recovered enough that you were getting ready to leave the medical ward at Heroics HQ, the only thing tainting your relief at returning home, was not knowing if you'd get to spend any more time with your new favourite superhuman once you'd left.

**Beware! Author chooses NOT to display warnings on the individual chapters of this story. Read at your own risk!**

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Word Count: 3414 (1469 words added) Masterlist (this story)

   Three months later, you were not only back on your feet, but running. You’d never really been a runner before, favouring the peacefulness of walking, but now it seemed like such a freedom, you could barely get enough of it.    You’d been in a coma for almost ten weeks, which had depleted your fat-reserves and made your muscles atrophy, and you were the scrawny sort to begin with, so the nutritionist had not been happy when you’d started requesting more physical activity. But after making a solemn vow to eat however much he asked, he’d finally agreed.

   And you’d both been surprised to discover that you’d actually gained weight a lot faster when your body had begun to convert the fuel into muscles.    You were heavier now than you ever had been, and you were genuinely proud of that, because you knew it meant you weren’t only strong again, but also stronger than before. It felt like a visible testament to your victory over evil.    Plus… You looked good. You’d even gotten the colour and natural volume back in your hair.

   You were still living at the Heroics HQ medical facility, and you were still being tested to the nines every single day, but you didn’t mind. Everyone there were nice to you, and it wasn’t like you were in a cage, you went outside every day.    They just didn’t like it if you wandered off too far, since you hadn’t been discharged yet, which meant you were still their responsibility, legally.

   You’d been pleasantly surprised to find out the organisation had taken care of all your bills and payments while you’d been in a coma and during the subsequent rehabilitation. Probably only to avoid any scandalous headlines from the media, had you decided to whine about losing your house due to the Heroics keeping you alive against all reasonable odds.    But whatever their motivation, you were only grateful to them, because it meant your house and finances would still be very much in order, whenever you’d be heading back there.

   Marcus had been instrumental in your recovery.    As soon as they’d discovered that his electromagnetic currents helped you, the science-department had temporarily melded with the medical department to try and figure out why that was, and what might be the optimal way of utilizing this fortuitus abnormality.    Luckily for you, this had meant many long hours spent with Marcus by your side as he’d carefully experimented with stimulating your muscles into cooperating with you.

   It hadn’t been nearly as sexy as it sounded, most often resulting in unexpected jerks and spasms to whichever part of your body he’d been working on, nothing of which had had anything to do with any sort of pleasure. Progress, yes. But not pleasure.    However, it had offered you plenty of time to talk to each other, which meant you knew a lot more about him now. Or at least, a lot more about Missy. The proud dad had quickly emerged once he’d gotten more comfortable around you.

   Curiously, though, no one had been able to work out just how his current could have such a positive influence on your body.    They thought it might have to do with some sort of harmonization between the tiny electrical impulses in your nerves and the frequency of his current, but they couldn’t say for sure. Because so far, all their tests had been inconclusive.

   The never-ending tests didn’t bother you as much anymore, as you’d gotten used to the routine of them, but today was going to be a bit special in that regard, as you were about to do a test you’d never done before.    The medical team wanted to do a full-scale physical exam, complete with endurance- and strength-tests, and you’d actually been looking forward to this. You were excited to find out how close you’d gotten to receiving that clean-bill-of-health stamp in your charts.

   The tests themselves were gruelling, though.    They involved running as fast as you could in short intervals, but then in the breaks between each interval you also had to do a strength exercise. Weightlifting, or working with kettlebells, or just regular push-ups.    There were lots of different ones, and you never knew beforehand what the next one would be.

   You jumped off the treadmill, leaving it running at the same speed, and once you were off, you were told which exercise to perform.    The moment you completed it, it was back to the treadmill, and you weren’t allowed to alter the speed setting. If you couldn’t manage the thirty second interval, you had to step off and do another strength exercise.

   After that, you were mercifully given an hour to rest, before you were going to take on an obstacle course to check your agility and reflexes, and it was at this point that Marcus joined the small crowd of maybe thirty people, who’d gathered to find out how you’d do.    Most were people you’d met in the medical ward and who had been part of the team responsible for keeping you alive, and they were incredibly supportive. They’d been cheering you on and clapping every time you’d managed to complete an exercise.

