#and its a new doctor so its clean slate
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i am closer to watching doctor who than i’ve ever been in my life, this new dude is setting roots in my brain
#i cant remember exactly what he says but his reaction to seeing the blonde chick on the ladder as hes running over the rooftops?#that has an Energy im already fond of#doctor whos always been something ive been like yeah ill watch that at some point#then 10 years passed and i hadnt watched a single episode#im not lying#i was here during the height of superwholock#thats how much i put shit off#i liked david tennets doctor and i know the greatest hits of nine and eleven#and obviously the vincent van gogh scene destroyed me#but i dont like scifi so it was never enough to push me into putting it on#but this guys fun#and its a new doctor so its clean slate#granted i thought that with twelve#but this time i actually might do it#coming out of my cage and ive been doing just fine.txt#doctor who
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Did you know that Leigh Whannell has written and is directing a new movie called Wolf Man (2025)? With a protagonist whose name is Lawrence who "while returning to his hometown, is afflicted by an ancient curse after being bitten by a werewolf."
Well, if you're a fan of the Saw franchise and a Chainshipper, you're in for a real treat. For this is the long-awaited spin-off of the Saw franchise, picking up where Saw VII left off, telling the tale of what happened to Dr. Lawrence Gordon after he locked Detective Mark Hoffman into the same bathroom Lawrence previously shared with photographer Adam Faulkner-Stanheight in the first Saw film. What we didn't see in Saw VII, is that Lawrence took Adam's skeleton with him to finally bury his remains and hopefully bring peace both to himself and Adam, too.
But when Lawrence returns to his hometown, it becomes clear that there are supernatural forces in the work there. Lawrence himself is bitten by a werewolf, and the bones of Adam he buried? Turns out the ground he buried them in wasn't ready to accept them. And so, one day when Lawrence is taking a stroll in the park, someone with a camera bumps into him. And lo and behold, if it isn't the man who has been dead for years. Or who is at least supposed to be dead.
Turns out, dying and getting back to life takes its toll, so Adam doesn't remember Lawrence, their game, or much of anything of his life before really. What a perfect setting for starting over with a clean slate, right?
If only Lawrence didn't turn into a bloodthirsty monster every full moon, with the ancient curse's only cure being the kiss of a true love. But who would love a crippled, old doctor with a detestable past of being the apprentice and accomplice of a heinous serial killer, now with added lycantrophy? The answer may be closer than you think...
#chainshipping#lawrence gordon#adam faulkner stanheight#saw franchise#sawposting#my writing#well... one can always hope right? 🤣#i even went to the trouble of making that fake movie banner or whatever you want to call it#but this is still as fake as it gets 😪#or is it..? 😈😘#i'm laughing at how i'm mixing different folklore and fairytales in a jolly good mess here
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honestly, feeling very mixed. the giggle kind of felt like there was a lot of fuss for not a lot of actual things really happening. i also really really don't know how i feel about the bigeneration thing it just kind of seems so....pointless to me? like whyyyyyyy did we need fourteen to stick around and get his own weird little happily ever after just like how we had fucking tentoo get his own weird little happily ever after AND YOU KNOW WHAT BOTHERS ME ABOUT THIS. WHY DO DONNA AND ROSE GET THEIR OWN DOCTOR FOREVER AFTER AND ONCE AGAIN MARTHA IS PAID FUCKING DUST BY THIS SHOW.
i also had this other theory of my own that i really liked that ultimately didn't come to pass, but it was that as 13 was regenerating, she really did regenerate straight into 15 (in this case he'd be 14) and the adventures with donna was all in the doctor's mind, trying to give them a sense of closure about the whole thing. and based on the spoiler of the hug which i saw in someone's profile pic (and because i assumed the doctor wouldn't fucking BIGENERATE) i thought oh that could be a moment where like gatwa's doctor has realized that it's all a big regeneration dream and then he wakes up after. idk why i'm so dedicated to this idea but i was having a really good time with it in my head :(
re: bigeneration LOL i got behind it after the giggle because people in fandom were acting like it was the reason for a clean slate etc. with gatwa becoming basically The First Doctor of Disney!Who but honestly i don't buy it at all lol... the first ep of this new reboot is Star Beast (on Iplayer AND Disney lol). thats gonna be the first ep people see if they wanna give dr who a go. they should have kept the 3 60th specials as their own separate thing imo. and then Church on ruby road came around and this whole therapy/healing shtick which was apparently the whole point of bigeneration seems pointless because when we meet gatwa now he's already reverted to the same issues as normal (in rtds writing lol)
LITERALLY again martha not even a MENTION lmao. fucking rose obvs got a shoutout. but not martha (or yaz) hm m......
omg in your au what if the dr comes out of it and THINKS it's all happened in their mind but actually its part of the toymaker Manipulating and really gatwa has been sort of in dream stasis and actually donna is trying to crack him out of it.... GORL.
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Hoo boy, so how long before we get potential discourse on how this comic contradicts the established Crash Bandicoot timeline?
After all, Crash Purple/Spyro Orange had Ripto and Cortex meeting prior to Rumble ever being a spark in Toys for Bob's eyes.
I would say spin-off games in the series are kind of loose in terms of the canonical narrative, but Crash Bandicoot has kind of been an exception to that rule, in that characters first appearing in the forty billion racing spin-offs seem to return (Oxide) with implication that said spin-off happened, or the rest of the games supported extensive cutscenes and an actual plot that it stands to reason that they could all feasibly have happened canonically.
Rumble seem to follow in that; there's no plot to be found within the game, but these comics have served as nice bits of lore for us to chew on. There's not much to hone on, but would I not be a foolish student of Crashology to leave even the shallowest narrative uninterpreted? Unexamined? Left to rot in the sun like that?
I never bought the idea that Crash Bandicoot 4 was meant to be a thorough reboot of the franchise sans the OG Naughty Dog games, because there really wasn't much to contradict that latter games after Crash 4 still couldn't happen. Dingodile joining up with Crash's team (at the least, pragmatically, he seem to be a neutral force here driven by circumstances more than anything) might be the closest cutting off point since he's working for Cortex come Wrath of Cortex (Crash 4 never explains why he quit the ol' mad doctor's group, he just did for some reason), but now that Rumble's out, particularly with this comic, I'm now beginning to wonder if this is the creators' way of essentially wiping the slate as clean as they could and starting the franchise off from scratch.
And I think it needs it.
Oh, for sure, I'd argue it's yet another reworking of the franchise (Crash of the Titans kind of felt like one, even if, as far as I know since I never played it, they don't technically disown the timeline prior to its release) to revitalize and retool the poor series yet again, but this time, there's been a decade long gap - long enough for fans to lament what could have been, what we wished, and eventually, move on from it (well, some of us anyway.)
I was ready to call the franchise dead in the waters by, like, Year 8, wistful that they didn't get the send-off it deserved. Fact of the matter was, the last few games or so have just been a complicated, hot mess. Nobody seem to know what the hell they wanted to do with Crash the moment it fell out of Naughty Dog's hands. Not from lack of trying (and some developers did try), but it lingered around as either a pastiche of the OG game, a wacky-for-the-sake-of-wacky that varied in tolerance with its humor, or a sea of Dreamworkian pop cultural references - it was a mess. It was a HOT. MESS.
THIS comic, however, seem to signify that yes, come Crash 4: It's About Time, the whole ass franchise, after a decade of nothing, whih came after a decade of identity crisis, meant not only is this semi-reboot expected, but is downright necessary.
You could arguably just make A New Crash game that fittingly continues where it left off without acknowledging any of the past games, but with the assumption that it all happened, but ripping off that loaded, blood-chunked bandage for something visibly new, is probably the best this series, at this time, is going to get and ultimately needs.
Cut off the excess and start from where it was at its most simple, then slowly reintroduce the latter Crash elements. It does suck, if you are a fan of the latter-era Crash fans, to essentially be told after CTR that the rest of the games after is potentially no longer canon (Crash 4's announcer during the end credits certainly lampshades it, too.) This comic pretty heavily cements it, but man, it already does it so much better by introducing Ripto back into the Crashverse in just two pages of a comic versus an entire GBA game where he and Cortex... somehow share a universe and just... team up, I guess???
Of course Ripto crashes the party via a portal. Crash and Spyro's worlds are two vastly different places that sharing it together, while not impossible in the right hands, is tonally contradictory. Spyro's world is fantastical whimsy, Crash is sci-fi madness.
And it isn't like latter Crash characters cannot return. Crash 4's ending showed that absolutely CAN be the case.
Guys. GUYS. Nina's still here. Those two awful chicken announcers are still here.
The OG Crash games never really had the deepest stories, with only literal floating heads occasionally spouting the next motive. Having Crash 4 start from there WITH an elaborate narrative is probably the best starting point. There is no reason why any of the others cannot return in new, interesting roles while paying lip service to their older roles.
Setting aside complicated feelings on reboots notwithstanding, Crash Bandicoot really did needed a reset button, and if it means retooling the established canon in a metaphorical Crisis of Infinite Earths way, then so be it.
So yeah, the comic basically told us Crash Purple/Spyro Orange did not happen. And damn it, I think that's for the best.
On a final note, love this panel. For sake of gameplay, you're allowed to pick whichever character you want, but Rumble's lore seem to imply that villains stay on their end while, presumably, the heroes stay on their side. I guess Ripto serves as a third wheel who decided to muck things even further.
Also, I think Brio is saying Spyro's Japanese translated name, which is amazing cuz' anyone with basic Spyro trivia knowledge knows Ripto's name came from how the Japanese letters look when spelling out the purple dragon's name.