   Not that you were surprised by their enthusiasm at all. These were the people who had spent weeks working almost around the clock just to keep your heart beating. If there were any souls you would be able to count on for support on your progress, it would be them.    It was slightly more surprising to realize, as you of course followed Marcus’ path through the crowd, that his mother, the almighty Anita Moreno, was also there, in the back of the little crowd.

   What could she possibly want to see this for?    You’d never met her, never even seen her other than on tv. Your only connection to her was through her son, but he had only mentioned her in the family sense, being the grandmother to his beloved daughter.    Of course, you didn’t know if he’d talked to her about you. If she knew how important he’d been to your survival and recovery. If so, then it made sense she might be a little curious.

   As you stood on the start line, doing your best not to let the massive wall, which was the first obstacle, deter you, your eyes were drawn back to Marcus, looking for comfort.    He was in his uniform again, and he looked winded, as though he’d hurried to get there in time to see this.    You noticed him throw a slightly confused gaze at his mother, though, once he clocked her, which seemed to confirm he hadn’t talked to her about you and certainly hadn’t expected to see her there.

   But he apparently decided not to dwell on it yet, turning his gaze away from her and down to you. And when he realized you were already looking at him, he gave you an encouraging nod and a warm smile, as if to say “I know you’ve got this”.    You’d been told that this course was the same one the Heroics regularly used for training, and that they’d scaled it down a bit for you, but the aim was still to test your physique quite rigorously, so it wouldn’t be easy.

   Nervous, but also eager to find out how much your training had paid off, you signalled the controller in charge of the timer that you were ready, and then waited for the whistle.    Scaled down or not, you found out right away that it really was a tough course. You had to use your whole body to get past practically every single obstacle, and by the end, you were so tired that you collapsed the moment you crossed the finish-line, to the zealous applause, whistles and cheers of the little crowd.

   The twins were by your side immediately, taking your vitals to make sure there was nothing abnormal about your exhaustion. That you were only as spent as anyone should be after giving it everything they had for fifteen minutes.    They’d been with you the whole day, and this was the final hurdle before you’d all get to rest. They’d both been sweating almost as much as you, just from worrying about you.    Finishing their exam by comparing it to your readings throughout the day, they finally announced their verdict.

   “All good. She’s okay,” they declared to the supervising physician, who in turn, looked at his digital pad and tapped a few times, before a smile crept into his features.

   “Well, it’s not a course-record, but considering the fact that most humans don’t even finish this course on their first try, I think we can give you your stamp now.”

   You sat up and stared wide-eyed at him, too stunned to find any words, but then Amaire shoved a water-bottle into your hand and all but pushed it into your mouth, temporarily sidelining your ability to respond.

   “I’m officially declaring you completely recovered, and no longer in need of medical assistance,” the physician announced, loudly enough for the entire room to hear, before he kneeled beside you and put a hand on your shoulder, lowering his voice as he added: “Congratulations, miss. You really are a miracle.”

   Joy bubbled up inside you as you took in his words.    You’d made it. You’d actually made it.    There was a light-hearted laughter in your throat as you worked on getting your pulse under control, made more difficult by the sudden burst of excitement.

   “Don’t let Miracle Guy hear you say that, Doc, whatever you do,” you joked, and he chuckled.

   “Hah, I’ll keep that in mind,” he winked, and then stood to leave.

   And when he turned away, your favourite Heroic was suddenly right in front of you, pulling you to your feet and into a tight hug in one fluid movement.    He’d never hugged you before, and you wished that he hadn’t done it now when you were soaking his uniform in your sweat. But, holy crap, did his arms feel good around you.

   “Felicidades, preciosa! I knew you’d be ready. How do you feel?” he laughed, while almost lifting you off the floor with exuberance, infecting you to laugh along with him.

   “Thank you, Marcus, I feel amazing. Like I wanna sleep for a week, but still amazing,” you chirped, before reluctantly pulling back to look at him.

   As wonderful as it was to be encircled by those arms, you wanted him to see your eyes when you spoke again.