#crash bandicoot#spyro the dragon#neoyi talks#this has been the best Crash Bandicoot has EVER gotten in so long#I don't know how long this train will last but I will be a passenger for as long as they go this route and keep that consistency
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vox veritatis; self-para
Cress had fallen asleep. The labor had not been terribly difficult or complicated, would probably have been handled just fine at home, but Slate was glad they were in the hospital, as every time Cress had gasped in a particular way, or looked at him with fear, he had asked the nurses if something was wrong, if Cress and the baby were okay. The nurses, for their part, had been kind enough, as kind as Capitolites could be. The doctor who had delivered Kya was also kind, and she'd offered Slate the opportunity to cut the cord, which he had declined as he had no feeling in either of his hands at that point thanks to the death clutch that Cress had had on them throughout the labor.
It was over now, though; Kyanite had been born, whisked away to be measured, weighed, cleaned, and returned to them in a little hat and a blanket. She was impossibly tiny, and now Cress slept and Slate sat in the chair next to the bed, his arms stiff as he held her just so, the way he had been shown by Hestia the very first time he'd held one of his siblings. He was afraid of jostling her, breathing on her, doing anything at all that might wake her and bring her to the screaming she'd been born with, her voice a match for her mother's and father's already. She'd wake Cress, but she'd also break this moment apart, end it, and he didn't want it to end.
It was just them for a moment. At peace. The world was still, the child was still, and sober, completely sober for the first time in months, Slate was remembering.
Cress backstage. Him, in his costume. Interview. Her spitting, scathing: "You’d rather die with your pride than fight for the chance to meet them."
Bramble on the beach. Dying. Too late to save her. “I hope, someday, you’ll forgive me.”
And Nettle, running toward the edge of the ship; Mercuria, high in the air, flying, flying—
Bramble's voice again. “I hope you get to meet her. And I hope she understands, someday, why we did…what we did. Will you tell her about us? Me, and Nettle, and Merc?”
Slate's fingers traced Kya's face. Tiny, too tiny to tell whose nose she had, whose cheeks. The skin fresh and strange. And him, safe. Lip trembling. Heart having been emptied of its contents, filling up again now.
Bramble's voice wouldn't leave. Echoing still, him hearing as if through the ear that was gone: "You still have a purpose. Meta Morphic, Skylar, Flint- you're the product of all of them, Slate. You're Vox Veritatis. The voice of truth."
Slate looked up, eyes scanning the room. He wasn't safe to speak here, not aloud, not to Kya or Cress. He couldn't say anything real or true, in fact hadn't said anything real or true in six months. Not since the beach. Not since the Arena. That voice of truth had been swept away with the tide, and he closed his eyes now, bowed his head.
What had it been for? All of it? He'd never been convinced in some larger truth or purpose to everything, didn't think there was a hand of fate controlling everyone, and yet, it had to have been for something. Mercuria's faith and resolve. Nettle's love and certainty. Bramble's wisdom and passion. You still have a purpose.
The purpose: to protect Kya? She slept peacefully. She would be in a reaping bowl, one which Snow was still in charge of. They could do what they could: be mouthpieces, be good, well-behaved. But the names would still be printed; they would still be placed into bowls; hers would be among them, each time. Each and every time. And she was too small, too good. She was brand new, and what had he done to clear the world she was being born into of its horrors?
Long time ago -- he'd published a zine. He'd written words. Long time. He'd burned it all. It was still going, in the hands of others, the voices of others. But his had faded. Now his voice spoke of the Arena and the power of the Games in a new way -- patriot, good boy. Kya slept in his arms and he felt, suddenly, purely, like the traitor he had become.
Traitor not to Panem, no. Traitor to the children.
To her, to all of them. The other ones being born right now in places far worse than this. Wrapped in blankets not nearly as nice or as clean. Sucking for nourishment from a breast that wouldn't come, starting their life as they would spend it: hungry.
And what had he done?
Long time ago: he had written some words.
Long time ago.
"You still have a purpose."
Vox Veritatis, sitting in the hospital chair, holding his child. May her world be better than mine. He cleared his throat.
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lone wanderer oc vs courier six oc
lore down below, if youre interested:
so im on unoriginal bitch but my lone wanderer and courier six are one person, CourierSix!Fall being 29 years old (i am following the canon timeline of the game as well as the age of the player character, so LW!Fall is 19 when she left the vault)
her lore is based on my first playthrough of the 3d fallout games (my Sole Survivor is related to Fall, being a distant, distant, DISTANT relative 200 years up in the family tree), so here's a rundown.
LW!Fall takes after her father, being studious and looking up to him. she grows up to be smart and was slated to be the next vault doctor under her father's guidance when the events of the start of fallout 3 happen. thrust out into the unforgiving wasteland and forced to learn so much in such a short time, she meets burke in megaton and, after trying so hard to keep her cool with moira and her endless perilous errands, LW!Fall rigs the atomic bomb in the heart of the small town to explode. she blew it up due to burke's offer as well but shh
shes proficient with energy weapons and is surprisingly agile for someone who's led a barely active lifestyle the past 19 years in a vault, sticking to the books and all. she's traipsing between good and evil morals that both the regulators and the talon company constantly jump at bounties put on her head because she can really just flip the switch between being an angel solving all your problems and overall someone you could rely when you need to know something/get something done, to downright apathetic trigger-happy marksman who can clear the entire room in seconds (GRIM REAPER'S SPRINT BABY).
storyline follows the game, as usual, she finds her dad, helps him with the project, everything goes downhill, LW!Fall meets President Eden and fucking short circuits the AI in their first meeting and runs out of the Enclave HQ as its destroying itself as payback for General Autumn killing James after LW!Fall swore she was going to kill the man and made sure he heard it. then she finishes project purity, elects to contain the radiation in the heart of the purifier rather than sentinel lyons, gets radiation poisoning and is saved by the brotherhood, goes to the pitt, kicks ashur's ass and takes the baby for the greater good yada yada.
being an honorary member of the brotherhood and with things looking up for the DC area, LW!Fall really has nothing else to do other than to wait for her to be called on by the Brotherhood for guidance or special missions. there's nothing really left for her there since her dad is already dead and both the organization and the man who killed him are dead. on top of that, she feels EXTREMELY guilty about what she did to megaton, though she never told anyone else she did it other than James who sussed her out from the start.
she left for the Mojave, starting over and working as a courier, where life is quiet and she never had to pick up a gun ever again, though clean water is hard to find, but she gets by.
then the events of new vegas happens and thus starts Fall's emergence to be Courier Six. albeit this time, with experience from her Lone Wanderer days, she's a calmer, more rational, still trigger-happy but at least the energy is now focused on using it for the greater good, loves hacking terminals and snooping around, learning about the old world more and more, being chill with yes man and actually talking it out with people rather than shooting first.
tl;dr: local retired vaultie just wanted to rest only to get bopped in the head. proceeds to let the mojave find out that the person who changed DC has been with them for the past 10 years
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The thing about bigeneration is — I'm trying to care less about it having this particular lore explanation versus that particular lore explanation. Maybe the Doctors do split and never technically rejoin, so would be different people by Derek Parfit, except they aren't — because they don't regard themself than way. And the memories just vaguely filter between them sometimes, like a dream. Maybe Fourteenth actually has an infinite life where he never turns back into Fifteenth at any finite year, and Fifteenth starts his life ω years old (the first infinite cardinal). Maybe, even, it works only on a symbolic level and trying to fictional-physics it is missing the point. Though, I'm a theoriser at hearts, so I'm not going to stop trying. :)
But there's this thought that Fifteenth basically mentally/psychically shoved all their issues away for their other self to deal with. And that could be an interesting story! But it's not healing. Regeneration is — as I read it — basically a heightened version of something people actually do. That is, try to build a new self from — if not scratch, then bits and bobs and favourite drinks and maybe a moral code. And it does feel refreshing at the start, like a bit of a clean slate, and it makes you think in genuinely new interesting ways, and it is sometimes worth it to have or have had many selves. But you can't shove off trauma into the 'that's not me anymore, someone else — or even no one — will deal with that (even if that someone else is you too)'. It just doesn't work. I know because I tried. And the show, too, had the plotline of 'cast off a technically-also-you to lead a happy life with their/your loved ones', and it had 'leave your past behind by trying forget it and move forward forever', and it didn't work, because things you try to pretend don't matter to you always eventually come back to bite you. 'Nothing is ever forgotten, not really' also means that nothing is ever really successfully repressed.
Anyway, the story RTD was trying to tell was, I think, precisely about stopping running away, about finally working through everything. 'When the Doctor split, Fourteenth got all the trauma so Fifteenth could be free' is just a different story, character-wise, and it's not a happy ending/beginning at all. Also interesting, but, actually — for the Doctor — very, very familiar, not radically new. Irks me a little.
The reason I like the loop-not-fork idea is because it means, when mustache Doctor tells old teeth Doctor, "I'm fine because you fix yourself," that the story is about working through everything.
Tennant said in pre-publicity that the character in the specials would reflect the development and growth the Doctor had been through in the time since he last wore that face, from the man who but for Donna would've let himself die with the Racnoss, through the man who faced regeneration saying, "I let you go," to the woman who faced regeneration saying, "Tag, you're it." And it came through in all three specials' scripts, all the moments when he expressed a vulnerability and said, "Oh. Is that who I am now?"
Whatever the Doctor's final steps are on the journey, from the man who regrets to the man who dances in the club in a kilt, he makes in the time he spends with the Temple-Nobles. Then, by whatever wibbly-wobbly mechanism you prefer to imagine, that working through has made its way into Doctor Mustache at the time he peels away from Doctor Old Teeth after the Toymaker's laser attack.
Because I agree, the story of the Doctor working through everything is the one RTD evidently wanted told with the anniversary specials and to be done with before the first full story with Gatwa.