   “Really, thank you. I don’t know if I could have recovered this well without you, or if I would’ve even been able to wake my body up, ever again.    I was trapped in the most impossible position imaginable, and you set me free. I’ve never thanked you for that. I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough,” you tried to explain, although it was hard to put words to how massive your gratitude really was.

   He looked mildly embarrassed by your gratitude, and his eyes seemed a bit glossier as he pulled you back into his arms and held you even tighter.    But you didn’t think he was being modest about the impact he’d had on your life, it was more like he was just overwhelmed by his own emotions, and perhaps not ready to let you see him at his most frail state of mind.    Then he spoke, and suddenly you knew exactly how overwhelmed he felt.

   “You have no idea what it means to me to see you like this. Strong, healthy and happy.    I’ll never forget those eyes staring up at me that day in the hospital. That image haunted my dreams for weeks.    So, every day I walked into your med-chamber, hoping to see you improved, only to find you unchanged. As if time had stopped, trapping you somewhere the rest of us couldn’t see or bring you back from. And it made me feel so helpless and useless.”

   He spoke quietly, right by your ear. These words were only for you, and you could hear in his voice just how true they were.    It brought tears of gratitude and joy to your eyes, but you held them back, for fear he might misinterpret them as pain.

   “You don’t owe me a damned thing, hermosa,” he added after a taking a few calming breaths, although you could still feel the thumping of his heart against your ribcage. “The fact that I get to see those eyes smile again, is more than I ever dared to dream.”

   But the moment abruptly ended then, when someone very loudly and deliberately cleared their throat right next to the two of you, making you automatically pull away from one another.    And then you nearly choked on your own saliva when you realized the person standing there was his mother.    Marcus, however, seemed only annoyed, all trace of overpowering emotion scrubbed from his face the moment he drew back from you.

   “Hi, mom. I was wondering what brought you here today,” he greeted, but his tone was suspicious, and he demonstratively crossed his arms while he turned towards her.

   “Are you not going to introduce me, hijo? Didn’t I raise you to be polite?” Mrs. Moreno chided, but her son was unaffected.

   “Oh, and here I thought sneaking up on people, deliberately trying to make them uncomfortable was considered impolite. My mistake,” he snorted sarcastically, to which his mother merely glared. “She doesn’t need your dramatic flares today, mama. Let her have her moment in peace.”

   But you just smiled at the two of them. You’d never been close with your own family, so it always warmed your heart to see people who were. And within the little tidbits he’d spoken about his mother during your long conversations in the med-chamber, you’d been able to discern that they were extremely close, which was why they could argue quite heatedly without ever getting truly angry with one another.

   “That’s okay. A little drama can be very entertaining,” you chipped in, keeping your tone light and smiling as you looked from Marcus to his mother.

   And since the son was clearly not gonna do it, you then introduced yourself, with a respectful nod, rather than offering your still sweat-soaked hand.    However, instead of the customary response of introducing herself in return, since this was the first time you met, she didn’t respond to you at all, and instead gave her son a sideways glance.

   “Don’t you have some Heroics to wrangle, Team Leader?” she huffed at him, to which his eyebrows climbed about three stories on his forehead.

   “Are you serious?”

   “Do I look like I’m joking?”

   “Do I look like I have any intention of leaving you alone with a woman who has no idea just how horridly manipulative you can be?” Marcus countered, and he was actually starting to sound a bit angry now.

   “Now you’re exaggerating, chico. When have I ever been horrid?”

   “I can count it out for you, if you’d like. Or maybe the word ‘ambassador’ will suffice?” he taunted, but she just shrugged.

   “That boy was a huevón. He needed a figurative slap in the right direction. And that situation has nothing to do with this,” she objected, but her son wasn’t having it.

   “Oh, but it has everything to do with this, because when you’re willing to humiliate someone in front of their entire office, for no greater reason than to prove a point, people might think twice before allowing you the opportunity to meddle with their fucking lives.”

   “Ay, mind your tongue,” was all the response she gave to his little tirade, she didn’t even try and argue her side of it, so apparently, Marcus was right in his observation.

   “Not even a little bit.    Now, if you’re not gonna be civil, or even polite enough to officially introduce yourself, much less explain why it’s suddenly so important for you to speak to someone you’ve taken no interest in before today, you better believe I’m not leaving my friend alone with you.    So, either start talking, or go away,” he countered, and you didn’t miss the slightly possessive edge to the way he said my friend.

   You were even a tad concerned at just how much you liked it.    His mother, on the other hand, scoffed and then turned on her heels and walked away. Apparently not willing to discuss whatever matter had brought her to you, with him present.

   “Sorry about that. She’s really sweet once you get to know her, but she’s also… tricky,” he excused, softening his stance and turning back to you once she’d left.

   “You know, I wouldn’t have minded speaking with her,” you said, while grabbing a fresh towel to try and get rid of the worst of the perspiration on your face, neck, and arms.

   “I’m sure you wouldn’t, but you don’t know how dangerous she is whenever she decides that something needs to change.    Consider that she’s never once asked about you, even with all the time I’ve spent in the med-section. Missy asked me about you every day, but mom… She never wanted to know how you were doing or even any details about what happened to you.    So, the fact that she’s approaching you now, when you’ve just been cleared, means she’s up to something, and I won’t trust her intentions until I know what it is.”

   “Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t touched by your willingness to protect me from monster mom,” you said light-heartedly, mostly just to try and hide your shock and curiosity concerning the fact that his daughter had asked about you.

   It seemed like such an intimate thing to learn that you’d been part of multiple conversations between a father and child, neither of which you knew all that well.    But Marcus’ face broke into a sheepish expression at your jovial comment, and he bowed his head to look at his own shoes.

   “I’d happily protect you from anyone,” he mumbled, as if he felt silly admitting he liked to act as your guardian.

   “Thank you. I’ll be sure to call if I’m ever in trouble again,” you smiled, and he looked up at you then.

   For a moment, a shadow of something painful swept over his features, before he quickly tried to adapt a more neutral expression.    It didn’t quite work, though.

   “So… you’re leaving?” he asked, and suddenly his voice sounded so flat and lifeless.

   “Well, yeah. I mean… I doubt they’ll just let me stay indefinitely and rent free. Not to mention take up a med-chamber which someone else will undoubtedly need at some point.    And I do miss my house, though maybe not the cleaning I’m in for, come to think of it. Then again, I am overdue for a good deep-clean. Shit, I wonder if any of my plants made it?    Is it weird that I’m looking forward to cleaning? And cooking, holy crap, do I miss cooking. And sun-bathing in the garden with my favourite music and curling up on the sofa with a boo-…” you cut yourself off when he started smiling in that knowing sort of way.

   Although, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

   “Crap. I’m rambling now, aren’t I?” you realized, feeling just a shade pathetic.

   “A bit,” he confirmed. “But I get it. Home is… home. And I’m really glad you get to go back to yours, after everything.”

   “Yeah, me too,” you replied, and now it was your turn to look slightly sheepish as you weren’t sure how to continue this conversation.

   What more was there to say? You didn’t wanna just say goodbye and walk off, that would feel like shutting a door in his face, somehow.

   “Um… so, I’m sure there’s a bunch of paperwork I’ll have to sign, and I most definitely need a long shower and a lot of soap before I go anywhere,” you blabbered, trying to get to the part you actually wanted to say. “But I would love to see you before I leave.”

   “Sure. I’ll most likely be in Operations, or my office. Just ask around,” he nodded, swaying a little awkwardly on the soles of his feet.

   “Okay,” you nodded in return, still unwilling to bid him farewell.

   Instead, you turned to Amaire, starting to thank them for all their help and support, and by the time you glanced back to where Marcus stood, he’d already left.

#marcus moreno fanfiction #marcus moreno x female reader #marcus moreno x reader #we can be heroes fic #we can be heroes au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #sirowsky stories #superhero stories

[lightandheatao3]

The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 4: The Question

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Chapter Summary: Tensions rise as time in the bunker drags on.

Read chapter 4 on AO3 or under the cut. All comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated <3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

“Come on man, get up.”

“What’s the point?” whined Spencer.

“The point is that muscles start to atrophy after 3 days of inactivity, and you have been holed up on that disgusting mattress for… what… like a week and half now? Longer than you should’ve been,” said Derek.