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So I want to explain the significance of my Destiny 2 sleeve I'm getting.
TW: su*c*de, mental health talk
Before I was diagnosed with PTSD, I struggled. A lot. During the pandemic especially. I had nightmares every single night, multiple times a night, for years on end, and oftentimes avoided sleep as a whole to avoid the nightmares. They'd be followed by sleep paralysis at worst, and a night terror at best.
When I had those nightmares, I often thought of ways to escape them beyond sleep. Including ending everything once and for all. I was such a depressed mess, so fucked over, that I thought death was the only escape at that point.
But when I felt this way, since no doctors were available since it was the pandemic, I always fought back with a distraction: Destiny 2.
Blind Well runs. Menagerie runs. Strikes. Power level grinding. You name it, it gave me a distraction, and therefore, a reason to live. And so I kept living.
I put on 40lbs, playing D2 and eating shit for months upon months, but I was alive. I could lose the weight, but I could NEVER lose my life. I had a reason, a purpose, with this one videogame, to keep going. And so I did. And I kept playing it. And I never stopped.
And then, one day, when doctor's offices opened again, I immediately got help. I started seeing doctors weekly, and started new medication, and finally, things started looking better for myself. The nightmares went away, I got my official diagnosis from 2 different doctors, and I began working out again. But I never did find myself staying away from Destiny 2 for that long. I always came back to it. It was a comfort, and I always found the seasonal activities to be a great distraction. Especially during Season of the Splicer.
And then, I recognized, I wanted to memorialize my favorite game on myself forever.
So I went ahead and did just that.
And I began working at getting a sleeve. With Cayde-6, Mithrax, Saint-14. The House Light symbol, the tricorn, the Titan symbol, the Ghost. And two quotes combined. "Eyes up, Guardian. The light always finds its way." A reminder to myself that I carry the three strongest men with myself, and a motivation, as well as the will of a Guardian, and my people, the Titans, and House Light.
I plan to extend the sleeve to my upper thigh, featuring my Titan, my Hunter, and my Warlock. But I need to save the money and get the first half of the sleeve done first.
I'm alive today, going strong, still getting help, and getting better. But I'll never forget my past, whether for better or worse. Sometimes I wish I were really a Guardian, with a clean slate and everything, but I know I'm just me. But that's enough. :) Being me is all I could ask for in life. Stay true to myself, and never stop fighting. Remember, don't give up, always get help. Giving up is cowardice, getting help is strength. Take care, Guardians. Eyes up. :)
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BNHA things I've been thinking out loud (maybe I'll make this into a series?) Pt 1
Happy New Year, everyone! (it's 10:52 pm as I'm typing this).
Ever since this whole "quirk bullets" has appeared in the BNHA universe, I couldn't help but wonder "What if they also had 'Quirk Essence'?"
Let's say (in this scenario) that All Might never gave Midoriya Izuku OFA before his enrollment at UA High, but he's sick and tired of being bullied due to being Quirkless. Suddenly, a shady-looking man in a lab coat offers him a card for his business; Quirk Boosters. They work similarly to how Quirk Bullets do, but in reverse and in a syringe. Since they're affordable, even single parents (or a low-income family) can give their kid(s) a gift of not being Quirkless (of course, it's up to the child and their doctor).
How this works?
Well, since Midoriya's father breathes fire and his mom pulls small things toward her center of gravity, maybe there's a Quirk essence that is a combination of the two or its own unique Quirk.
Example:
My OC never had a quirk (similar to Midoriya). She was given the Quirk essence via a "booster shot" by a strange man in a suit. She doesn't know the name of it, but she does remember this, "With this quirk, you'll be able to understand Butterfly Effect". She's also never considered it as "her quirk", instead she would call it "this Quirk that I have". Before his demise (and before Midoriya encountered Eri), my OC noticed that the quirk that she has almost mirrors Sir Nighteye's. During their small chat over that, they came to an agreement about how unfair their society is...
"So, I foresaw a short meeting that you wanted with me, I assume?"
"Yes, I noticed that your quirk is similar to Butterfly Effect."
"Pardon?"
"It's the name of this quirk that I have. I assume that it belongs to you. If it displeases you, I'll be sure to give it back."
"You have my quirk? Have you been using it for cheating on tests?"
"I admit that I was tempted, but I try not to."
"That's an honest answer, most people would say 'yes' or 'no'. Let me ask you another question... Have you ever used it for evil?"
"'Evil'... That reminds me. I have this friend that I grew up with (for the sake, we're keeping the name anonymous). When they got their quirk, they were labeled as 'demonic' or 'evil' when they did nothing wrong but receive a quirk as natural as puberty. Eventually, we grew apart, only to meet as teens. Now, that friend works for a small villainous group of people who were cast out by our society. If I continue to hang out with this friend without calling the authorities, does that make me 'evil'?"
With this in mind, Sir Nighteye looks down, as to look into her future, but...
"Strange..."
"What?"
"I've been trying to look into your future, but it's unknown. Almost as if what you do and/or say will alter the future."
"What does this mean in a more moral sense?"
"Well, because Principal Nezu has every student's file (including yours) since enrollment, your slate is clean for now. Plus, you're currently in class 1-C. So, your 'friends' don't appear to cause any more damage to the school than the destructive class 1-A. Just keep up the positivity of my quirk. I'll be sure to let the Purple Yokai know of this information."
As they parted ways, neither of the two would've foreseen that that would've been the last time they would speak to each other. She still keeps his promise to this day...
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Lancashire Stone Expert Reveals How To Resurface Tired Stone Flooring
ncaster. The building was in the process of being completely overhauled and the floor was next on the long renovation to do list.
Caithness Slate from the northern tip of Scotland and is known for its durability and strength however the years had certainly not been kind to this floor and it was in a very bad state.
To restore the appearance of the slate I recommended milling the floor with a set of very coarse pads that would remove a thin layer of stone off the top of the paving slab to reveal new stone underneath. The pointing was also cracked and loose in places so that would also need chopping out and replacing. After milling the stone would also be smoother and once sealed much easier to maintain going forward.
I estimated the process would take four days to complete. Happy to go ahead with the quote a date was booked for the work to start.
Resurfacing Caithness Black Slate
On the first two days there were two of us involved to get through milling the stone which is hard work. We used a set of milling pads applied to a weighted floor machine to cut through the stones surface using water for lubrication. This generates a lot of stone dust so a lot of rinsing and extracting needs to happen to remove it.
Milling carried on into day two but by the end we had started knocking out the old pointing which had already failed and wasn't too difficult to remove. It was one big room with a partition at one end, the building itself was built in the 1870s or at least that's as much information as the client could find as it was bought in an auction.
Due to its age, it had no water or electricity, so we had to work off generators whilst a rudimentary system supplied the water. This was not the easiest job for us as the generators were proving difficult to work with as the relays would overload and cut off the power; this happened more than a dozen times just in the first day alone, but we like a challenge.
As you will see from the pictures the stone flagstones were transformed. This was not a simple clean and seal job, this is milling back the surface using various diamond grits a heavy weighted buffing machine and patience, and some water. Using a wet system, the milling system won't leave a house full of dust and the diamond grinding leaves the stone much smoother and a lot cleaner which makes it a lot easier to clean and maintain in the future.
Sealing a Caithness Black Slate Tiled Floor
Once the milling was complete and the new flexible breathable pointing was applied for which we like to use a product called VDW 800. We then called back the next day and finished the clean, the floor area was left for another day to dry.
Once dry, the floor was then sealing using a single coat of Tile Doctor X-Tra seal which is oil-based sealer that really brings out the colour of the Black slate. Additionally, this sealer is fully breathable so it will cope with the damp conditions you find with old floors that don’t have a damp proof membrane and so won't peel off after a few weeks.
The client was very happy with the transformation and final finish and invited us back to cover more work in the outbuildings which eventually will join onto the main house. For aftercare cleaning I recommended Tile Doctor Neutral Clean which is an effective tile and grout cleaner that won’t upset the sealer.
Source: Slate Cleaning and Restoration Products and Services in Gressingham Lancashire
#Caithness Black Slate#Cleaning Black Slate#Gressingham#Lancashire#Milling Pads#Sealing Black Slate#Slate Flagstones#Slate Pavers#Slate Tile Restoration#X-Tra Seal
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Preferences: When their S/O has amnesia
Avengers x reader
warnings:
a/n:
prompt: anonymous: “Hi! If its not to much to ask can you make a MCU preference for the avengers (Natasha,Thor,Tony,Clint,Steve,Bruce And Wanda) Reacting to their S/O have amnesia?”
Bruce was a problem solver, but this was in no way his specialty. The brain was complicated and he felt helpless being unable to do anything about your condition besides the normal suggestions you could find on the internet. Jog your memory, do your favorite things, get you on a good schedule, and more. He was broken on the inside and missed your smile so much, you hadn’t smiled in so long.
Clint couldn’t wrap his mind around it, but he wanted to help you. You and him were both a bit stressed out by the situation, but he tried his best to make you comfortable and calm because he knew that you were hurting, too. You just needed support in this difficult time.
Natasha was struggling to adjust, but she’d do anything for you. She had connections, resources, but she didn’t want to overwhelm you and talked to you about your preferences for treatment whenever you felt comfortable with it. If you preferred to move on with life without your memories, she’d respect that and stand by you. She just wanted to make sure you were okay.
Steve was patient with you, he knew exactly how it felt to be out of place, no familiarity. He wanted to ease you into the whole thing, make sure you felt okay, and listened to your feelings. You had a lot of them concerning the sudden restart of your life. A clean slate with someone you’d felt like you’d just met that already had feelings for you.