Spencer groaned. “I’ve been a bit sick, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Which is why we’ve left you alone, but you’re so goddamn shaky and thin you’re starting to resemble a chihuahua. You need to keep active, or you will just get sicker. That’s true for all of us,” he insisted.

“Come on, it’s simple calisthenics. No worse than you had to do at the academy,” said Emily, entirely too chipper.

“I hated doing it back then, too,” he said. “I would really rather never move again, thanks.”

“Of course you want to sleep all day,” said Derek. “It’s called clinical depression, Reid. It’s what happens when you replace your brain’s ability to self-regulate pleasure with heroin. You’re gonna be all fucked up for a while, but you’ll level out eventually. And you know what’s proven to be one of the most effective treatments for depression? Exercise! So get your ass up,” he ordered, nudging the mattress with his foot.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Just don’t complain when I pass out after 5 minutes,” he said, dragging himself up.

The last thing he wanted was to be roped into an extended conversation about the questionable state of his mental health.

“I’ll consider it 5 minutes well spent,” Derek said, reaching a hand down to help him to his feet.

Emily corralled them all into two lines while JJ placed herself at the front of the room, ready to lead the workout.

“Frankly, I’m with you, kid,” Rossi whispered, looking pointedly unhappy about the whole situation.

“Shut it,” said Emily.

Hotch smirked. “Pick your battles, boys.”

“Just you wait until it’s my turn to run the class tomorrow,” said Derek, positioned feet shoulder width apart and ready to go in the front line with Emily. “You’ll be begging to go back to this moment”

Rossi and Spencer both whinged, but they shaped up and did their best to mirror JJ’s movements when she called them to attention.

Spencer did not pass out, but he did make it almost precisely 5 minutes before having to very rapidly excuse himself to go throw up. After a few retches, he collapsed back onto the floor of the tiny en-suit, half curled around the toilet.

Rossi ducked his head in. “You doing alight? Need some help?”

“Just… just let me lie here for a minute.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay with you?” he persisted.

“Get back in here, Rossi!” ordered Emily.

With a swear that was barely concealed under his breath, he left Spencer to languish on the floor.

A few minutes later he hauled himself out and retook his place in the group. Nobody said anything, but Derek had an annoyingly self satisfied smile. He only made it through another few exercises before he had to stop in earnest, but, as loathed as he was to admit it, he felt a tiny bit better. Emotionally, if not physically.

Emily, JJ and Derek all sat by him. Rossi had first dibs on the bathroom to wash his clothes and Hotch… well, he was sitting cross legged on the far side of the room meditating.

Spencer didn’t know if he was actually meditating, or if he just wanted to be left alone.

He’d warmed up to them all since they had been in the bunker. In fact he was almost warmer and friendlier than he had been when they were all still close. Or, maybe not friendlier, but gentle somehow, in a way Spencer had never seen him be with anyone but Jack and Beth before.

Still, he kept a distance from them. Even when they were talking, he could feel the invisible wall.

Not that Spencer was judging. He had plenty of his own walls.

“I know you feel like garbage, Spence, but you’re doing a lot better,” said JJ, looking pleased.

“Better than what?” he scoffed.

“Better than when you were pumping your veins full of dope every day,” suggested Derek, lying on the floor in front of where Spencer and the girls were siting, clasping his hands behind his head casually and putting his feet up against the wall.

Spencer narrowed his eyes, a flash of irritation at the lackadaisical attitude. “That’s an interesting philosophical debate. Do you really think I’d be worse off high in my apartment than soberly held captive by an Unsub?”

Derek tapped his foot thoughtfully. “I think, and correct me if I’m wrong here boy genius, those are not the only two options in the world.”

“Please, Morgan, if we make it out of here alive will you teach me how to be as virtuous as you?” he said sarcastically.

“Enough, both of you,” said Emily when Derek leaned his head up to argue back. “Spencer, stop scratching, you’re going to get an infection.”

He looked at her quizzically for a split second before realizing what she meant. He had been scratching at his arms without even noticing. He stopped, slinging them both over his knees instead.

The most recent track marks were scabbed over and the extra sensory sensitivity after withdrawal was making them itch like crazy.

It’s funny how quickly he’d gotten used to them seeing him like this. He was still in his singlet and pajama pants most of the time, the long sleeve shirt functioning more as a pillow than an item of clothing these days.

The others were the same, with everyone comfortably sitting around in their underwear when waiting for their clothes to dry. They’d all spent enough time in hotel rooms together over the years not to be precious about that sort of thing.

None of them even balked at the track marks anymore. They’d gotten used to them. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

He’d always hated having to hide and having them be so delicate about the subject of his addiction, but now they were infuriatingly direct. Far from walking on eggshells, they were stomping as brashly as they pleased. Especially Derek.

It was really starting to piss him off.

That might have been because literally everything was pissing him off since detoxing.

He tried not to feel too bad about it. He wasn’t the only one who’d been a bit snippy. The complete absence of privacy and personal space wasn’t doing any of them any favors.

“Can I ask you something?” asked JJ, catching his eye.

He sighed. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” she admitted.

A beat. “You can ask.”

She looked him up and down. Emily was glancing between them, and Derek had cracked an eye open.

“What happened two years ago?” she asked gently. “Why did you start using again?”

He was surprised it took them this long. He’d been waiting for them to interrogate him on the subject since the second that goddamn note was read out.

This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. It wasn’t one he knew how to have.

“Nothing happened,” he said softly.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Addicts relapse, JJ. An estimated 88% of all heroin addicts relapse within 1 to 3 years of quitting. I know you all think I’m different somehow, like I’m supposed to be smarter than that. That’s not how it works.”

He didn’t mean to sound harsh, but even he could hear the bite in his voice by the end. There was a little part of him that resented them for even being surprised at his relapse, as if there was something about him that precluded him from that kind of indignity. It was misdirected and he knew it.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” said JJ defensively. “If you don’t want to talk about it just say so.”

Before he could apologize to her, Derek chimed in with, “It’s what I’m saying.” He sat up. “You’re right, Reid, you are supposed to be smarter than this.”

“Thanks, Morgan. Invite me to the ceremony when they give you a Nobel prize for fixing the opioid epidemic.”

Derek folded his arms and continued as if Spencer hadn’t said anything. “You didn’t choose to be an addict, but you did choose to do it alone. If you hadn’t cut yourself off from all of us when you relapsed, we would have helped you. You chose to keep pretending everything was fine while it spiraled out of control. Every time we talked, every time you visited, I asked you what was happening in your life, and you chose to lie. For someone so goddamn smart, you've been making a lot of incredibly stupid choices.”

Hotch had opened his eyes and Rossi had re-emerged from the bathroom still holding a soapy, wet shirt in his hands.

Spencer and Derek had both stood up and Spencer wasn’t even sure when they’d done it.

Emily didn’t intervene this time. Apparently, they were doing this.

“You’re right, I didn’t ask for your help and I don’t want it now!” He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Through gritted teeth he said, “I am grateful to you all for getting me through withdrawal and I am sorry I put you through that. Can’t that be enough for now? We clearly have bigger problems than this.”

“No.”

“No?” he said indignantly.

“No. Why won't you talk about this? What could you possibly have to say that’s worse than what we already know?” Derek demanded, volume rising with every word.

“I don't want to talk about it because I know what you want me to say! You want me to tell you that if we get out of here I’m going to get treatment and go to meetings and pinkie promise I’ll never use narcotics again,” Spencer said, matching his volume and emphasizing the words with a wave of his hand.

“The only thing I want is for you to tell me the fucking truth!”

“No, you don’t!”

“Yes, I do! I don’t care how bleak it is, just for one fucking second be honest about what you want!”

“The truth is I don’t want to do this!” shouted Spencer. “If I had heroin, I would shoot up right now, right here in this fucking room while you watched. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear? I don’t want to be fixed!”

“Why not?” yelled Derek.

They stared at each other, both breathing heavily. Spencer had been staring directly into his eyes for far longer than he would normally be able, fueled by adrenaline.

He caught glimpse of something behind the anger that in another circumstance he might have missed.

Helplessness.

Oh.

Derek wasn’t mad.

He was terrified.

The realization hit him like a physical blow.

Spencer stared at him, opening his mouth but not finding any words.