Thor was upset at first, and just as confused as you, but decided to make the most of the situation. He’d make new memories with you. And he’d tell you stories about his life and yours, things he wanted you to know and hopefully remember eventually, but again, he was happy to make a bunch of new, wonderful memories with you.
Tony was all about answers and was really antsy about the whole situation, using all of his tools to analyze you and your brain, bringing in doctors if possible, and trying everything he could to get you back on track. While you appreciated how much he cared, you were beginning to grow tired and nervous about it all. Despite feeling like you just met him, you didn’t want to see him so upset.
Wanda had ways to help, but she wasn’t sure that was the best idea. She was fighting with herself about it and even then, there was no guarantee that it would work. She gave you the option and silently wallowed, feeling that she’d never get you back. But as long as you were with her, she’d hold on for you.
taglist: @alwaysananglophile // @rorybutnotgilmore // @locke-writes // @sweetheartliz07 // @queen-destenie // @natasha-danvers // @johnmurphyisqueer // @teenwaywardasgardian // @pappydaddy // @captainshazamerica // @freya-xo // @ravenmoore14 // @canarypoint // @zoeyserpentluck // @randomawesomeperson102 // @brutal-out-here // @wonderful-writer // @of-a-chaotic-mind // @groovygirlie // @procrastinatingsapphictrash // @lxncelot // @swanimagines // @randomfandomimagine // @petersgroupie // @dindjarinsspouse // @werewolf-himbo // @lost-fantasy // @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom // @summersimmerus // @cipheress-to-k-pop // @augustvandyne // @buckyeojin // @the-did-i-ask // @glxwingrxse //
#marvel#marvel imagine#marvel x reader#avengers#avengers x reader#avengers imagine#bruce banner x reader#clint barton x reader#hawkeye#steve rogers x reader#wanda maximoff x reader#natasha romanoff x reader#thor odinson x reader#tony stark x reader
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Kyle talks to Michael about Alex.
Kyle had had a strange pain in his chest since he’d accepted the surgeon’s offer, but as he stepped into the Wild Pony and saw Alex at their usual table, looking everywhere at once and tapping his fingers on his beer bottle, clearly uncomfortable with being alone, it was like a window suddenly opened to his heart.
A smile tugged at his lips. Alex saw him and smiled himself, raising a hand in greeting.
As Kyle slid into the booth, he said, “I have a raging headache in four corners of my mind, and only one of them is from my hospital shifts.”
Alex huffed a chuckle. “I get the feeling.”
“Right,” he nodded. “I keep forgetting that you’re in the club, too.”
“The club?”
“The We’re-Pretty-Much-On-Call-All-The-Time-Because-Someone-Always-Needs-Something Club.”
“Ah,” Alex leaned back in his seat, and handed Kyle the second bottle he’d ordered. “That club. It’s not so bad, being useful.”
He raised a brow. “That bad? I thought you liked your new job.”
“‘Liked’ may be a strong a word,” he confessed. “It’s definitely interesting.”
“And your boss?”
He sighed. “I’m still trying to crack him. What about you? Have you heard back from that hospital in California?”
Kyle looked down, and huffed a chuckle. “I think you’re the only one that’s asked me that. Come to think of it, I think you’re the only friend I have that doesn’t just call me for rescue.”
Alex’s smile dimmed. “So you have heard from them.”
He nodded. “And I accepted their offer.”
Alex said nothing, and Kyle looked up, expecting disappointment. But Alex wasn’t looking at him. He was staring off into the crowd of cowboys drinking by the pool table, his lips pursed, his brows furrowed.
“Do you hate me?”
“I’m sad,” he confessed, the corner of his lips tugged up in a soft smile. “I’ll miss you.”
Kyle felt a lump in his throat. For two days, he’d been deliberating his choices, wondering if it was the right thing to do. Everyone here, after all, needed him for one thing or another. He was worried he’d be letting people down. But Alex . . .
“Are you disappointed?”
He shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he hesitated, “I’m the resident alien doctor. What’re are they going to do if I’m not here?”
Alex raised a brow like it was obvious. “Manage.”
“Come on, Alex,” his shoulders fell. “You can’t fool me into thinking that you don’t care what happens to Michael.”
“All I’ve ever cared about is Michael,” he said simply, without doubt or pause. “But they’re not alone. I’m here, Liz is here. And you’ve done enough.”
“But you’ve always advocated for – for friendship, and being there for the people you love!”
“And you have been,” Alex chuckled. “And you will be. You’re moving to another state, not another planet. If it gets really bad, and I really can’t think of anything else, I’ve got your number.”
Kyle clenched his jaw. “But –”
“Kyle,” he leaned in, smiling. His eyes were glassy. “Take it from someone who built a career out of the military, and moved on. It’s time to tap out.”
Kyle didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have another argument, not with Alex’s eyes and words so sincere. Alex shrugged. “It’ll just be Roswell’s loss.”
He stared, searching for any sign of mockery or sugarcoating. But this was Alex. He didn’t lie, not for anyone.
He opened his mouth to speak, found the words lodged in his throat, then tried again. He really hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed Alex’s permission.
“Coming from you, Manes,” he confessed, “that means everything.”
On his way home that night, and after a hug from Alex and a promise that he would come over the next day to help him start packing, Kyle realized there was one more thing he couldn’t leave without doing. One last duty that he owed his best friend.
So instead of going straight home, he turned a road and into the junkyard. Michael Guerin sat in front of the bonfire with a beer in hand, that stupid hat on his head, and raised a disinterested brow at Kyle as he stepped out.
“Well,” he said, “this is a surprise. The good doctor needs something from little old me?”
“Actually,” Kyle said, “yeah, I do.” Michael just stared, and he shrugged. “More of an order, actually.”
Michael started to smirk and leaned forward on his knees. “You’re gonna give me orders.”
“Just one,” Kyle said, hands in his pockets. He supposed he should’ve been more hesitant, more afraid. Michael, after all, was a dangerous loose wire even when he was sober, and he’d been on edge for whatever reason for the past few days.
But then Kyle remembered the dark circles around Alex’s eyes, the slight twitch of his fingers, the way he seemed to be struggling with the weight of Deep Sky and everything that came with it on his shoulders. And Michael. Always Michael.
“I need you to look after Alex.”
Michael’s smirk faltered. “Pardon me?”
“You heard me, Guerin,” he sighed, not in the mood to play back-and-forth. Not anymore. “Look after Alex. He’s not okay.”
That got Michael’s attention, and his eye twitched. “What’s wrong with him?”
Kyle tilted his head. “Oh I don’t know, why don’t you ask him? Or is it only that Alex is allowed to help you, and never the other way around?”
He stood. “Watch it, Valenti.”
“I have been,” he said. “For the past couple of years, I have been careful around you, Guerin, because part of me knew that whatever you broke in Alex, I can just fix. But I’m leaving town, and honestly? I’m scared for him. He’d never ask for help, but there has to be someone who cares enough about him to offer it anyway.”
Michael clenched his jaw and swallowed. “And you think that’s me?”
“I need it to be,” Kyle admitted, “because Alex doesn’t want anyone else.” Michael’s face fell. “He’s never wanted anyone else. So it’s either you, or I find some way to take him with me.”
Michael’s eyes flared, but Kyle held up a hand to silence him. “I’m not, Guerin, but I would. I can’t leave him here alone knowing he’s just going to keep being used.”
“I don’t use Alex,” he growled.
“No?” Kyle scoffed. “Did you know that he left the Air Force just last week?”
Michael looked like he’d been shot.
“With full honors?” he went on. “Did you know that he’s been recruited by the same secret organization that shot Max and drugged Jenna? Or that he’s already been given a mission? Do you have any idea how exhausted he is?”
When Michael didn’t answer, apparently too consumed with taking in all of this information, Kyle shook his head.
“You wouldn’t, would you? Because it’s all about you, all the time.” He shrugged. “Alex doesn’t mind, so why should you?” He shook his head, already starting to walk back to his car. “He deserves better than that.”
Leaving Michael standing in the desert, Kyle got into his car and drove away, finally feeling like he’d wiped the slate clean with his best friend.
*
Michael didn’t know why he was here. He walked the length of Alex’s porch, waiting for Alex, not having a clue as to where he could be. He realized there’d been a lot of that since that year away dismantling Project Shepherd. He had less and less to do with Alex, and it gave him a headache beyond anything else had.
How could he not know where Alex was? How could he not have asked? How did Kyle know?
Because Kyle pays attention to Alex, a voice in his head scorned. You don’t.
Michael clenched his jaw, still a little tipsy from his self-loathing beers, and ran his fists through his curls. Alex’s porch started to upend itself, the hardwood floors battling against the nails keeping them down, and Michael gasped, settling everything back in its place.
Just then, Michael caught a pair of headlights and squinted only for a second before Alex parked and turned off the car.
His heart started to rattle and his breaths came out quicker at the sight of Alex in his flannel and jeans. He missed him. He had no idea how badly he had until he’d come back, until he got to talk to him that first night a few days ago – drunk then, too – but he missed him. He missed him every second he was away, and somehow missed him more when he was here.
Alex had a brow raised, but Michael was studying his face. He saw it clearly now. The dark shadows under his eyes, his hollow cheeks, his hair sticking up in perfect, messy strands like he’d been running his hands through them all day, his stubble. How could he have not noticed?
“Uh oh,” Alex sighed at the look on his face. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Michael swallowed. Right, he thought. Because Alex only thought he showed up when he needed something.
He pushed past the ever-present lump in his throat and asked, “Why would something be wrong, Private?” He purposely used the nickname. “Can’t I just come say hi?”
Alex glanced down at the word Private, and back up again. He smiled and moved past Michael to open his door. “Not in my experience. Seriously” – he stood by the door, and nudged Michael inside – “what’s wrong?”
Michael didn’t budge, still smirking though it felt hollow. “Why didn’t you tell me about the Air Force?”
Alex looked startled that Michael knew. Did he really just never expect Michael to care about what was going on with him at all?
He shrugged. “It – uh – it was recent. Who told you? Max?”
Michael stared, then started to chuckle incredulously. “Did everyone but me know?”
Alex was not humoring him. “I told Greg and Kyle. They’ve both been spending time with Maria, and she’s been spending time with Max, I figured one of them must’ve mentioned it to her, and she must’ve mentioned it to him – look, would you please just come inside?”
Michael’s laughter faded and he pressed his lips together. He was still smiling, but his eyes burned. Alex seemed to realize he wouldn’t move on his own, and he gently took Michael’s jacket sleeve, tugging him in.
Once they were both in the living room, Alex set to work on a pot of tea. As he handed Michael a mug, Michael saw the light glimmering off a silver ring on his finger. His brows furrowed.
“That’s new.”
“Oh,” Alex glanced at it. “Yeah. So –”
“Wasn’t that the same ring Long had?”
“Yep.”
Alex was clearly avoiding his eyes. Michael was relentless, a burning in his chest forcing the words out.
“He gave it to you?”
“No,” Alex said. “This one’s mine.”
“Is this about that secret organization you joined?” Michael demanded. “Or was that recent, too?”
Alex smiled as he straightened, understanding dawning. “So Kyle told you. No wonder you’re wound so tight.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s one thing when my own brother knows a secret about me before you do,” Alex said, taking a seat at the end of the couch. “But Kyle knowing it first?” He scoffed and shook his head.
Michael leaned forward, glaring. “So I’m jealous,” he spat. “So what? Why does Kyle get to know more about you than I do?”
“He’s my best friend,” Alex said simply. “We just talk about ourselves around each other.”
“But you don’t talk about yourself to me.”
“Not usually,” Alex agreed.
“Why?” he demanded. “I’m more important?”
“Yes,” he said simply, and Michael clenched his jaw.
“That’s really what you think of me?”
“I think the world of you, Michael,” he said, and Michael faltered. “You’re everything to me.” He smiled. “You think I don’t tell you about what I’m doing because I don’t think you care? I don’t tell you because you’re all I care about. I was going to tell you about the Air Force, I swear, just . . . not yet.” He looked down at his hands, his thumb rubbing the backs of his fingers. “Some of this stuff hurts to talk about, and I just don’t . . . I don’t want to think about it yet.”
Michael’s brows furrowed. “You’re . . . sad about leaving the military?”
He scoffed halfheartedly, slumping against the couch. “My whole life was the military. I had a family. Now I . . . don’t. I just need a minute to adapt.”
Michael tried to consider that, to be sympathetic, but he couldn’t be. For one obvious reason.
“But I’m your family.”
Alex huffed a laugh, and sniffled. He nodded. “I know.” He exhaled shakily, glancing at Michael, then stretched his arms high above his head. Michael was so distracted with his shirt riding up and revealing smooth, delicious skin that he didn’t notice Alex was lying down until his head was on his lap.
Michael froze, not knowing what to do.
“Hold still,” Alex murmured, his eyes already closed. “I haven’t slept in days and I’m exhausted.”
Slowly, Michael set a hand down on Alex’s waist, the other in his hair. His own heart hammered when Alex’s body melted under his touch and he seemed, for the first time since he’d seen him back, relaxed.
He leaned back on the couch, unable and unwilling to look away from Alex. “Then sleep, Private,” he whispered. “I’ll keep you safe.”
#alex manes#michael guerin#kyle valenti#malex#malex fic#malex fanfic#malex fanfiction#roswell new mexico#roswell nm#malex angst#malex fluff#tyler blackburn#michael vlamis
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Like, what happens to Mia? How does Gojo end up picking us? Naoya? How about Naoya? 😭😭😭🙏🏼😔
Omggg if you’re not going to continue reckless, can you please please please tell us how it ends? 😭😭😭 I don’t think I can bear living not knowing how it ends 😭 please? 😔😢🙏🏼😭
okay well here’s how it was gonna go, pls keep in mind my storytelling in asks and in writing are diff so this might be explained crappily HAHAHAHA but basically in reckless...
gojo gets shot in the head by his abusive dad bcos he finally stood up against him, but that backfired. his father is really adamant on control, and gojo loses his memories at the same time y/n gave birth. she decided to keep the baby after deciding that she wants a family after all, but when gojo woke up with mixed and lost memories, he only remembers mia and everything after her accident was gone. gojo becomes distorted and even becomes harsh sometimes, especially when y/n said they had a baby and she was his friend, bcos gojo’s mindset was from way back to six years ago, where he had lots of issues with his family and mia’s that he was wary who to trust.
so,,, they didn’t want gojo to hurt y/n bcos he’s such in an emotional mess that he has no control of himself. eventually, y/n decides to stay away but the baby is adopted by gojo and mia, who gets married for the sake of business and gojo’s current situation. truthfully, mia doesn’t want to marry him bcos it would hurt y/n and she’s not that awful. mia and y/n become friends after realizing they’re pretty similar and actually find genuine friendship with one another. she doesn’t have a choice tho and gojo, mia, along with gojo’s mom who divorced her husband for his abuse move to the states where they raised y/n and gojo’s daughter, sayori, leaving y/n all alone in tokyo who then becomes vice president of kamo enterprises. basically, it shows the repeated history of y/n’s father choosing to hide her from her real parents, and she begins to understand why he did that bcos she also has not really met her own daughter. y/n knows mia and gojo could take care of sayori better than she could, especially with the fact that gojo’s memories are mixed and transfixed on the timeline of him dating mia, mia giving birth to sayori, then them getting married. y/n is not present at all in his memories. gojo thinks he was the one in a car accident, not mia.
sayori is about four years old when gojo decides to come back to tokyo. now that he’s disowned and his mother has also left, gojo becomes a successful model in the states. he comes home bcos he remembers geto and wants to start their own agency (gojo as a model, geto as the photographer.) mia is wary at first for fear gojo might remember everything. she’s not being selfish; the doctors warned that anything that could potentially trigger gojo’s memories that his subconscious has erased could be detrimental to him. mia tries to hold it off but gojo insists, so the gojo/yamazaki family go back and that’s where gojo meets y/n, who he first thought was geto’s new wife.
in the reckless fanart, geto’s photo is like this.
geto’s ring is silver - it’s his dead wife’s ring. the hand caressing him is gold - it’s y/n wearing the ring of gojo’s mother, who by then has already apologized before they all left.
geto and y/n become best friends on the course of four years. missing her daughter, y/n becomes attached to mei (geto’s daughter) and acts more like a mom than an aunt. geto basks in this faux family they’ve built, though he makes sure mei is not too dependent or expecting that y/n would be her mom. he falls in love with y/n and he notices how after gojo left, she becomes softer and a lot sweeter. all the anger and hatred disappeared, all thanks to y/n finding peace with her new life and making up with her mother, Valeria, who once overdosed on drugs after it was exposed to the public that Y/N is a child she abandoned. y/n saved Valeria by rushing her to the hospital, which is also the same time that Y/N saw gojo being wheeled in the emergency room with a bullet in his head.
now that gojo is back, he can’t help but notice that y/n is avoiding him. she feels familiar but he plays it off over her being a close friend and possible lover of geto. meanwhile, y/n’s dedication to pretending he doesn’t exist breaks slowly when she sees sayori, a beautiful little girl who’s growing up, call mia as her “mommy.” it hurts her that she missed her first words, first steps, or that she’s being excluded in the family that is truly hers, but everyone is happy and doing great that she chooses to be the only who isn’t for the sake of everyone else.
in ch2, gojo goes to a carnival/amusement park and takes a polaroid photo with y/n. he finds them in one of the stuff he left behind in the penthouse he used to live in; shocked bcos y/n had been adamant they never met before. that’s when he begins to confront her on who she really is what they really used to be. he feels guilty that he can’t remember, but most of all, gojo is torn inside that y/n had been all alone the whole time when he promised he would be there.
its complicated for them since gojo x mia are already married, and sayori got her mom’s stubborness so its difficult for her to believe someone she never met before is her real mom and mia is...well, mia. mia actually helps sayori accept that she is not the real mom, apologizing to the child for lying to them and it ends up with sayori running away and getting lost for a few hours. sayori is scared since tokyo is alien to her and she doesn’t speak japanese, but when y/n finds her, she comes running to her arms and that is when she begins to soften up around her real mom.
this is where the slowburn with gojo and y/n begins. for them, getting to know each other once more on a clean slate is both refreshing yet scary, especially since one has erased the past in their mind and the other is desperately trying to forget it. the thing about the mia x gojo as a married couple and parents is that gojo deep down feels he does not love mia that way. he can’t explain why there’s just something missing or confusing in his life. he loves mia out of respect and friendship, but he would never admit that he is not in love with his wife. however, he plays it over the fact that its “just the broken memories” and lies to himself that he is very much in love with her. when he meets y/n again, however, it makes sense. he does love y/n and him forgetting her was a defense mechanism of his system to erase the most painful times of his life, and that included his guilt for hurting y/n with the abuse of his parents who controlled the way he acted around her. as for mia, she also does not love gojo and she probably never did, but for the sake of his well being and for sayori’s future (which was entrusted to her by y/n) she stayed with him. now though, mia knows its time to let go.
geto...it is not easy for geto. he loves y/n so much because of her tenacity and kindness, but he also loves her enough to know she is happier with someone else. to him, he’s content knowing that she felt less lonely when he was around and that he helped make her smile. in the end, geto has closure with y/n who apologizes for not returning his feelings.