“Why don’t you want us to help? Why don’t you want to be fixed? What the hell happened to you?” pleaded the closest thing he’d ever had to a brother. “What’s your plan when we get out of here? You wanna go be a junkie, dead in a year? You had 15 years clean, man. Why are you doing this?”

His eyes burned, moisture pooling in the corners. Why? Why was he doing this?

What answer could ever satisfy them?

The air between them filled with poisonous silence.

Out of the silence came a voice, too small for him to make out the words. Derek held his gaze, fighting tears of his own, but asked to someone to the side, “What did you say?”

“It wasn’t 15 years,” said JJ, louder this time.

Another shiver of panic worked its way down Spencer’s spine.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Derek.

“He said ‘times.’ When we first got the note. He said we weren’t there the other times he went through withdrawal. Plural.”

Fuck. Why could he never just say the right thing?

Derek squared off, lifting a hand to wipe under his eyes. “JJ’s right, isn’t she.” He wasn’t shouting anymore. When Spencer didn't answer, he took it as all the confirmation he needed. “Was it after prison?”

He shot a brief look off at the others, silently urging them to step in and save him.

JJ wouldn’t look at him. She looked small. He never wanted to do this to her.

Hotch was eyeing him like he was trying to solve the puzzle of what bits of Spencer Reid had been irreparably broken in his absence. Prison had certainly done some damage that couldn’t be undone.

He looked back at Derek. “No. That was… It was hard, but no.”

“So, when?” he asked, cocking his head, waiting for Spencer to give him something concrete to fight about.

He looked back at JJ, who still wouldn’t meet his eye.

She already knew.

“Oh no,” said Emily softly, putting it together. “It was after I faked my death to hide from Doyle.”

He was torn between Derek and JJ, and all the other people in this room who his deficiencies kept hurting.

Their fight after it was revealed that JJ knew Emily was alive had almost destroyed their friendship. In retrospect, he understood she was doing the best she could with horrible circumstances, trying to protect Emily.

He also knew, equally certain, that he would have told her. If the situations were reversed and she came to his door, crying, grieving, on the verge of a breakdown, he would have told her.

She knew it, too.

He was aware that she still held tightly onto that guilt. He regretted so badly the way he’d treated her when he first found out. He never wanted to tell her this. Never.

He turned away from Derek, who was still staring at him like he’d ripped his heart out of his chest.

“JJ, please talk to me.”

He stepped forward, putting his hands on her arms. She looked up at him, red eyed and exhausted.

“You told me you didn’t use. You only thought about it,” she said, sounding numb. “I believed you. Except… I think I just wanted to believe you.”

“I’m sorry.” He pulled her into a hug. She held onto him tightly. “You did the right thing back then. My actions weren’t your fault.”

The moment was over as quickly and horribly as it began when the chamber on the door banged.

Of course this interruption couldn't have come minutes earlier when he desperately needed it.

A gloved hand reached in to deposit a brown paper bag.

Derek was slow to react, not running to the door in his usual effort to ingratiate himself to their captor through one sided conversation.

When nobody moved, the interrupted outbreak of truth and consequences weighing them down too heavily, Hotch stepped towards the door.

He moved slowly, deliberately, as if one muscle twitching out of place would set off a bomb. Spencer wasn’t sure where he thought the explosion might be coming from.

When Hotch opened the chamber and extracted the brown paper bag, he stared at it. Not moving, just staring down at the thing he was holding, presumably filled with more fruit. Nobody else moved. Nobody spoke.

In one swift and vicious action, Hotch flung the bag across the room!

Fruit scattered over the concrete in a colorful arc. An overripe peach splattered on the far wall.

They all flinched at the sudden act, but before anyone could talk, Hotch had rounded on the camera in the roof with its infuriating, endlessly blinking red light.

He spoke low, dangerous. “When we get out of here, and we will, I’m going to kill you myself. Forget life in prison, I will put you down like a fucking dog.”

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath, not realizing he’d been holding it. JJ was gripping his arm tight enough to cut off circulation. He let her. The room was cavernous, quiet, oppressive.

Hotch clenched and unclenched his fists. Emily stepped forward, mouth open, a hand outstretched towards his shoulder but not bold enough to actually touch him, yet he pulled away from her as if she had.