NAOYAAAAA though...ofc i gave him a good ending 💕 after he was brutally rejected by Mia, y/n cheers him up by setting Naoya up with a law professor around his age, who is Ayame. Ayame is supposed to be named Suki tbh 😋 but I thought the self insert is a little too much so I changed it to Ayame. Ayame is pretty funny and even respects that Naoya is uncomfortable on the first date, telling him that it doesn’t have to be that kind of date and she doesn’t expect anything from him. Ayame’s bubbly yet blunt nature is a breath of fresh air from Mia’s secretive and perfectionist nature and the two become good friends. Naoya and Ayame end up hanging out a lot bcos “thats what friends do” but it doesn’t take long before they go out together. And ofc, Naoya is a little ashamed that Ayame was the first to confess and she beat him to it, but they get married and are happy nonetheless 💕 Mia ends up as a successful doctor who helps her family with the business, divorces Gojo, but she still has no plans to marry and is perfectly happy and content to focus on her career.
Eventually, Gojo and Y/N get married once everything is sorted out. Gojo becomes a well known model in Tokyo as well, and Gojo Group is absorbed by Y/N herself after proving Gojo’s father guilty of attempted murder. Gojo doesn’t want anything more to do with the corporate world though, but Y/N stays and kicks ass as a vice president to all the merged companies.
Y/N and Valeria also makes up after Valeria is indebted to Y/N who saved her life, and Valeria’s parents become more supportive and start to see Valeria more as a person than a child to inherit the business. Albeit being in her 40s, Valeria enjoys the youth she lost only now, but also enjoys being the grandmother to Sayori. Its a little awkward between Valeria and Y/N after everything that happened, but they’re trying and are even dubbed as the iconic motherly duo who is unbeatable in their games.
Gojo’s father is thrown into prison, and his main victim, his own wife, also shows recovery from the years of abuse. Although her obsessive control with Gojo and his sister (the eldest Gojo child) was not right, his mom was left with no choice but to keep them on close watch and control their lives because she was trying to keep them safe from their father’s wrath. In the end, Gojo’s mom makes up by being a better mother, and Gojo and his sister forgives her while also apologizing that both of them left home when they knew their mom always shouldered the abuse to protect her kids.
Overall, its a happy ending for most of the characters! the last chapter is Sayori’s wedding to Naoya and Ayame’s son, Naori, who is a few years younger than his bride. Gojo is grumbling to Y/N about how his little girl is all grown up now, and that their son, Shinichiro, who is 18 in that timeline is also maturing and would be leaving the nest soon. Y/N thinks its adorable and asks Gojo to just enjoy the union because its only one of the many great memories they would still have to make.
That’s how it would end! Gojo Best Dad and Gojo DILF. Everyone is happy!
Basically the theme of Reckless is that sometimes the most unexpected things we do out of character can end up as one of the greatest things to ever happen, which in their case was the suprise baby. They went through a lot and it has a lot of psychological themes, along with heavy family drama, but overall I wanted the series to be a heartwarming one by the end. I really would’ve loved to see it all happen but I am also happy to share it to you guys in this way.
So yeah, happy reading and thanks so much for supporting Reckless !! I was also thinking of doing maybe like a bonus chapter where the characters pretend it was all a movie and they’re actors that you can talk to, but that didn’t happen so :// anyways I hope you enjoyed this and thank you for reading up until here 💕
#asks with naoya's trophy wife#series: reckless#tw: abuse#sorry for the typos i wrote this on my phone without glasses lol
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I do have to wonder... what would happen, Director, if one of your 'soldiers' finally snapped and decided they would rather die taking out as many of your scientists as they can... than being forced to entertain your little god complex?
After all, despite what you may think, they are living beings and some with enough free will to realise what a monster you are.
Can you afford to lose one of your 'army'?
((TIME TO GET THE PLOT ON THE ROAD))
The cafeteria is a tall white room line with mirrored windows high above. The cameras are all well and good, but Salem prefers to watch her subject in a way that can’t be doctored by any meddling scientist. Watts may be her lead researcher, but she doesn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.
Not that she would throw him, of course. She has people to do that for her.
From her vantage point, she watches as 008 talks with the damn red-haired brat they’ve become so attached to in the last few weeks. 008 listens to the girl, cares for the girl. They’ve even begun prioritizing the red-head’s opinions over the orders and protocols Salem has worked so hard over the years to ingrain into 008’s mind.
It’s better when you don’t think, your superiors are always smarter and will make better decisions. You will be told what to do.
You are special, you are powerful, you are unique. You are disposable, you are worthless, you are an object.
You have a name, you have a title, you have a purpose. You have no rights, you have no control, you are a number.
Don’t think, 008.
This red-head… She was making 008 believe it could think.
And if 008 could think, the trusting fool it is, the others would be able to convince it that their goddess was the true enemy, not the devils waiting outside the safety of the Facility’s walls. Fear keeps the others in check, but if 008’s foolish naivety gets added to the mix then…
Salem gazes imperiously down at the pair. 008, the healer, the puppet, the blank slate. Stolen from its home, mind Wiped clean, and molded into the perfect obedient soldier. The girl, green eyes, bright smile, red hair in a long ponytail down her back. One of the General’s pet projects that she entertained so the man continued to look the other way.
A threat to everything Salem has built for the past twelve years.
She pulls up the girl’s file and sends a memo to Watts “Tell Michael I have a new target for her to dispose of. Terminate with extreme prejudice.”
Can she afford to lose one of her army?
008 smiles at the girl, eyes wide as they hang onto the girl’s words.
No.
No she can not.
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Here With You
summary: The weight of drugs can break any relationships, but your love for him is greater.
pairing: Mike Weiss x black!reader
10. “Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day?”
12. “Because I couldn’t bear the idea of you choosing to stay with me out of pity or guilt.”
Beta by @avintagekiss24 A big thanks to my good sis! Thank for being such a great friend on taking the time to help edit!🤍
warnings: fluff and angst.
a/n: this is 1/2 of my submissions for @angrybirdcr ‘s 200 follower challenge! I choose to write for Chris Evan’s character Mike Weiss. Great underrated film! Thanks for hosting, babe! <3 thank you for being so understanding on my lateness on my submissions! <3 sorry again for being late!
do not repost my works!
This wasn’t new -- this feeling of dread --- awaiting for the shit-storm of pain, and the rainfall of tears. A slow, and yet tender feeling like a blossoming bruise. The inside of your cavity feels shattered by every inhale of a strained wheeze.
Cloudiness floats around your skull like a haze, but you move on auto-pilot --- your feet move by the surge of determination, and commitment; a bitter-sweet twinge weighs on your tongue to witness someone you love fall apart at the seams.
It’s 3 in the morning now, the moon beams high in the inky sky. The apartment is blanketed by darkness, cautiously all lights are off. Chaos ensues, your heart lurches at the muffled vomiting, and whimpers from the bedroom down the hall. Your fingers tighten around the bucket, clutching as the plastic digs into your palm.
Two chilled soaked rags hang limply over your forearm. Breathless as your footfalls dash against the carpeting, bolting through the room to see Mike slumped-over the edge of the bed, his legs tangled in wrinkled sheets.
Drenched sweat soaks through two thick pillows --- now a bit flat, and wet --- blankets strewn around by fits of rage or Mike crying that his skin is too boiling hot. A lone lit lamp illuminates the room into a dim dewy yellow flourish --- an excess of light hurts Mike’s eyes, and gives him a migraine.
The bulb emitting makes his entire body shine by the sheen of sweat, shivering, and groans of your name slips from his quivering pink lips.
Half of his body leaning over the mattress, his trembling fingers shakingly gripping the carpeted flooring, as if he was trying to crawl his way out of bed. “I’m here, Mikey. I’m here.” A broken sob escapes your lips, as you gently fall on your knees beside him. Tears break its watery shield, and collide down your cheeks to see Mike crumble.
Drool pooling from his mouth, and puke residue sits at the corner of his lips. His eyes pinching shut-tight, crying at the pain, you shushing him as you caress his cheek.
With all your strength, with gentle hands, you push Mike over on his back, guilt coiling in the pit of your belly at him moaning. Your hands sliding underneath his armpits, you maneuver him -- twisting his torso, and legs so his body can lay horizontally on the bed.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Mike croaks, his voice was hoarse, and raw. You bundle a bit of your nightie in your hand, to wipe his mouth --- it didn’t matter, you’ll wash it later. “It’s okay. No need to apologize.” You stroke your knuckles sweetly against his cheek, reassuring him by touch and voice that you want to be here; to remind him you’re here for the long haul.
You kiss the crease between his furrowing brows, then your lips featherly trail upward, and kiss his forehead, with no hesitation to sweat sticking to your mouth. “You’re still a bit warm, but the fever is going down.” You spoke breathlessly against his skin, your lips tickling his skin.
Gingerly laying the rag on his forehead, Mike sighs in relief, his lashes fluttering closed at the cooling sensation surging through his buzzing head.
It’s been four days of Mike going raw cold-turkey. Four days of pure hell for Mike, and four days of pure grief for yourself.
In the beginning of this trial, when the drugs began flushing out of his system Mike wasn’t himself --- it was as if he’s a frothing beast scouting for substance. Screaming matches spewing from his irritation, itching between these four walls; Mike resembling a caged animal.
Pure rage masking self-hatred; anger at the aches deep in his muscles, pity at that maybe he can’t do this.
To accomplish sobriety.
Vomiting with his head limp, and deep in the toilet, hours of crying, and pleas for that one last hit --- Mike screaming for God to end him, and that he doesn’t deserve you. Cradling him in your arms, rocking him like an infant, as he sputters incoherent cries; speaking in hushed tones in his ear that you love him --- all his flaws, and scars.
What provoked his final decision to get clean, and start a new slate for one’s health, life longevity, and to keep your love --- was a discovery he dreamt to have long ago but felt he wasn’t deserving to earn.
“I’m sorry --- a-about the ca--r-rpet.” Mike whispers in choppy puffs, whining low. Jesus, this man is in pain, and he’s worried about you being mad at the carpet? You shook your head slightly, gesturing to him that you weren’t mad.
“Don’t apologize for that, it’s nothing. I’ll clean it later.” You spoke in a calm hush, as you placed the bucket on the floor, next to his bedside.
Your hand delicately pad against the clammy biceps with one rag, testing his bodily temperature, taking the remaining rag off of your slightly cold-numbing skin.
You kiss the corner of his brow, as you rub down his chest with the crisp rag, his lips part as an airy breath laced with deep relief escapes; as the refreshing fabric graces his flesh. His chest hair swirled a bit under the comforting circular motions.
Admiring his body, your eyes trace over every ink stroke of his tattoos adorning him. Sheen of water linger as you soothe Mike, silently reciting the Buddhist quote on his chest. Through the rag, you trace the designs of his tattoos by the tips of your fingers --- soft as petals.
Your hand travels the rag downward his torso to dull the slight overheating. Mike hums lowly with his eyes laxly closed shut, his breathing now ceasing into an easy rhythm. Memories begin flooding Mike’s head, as his breathing relaxes steadily. Recollections of how Mike and yourself met years prior --- four years to be exact --- at the hospital you work at.
It was a dark cloudy day, the outside world drenched with heavy pouring rain; the atmosphere was thick with dread, and scented with antiseptic. Sniveling, and irritated with a forthcoming migraine, the flickering lightening tube hovering above him was like a menacing tick, making him twitch internally; as he laid in the hospital bed.
Balling the white blue-polka dotted hospital gown into his fists, the fabric bundling between his fingers. Mike was silent, as he scanned his environment motionlessly.
Accidental overdose is the verdict. Sunken eyes with lavender hues, as the mulling cadence of ringing phones, bustling chatter of nurses, and squeaking footfalls of passing doctors flood the hallways.
A click of the door opening, and in all your glory, your hair tied in a bun with a few curls straying, wearing a purple nurse uniform, a clipboard clutched in your palm, Nike sneakers for comfort --- being on your feet all day --- and a name tag boldly showcasing your printed name.
In your palm, are clear bags of his folded clothing, and shoes. Nicely you place the bags at the edge of the bed near Mike’s feet.
“Hello Mr. Weiss. How are you feeling right now?” A melodic timbre that soothed Mike, lulling his weary mind to a blissful state. The concern didn’t go unnoticed, how you worded your question in the namesake of professionalism, and humane authenticity.
‘Right now?’ Usually people would ask how he’s feeling as if he wasn’t struggling prior with the question, ‘How are you today?’ and his usual response would be, ‘Shitty.’ sealed with a somber shit-eating grin, but you asked how he’s feeling right now, so you can help him, not analyze him.
You didn’t sound fake, nor condescending. Usually a lot of medical staff didn’t have much regard for addicts, nor at least a speck of pity or sympathy. Mike’s tongue was heavy, struggling a little to speak up.
Gaping his mouth open and closed, like a mindless goldfish. You peeked over your clipboard, with a sweet arched brow, giggling lowly to yourself --- your brown hues sparkling in amusement. It was a tiring day, so to see this man stammering over his words was beyond cute, and the highlight of your day.
“Are you okay?” You asked with a small curling smile, hiding your snickering behind the clipboard, with only musing eyes squinting in giggles appearing.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m actually better now.” Mike perked up, coughing a bit as his voice was hoarse, bashful, and his pale cheeks dusting pink. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Why in the fuck am I floundering? Get a grip, Mike! Mike never stuttered around women, always flirtatious. This was new for him.
“That’s good. How is your body feeling after the sedatives? Any discomfort right now?” Your soft voice interrupted his rampant thoughts.
“Just a bit groggy, but what else is new?” Mike humorlessly chuckles, as he shamelessly eyes your body. You notice him checking you out, but you elect to ignore him with a warm smile — but you couldn’t deny, you’re silently enjoying his wordless flirtation; despite your fatigued stature, this man still saw attraction to you.
“I promise it’ll pass. Just get some rest, and stay hydrated.” With a flick of your carmine painted nails, you smoothly perked the clipboard on your waist as you unlatched the metal clip, retrieving a few handbills.
“Here I have chosen a few pamphlets for rehab centers, and a few numbers for therapy agencies.”
“I don’t need those.” Mike pushed your out-stretched hand gently away.
You arched your brow at him, clicking your tongue at his ignorance, “And why don’t you need them?” You inquire kindly, a cautious tone; not wanting to release this man from the hospital’s care, just to snort and shoot up into an early grave.
“Listen, I can tell you’re sweet. Too sweet for someone like me to be concerned with. I’ve tried to get clean, and it never works. It’s just not for me.” Mike hastily sits up, slinging his legs over the bed, flinging the thin blanket off of him, “It’s not worth it.” He mutters under his breath.
You were entirely taken back, wincing at how low he talks of himself. Intently watching this man hastily open the bags to get his clothes, the edge of his jaw pinched pink --- like ripe warm peaches. Was it due to embarrassment?
You place the papers on the bed, as you walk more closely to him.
“You are worth it.” You place his cold hands into yours, cupping as if you’re cradling. Trying to get to his eye-level, make him see that you were serious.
He doesn’t dare to glance your way, “Doesn’t matter.” Mike insists, slowly seizing his hands from your grasp, “Why bother trying only to fail? And then disappoint everyone all over again?” His nose was flaring, not wanting to lash his tongue at you, just at the idea of his addictions being the topic of discussion irks him.
It’s not that he doesn’t want help … it’s that hopeless sinking feeling, that he’s just incurable. A burden. A problem, masking pain with sarcasm and substance to numb it all. A demon clawing at his shoulder, spitting self-hate in his ear.
You’re just not worth the trouble, Mike.
As he stood up from the bed, stretching out his shirt, he noticed from the corner of his eye that you were staring at him worriedly. On instinct, pulling the mask down to cover his anguish once more.
“Wanna help me get dressed, sweetheart?” A curling faux self-confident smirk that was forced, you sniff out like a bloodhound. You immediately caught on the familiar behavior, a usual route for patients to cope out with defense mechanisms. You saw this tactic day in and day out.
But more importantly, it’s one you use too well.
“It may not feel like it now, but it’s not impossible. You’re not the first patient I had who felt this way.” You spoke with conviction, ignoring the insistent words ushered by doctors from the past that were ringing at the back of your head, you can't help someone if they don’t want to get help.
It’s not a martyr shtick, nor a God complex --- but how Mike looked so distressed and sickly as he was pulled in the hospital on the stretcher pained you straight in the heart, parallel to many others before.
“You never know if you don’t try.” You perk your hands on your hips, with an insisting stance. It wasn’t pushy, but Mike could tell you weren’t going to back down.
How you stood firmly with the hands perched on your curvous hips that strained subtly against the cotton uniform --- it was hot, how you stood your ground to him, yet no insulting persistence. Your bubble cheeks scrunching up so cutely. Mike just couldn’t help but be turned on, maybe it's your caring nature mixing into it.
Mike breathed through his nose, his head hung low, his hands sinking into the mattress. A sign of defeat, not entirely submitting, but how your words were honeyed with sterling sweetness got him to halt, and process how his life led up to here.
He glimpses through his long pretty lashes, “Alright --” He cheekily scans your name-tag, pretending he didn’t already memorized it from the moment you walked in.“Y/n. I’ll go. You’re pretty convincing. Maybe you should have been a lawyer too.”
“Oh --- you’re a lawyer, huh?”
“An unlikable one to be exact.”
You suck your teeth teasingly, “I highly doubt that. You seem likeable to me.” You pucker your bee-stung lips with jovial tease, as you tug on the curtain surrounding his bed to offer privacy, his eyes zero on your soft lips that glisten with chapstick sheen, his arms mid-frozen holding onto his articles of clothing.
“Now get dressed, and we’ll get you out of here.” You chuckle, only the shadow of your stihollute appears. Mike chuckles to himself, a little shake of his head, he liked you from the very start.
You knew the circumstances of dating an addict, from day one you knew the weight of his demons Mike carried on his back. He laid all his cards on the table, and you leaped into this life with him head-first.
But how could you not fall for him? His charm, his blunt wit, his intelligence, his kindness and that beautiful face? Only a fool would be blind not to be swooned off their feet for the one and only Mike Weiss. After the first -- rather intense --- first meeting, it was definitely not the last encounter for Mike and yourself.
After agreeing to go to a rehab program, Mike flirted with you immensely; along with requesting for you to accompany him on his first day. “For moral support.” he shrugged, a flirtatious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
His first day was stoic, but with hushed side-commentary, and sly remarks. Muffling your laughter, you would poke his ribs, silently telling him to knock it off. It didn’t take long for an unusual friendship to develop. You really didn’t see it coming, and if Mike was to be honest, he didn’t either.
The realization of deep love was agnated to a love-drunk punch to the heart.
Days blurring into weeks into months with good morning and goodnight calls, late night conversations - those were the heart-shattering times. It was difficult for Mike to open up his layers, bottling his hurt inside to the point of shaking sobs at 3 am, clutching the phone.
Choppy incoherent words, spurts of feeling worthless. It began with you two having brunch which then led into dinner dates. Soon trust was earned, and you began hanging out at his house or your apartment.
A nurturing nurse and a sardonic lawyer becoming friends--his dry humor doesn’t rub you the wrong way, or how you don’t see it as obnoxious.