“I’m fine,” he snapped. He took in a ragged breath, scrubbing his hands over his face, then lowered them. This time, calmer: “I’m fine.”

He looked around the room at the scattered fruit. With another deep breath, he bent down and started gathering it up. Emily stepped forward to help him.

Spencer, JJ, and Derek exchanged looks. Spencer knew they would not be dropping the subject forever, but for now they settled on an agitated, embarrassed truce. Well, Spencer was embarrassed. Derek might just have been agitated.

Had he really said, out loud, that he would shoot up in front of them if he had to? He was almost certain he would actually follow through with that given the choice. There's almost nothing he wouldn't do to get high at this point. Withdrawal and being stuck in the bunker had only made his cravings stronger.

He had certainly not intended to tell them that, though.

The three of them broke away, moving to help Hotch and Emily. JJ grabbed the paper bag for them to consolidate the food, while Derek moved to clean the peach that was dripping down the wall.

As Hotch dropped his handful of citrus and apples into the bag JJ was holding, he paused. The rest of the room paused too, waiting to see what he would do.

“It was my call to keep everyone in the dark about Prentiss. It was cruel to put that on you.” He looked around at the rest of them. “It was cruel to all of you.”

“You did what you thought was right,” said Spencer. He locked eyes with JJ. “Both of you did.”

Hotch eyed him off, picking him apart in a way that made Spencer want to bury his face in his hands like a little kid, desperate not to be seen. He resisted the urge.

“You still don’t believe it was the right call,” said Hotch eventually, a statement not a question.

Spencer frowned. “No,” he said honestly. “But I know you believed it. That’s enough for me.”

Hotch shook his head. Clearly, it wasn’t enough for him.

Emily looked between all of them, grey hair falling oddly prettily over her shoulders as she swiveled her head. “I mean, if we want to play the blame game, it’s really my fault for keeping you all in the dark about Doyle,” she pointed out. “Or Doyle’s fault for creating the whole mess. We can go even deeper. In a round about way, it’s really my mother’s fault I got into intelligence in the first place. We can all blame my mother! Trust me, it’s one of my favorite pastimes. It’s cathartic. Go ahead,” she encouraged.

Derek laughed. Even JJ cracked a smile.

“I really dislike your mother, so this is compelling,” deadpanned Hotch.

Emily chuckled. “Yeah, she hates you too buddy.” To the room at large she said, “I know we’re all going a bit crazy in here, but everything we’re feeling has to be secondary to the ultimate goal of getting out. I’ve been thinking about that, and-”

“Emily,” said Rossi, wet, half-washed shirt sitting discarded on the floor, forming a puddle.

Spencer hadn't even registered that he hadn't spoken or helped with the cleanup, caught up in the interpersonal drama as he was.

Emily looked at Rossi quizzically.

Spencer’s blood ran cold. It was crumpled from having been tossed across the room with the rest of the bag’s contents.

Rossi held a folded piece of paper in his hand. With it, a photograph, the edge of which was just sticking out between the folds. He offered it to Emily. “Sorry,” he said sympathetically. “Looks like you’re up.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds evolution #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fic #spencer reid angst #emily prentiss #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #bau team #bau team as family #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fic

[gamerism]

top 5 of your own works (fic, gifs, etc) >:) spread self-love...

aww thank u! also wow picking 5 of everything iv made, now thats hard to narrow it down. I think I'll try to put things from different mediums in each spot, in an order?

5. I just talked about it the other day but this gifset is my favourite and probably has to make the list.

4. Totally sneaking a poem in here since I've slowly been stretching that muscle, trying to shake off the years of atrophy. Can you figure out the POV here? ;)

3. Picking a fic is kind of hard, and generally how proud of it I am directly correlates to how recently I wrote it. So I'll just say this one. It's one of my longer single chapter fics and I don't think it has some of the problems a few of the others do, and shows my improvements as a writer.

2. I've totally gotten busy with so many other projects this year but I'm still really proud of this being a piece of pixel art i did so early into trying to learn the craft at the start of the year.

1. This video was from a while ago but I'm still really proud of how it turned out honestly.

#asks #answers #q & a #ask game #my.stuff