“Later when you take a shower, I’ll get you fresh sheets.” You murmur sweetly, as you finished massaging him. Mike slowly peels his eyes open, hooded and squinting. Your voice is silvery to his ears, it always appeases his darkest times --- like that hopeful light at the end of the tunnel.
Silently his eyes raked over your body, your hushed voice brought him back to reality. As he soaked in your appearance, Mike couldn’t stomach how tired you were, your eyes were droopy, your curls sloppily disrayed. As his eyes traveled from your exhausted face to your breasts that swelled over the past weeks to the ample bump protruding against your nightie.
Now entering into your second trimester.
Mike began silently crying, pinching his eyes shut as lone tears spilled down his cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. We’re getting through this, I’m so proud of you.” You kiss his wet cheeks, not minding the salty tears that kiss his eyes. Nimble sweet kisses, and cooing. You knew how hard he was working to get sober.
“You don’t need this shit.” Mike croaked, not daring to open his eyes, and see the pity in yours.
“Stop that. I love you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you.” You caress his cheeks by the gentle graze of your knuckles, shushing him. Lulling him to calm down from a pending panic attack.
You soft humming quills him, with only a sniffle here and there. You kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you.” Mike mutters under his breath. You giggle under your breath, feeling a bit bashful --- how can he make you so shy even after three years together?
You snivel a bit, biting back a sheen of tears, “And I love you too.” You’ll never get tired of saying that.
It’s been a long road, filled with bumps and turbulence. Many women would have left a long time ago, abandoning Mike at his lowest, but you just couldn’t. You’re too addicted to Mike, from the taste of him, to his scent, to the feel of his skin. His sharp tongue, and his humanity.
There was a moment in this journey that almost halted this life together, where you both had to address every bleeding crevice. It was a toxic mixture of your denial, and Mike’s instinct to push anyone close to him away.
It’s not that you didn’t want to help Mike, or face reality --- you were afraid. Scared that Mike was hurting himself, and all the progress you both built together was deteriorating at the seams, but then his honeyed words of promises of getting better would wrap your head in a rose-tinted daze.
Mike wasn’t trying to convince you, but himself. Just to chip off on the drugs, to keep himself afloat --- that this time it’ll be okay. He can balance his sanity, and his urges of substance that makes him feel ‘whole’. But that was just a temporary moment of brief delusion.
It was about three months ago, your shift at work was a tiresome blur, bustling on auto-pilot. The soles of your feet were aching, the nape of your back was droning in a dull pinch, and your eyes were slightly burning. Your worn body was screaming, and yearning for the comfort of your soft bed, and just to cuddle in Mike’s arms.
But there was a sense of … queasiness yet gleeful.
For days on end, you were puking in the early hours of the morning, your head hanging in the toilet. Waves of nausea, and finally, the nail in the coffin, you realized that your period was five weeks late. A hunch was hovering over your head, like a burning bright bulb. Finally, biting the bullet, and putting on your big girl pants, during a lunch break, you took a blood-test, and sent a cup of your urine to the labs for testing.
Once the results came back to you a few days later, you were speechless for the remainder of the day.
You were deary with worry, unable to conjure the words to form the discovery of yours. As you parked the car in-front of the house, cutting the engine off with the flick of your wrist, snatching the keys. Living with Mike has become a better part of your life, coming home to a person who loves you, and who would hold you, holding them. Grounding yourself back to earth in warmth, blending into one, melting your worldly problems away.
Reminding that you’re not alone.
With a groan, you weaved out of the car, locking it, and trekked up the walkway to the porch. Arching your arm, as your open-palm was rubbing your tail-bone as you waltzed to the front-door, thanking God and his angels that you were able to leave work early.
Dunking your hand in your bag, fumbling for your house-keys, mumbling under your breath as you blearily tried to conduct the proper way to tell Mike the truth, ansty and yet giddy at the toes --- to tell him you’re pregnant.
You always wanted a family, but over the years, the desired fantasy was slowly being strangled with dwindling hope, never really connecting to any soul --- until now, with Mike. Yawning mindlessly, you inserted a key into the lock, twisting, and opening the door.
“Mike, I’m home. I have something to tell you—” A cheery tone falters into silence.
Your foggy haze of exhaustion was smacked off your face, as you almost nearly stumbled off your own feet. Prejuticle vomit bubbling at the back of your throat, as startled eyes all look into you, you felt like a trespasser in your own home.
Witnessing a mass of people seated in your living room, snorting lines off the now stained and scratched coffee glass table, startled as they drink heavily and sloppily gulps liquor, as fogs of nicotine floods the air — staring at you with wide eyes.
Rooted in the middle sector of the couch, eyes bulging with fear, hot under the collar, was Mike himself, sniffling back remnants of coke deep into his nostrils, bare-chested in his red suspenders, and dress pants.
“That’s just great.” You mutter under your breath, a cracked sigh of breath; your jaw clicking to the side, Mike knows that tic very well. Your arms fall limply to your waist, as a gesture of defeat.
You walk away, exhaustion setting and resting in your bones, as your feet guide you upstairs. Begrudgingly so, an unbearable itch at the back of your throat, dying to just scream on the top of your lungs.
Scream and cry.
You can faintly hear Mike alert his friends to pack up and go, scuffling of footfalls and inebriated murmuring begin to flow out of the house. A few chuckles and finally …. it was silent, with the slam of the front door the only indicator that it’s just you and Mike — finally alone.
Fidgety fingers nearly tear the fabric off of you, tugging it off your body button by button with an edge of boiling rage, and a sheen of tears burning at the brim of your eyes. All the joy slowly zaps slowly out of your pores, now a dreary sadness now weighs on your shoulders.
Have I not done enough? To help Mike? Maybe my help wasn’t enough? Maybe his pain is too deep-rooted in him, maybe he has to push himself first to make the first move for recovery? Has he been lying all this time? Maybe he’s never been sober during the entire duration of the relationship?
You suspected it, felt the energy was off for quite some time, and yet you decided to play the love-sick fool dance the dance of denial.
A watery huff of a sigh. A dulling pain begins to throb and engulf your skull, an impending migraine just beyond the horizon. Clenching your jaw, nearly on the brink of grinding your teeth. A somber treading up the stairs looms near the bedroom, as you strip.
Dreading on what’s to come next, Mike was slowly walking to the bedroom, fearing a fight breaking out, worried that you’re going to leave him once and for all. But isn’t that what you wanted? For her to realize that you’re not good enough? Mike belittles and berates himself, as he is ever so delaying his steps.
Counting his steps like the sheeps to lull him at night, as he tries to collect his thoughts, already his tongue heavy with ale, ready to slur an apology. Trepidation beams at his brow, fearing the worse to come, that you’ll finally leave him.
His open-palm collides silently against the bedroom door, right on cue when he’s ready to push, he hears sniffles. Internally wincing at your pain, but like a bandage, he’s gotta rip it off.
Grovel on his knees, if he has to, kiss your feet like a goddess worshipped at an alter — anything for you not to hate him. Bringing strangers - swirly acquaintances - into your shared home, breaking your trust.
A creak of the hinges alerts you. Quickly wiping away your teary cheeks, you stand at your night-stand in nothing but your panties, straightening your hunched over form as you were sobbing into your folded clothes.
With a firm shove of the drawer, you close it, gripping your nightie in one hand, and the other clenching into a fist that hovers over your heart. Trying to level your breathing, not wanting to scare off Mike, you know that he’s hurting too.
You can feel his stare burning holes in the back of your skull.
“Mike, I’m just going to take a shower and head off to bed.” You turn your body around, now facing his mopey face, wanting desperately to just kiss him, and hug him. “I suggest putting a bottle of water at the night-stand to keep hydrated throughout the night, and a bucket to be precautious.” You force a forlorn smile, as you place the nightie on the bed.
Uncertain feet tap against the flooring, you walk hesitatingly at first, towards Mike, placing your palm on his shoulder, your thumb rubbing against his skin. A kiss on his lips, ever so featherly soft. “I’m not mad. We’ll get through this.” You rub the tip of your nose against his sweetly.
Mike knows you’re not mad, it’s beyond that. Mad is just scratching the surface, his heart aches to see your eyes watery, and nearly splotchy pink at the rims. “I hate it when you do that.” Mike’s hoarse voice makes you flinch, as if it grated against your ears.
“Excuse me?” Your nose scrunches up, as your cheeks puff out. “Hate what exactly, Mike? Me supporting you bothers you?” You move away from him, sniffing back your tears, shaking a little at the hands, the back of your knees collide against the bed, softly thudding yourself against the mattress.
“No. You pretending you’re not mad. Pretending that everything is okay.” His nose flares, his chest heaving. Wanting to scream, for you to scream. Just let it all go. Too much is bottling like a ticking time bomb.
“But I’m not mad.” You hiss through your teeth.
“Yes the fuck you are! Admit it! Stop acting like a martyr for one moment, and just say it! Say how you really feel! Say I’m a junkie!”
“Stop it, Mike! You’re just a little …” You trail off, biting your tongue, before anything stupid or insensitive spills out. Forbidding any word to spew out, and hurt him. No matter how infuriated you are, you just couldn’t lash out at him.
“Like what? Fucked up? News flash, Y/n, I’m fucked up. Stop acting as if you can fix me! You act like I can just pick up my mistakes and move along.” Mike shouts, now pacing, practically burning a hole in the carpeting.
“Shut up! I was going to say high!” You hastily stand up to your feet, “And I’m so fucking sorry, that me loving you is a fucking problem. That I see you as you are, a fucking human being, not some addict. Because that’s not what defines you, but you want it to be. You can’t stand to see yourself as anything but.” You cry, your hands not knowing where to put them at, just shaking in mid-air.
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Mike barks in your face, tears ready to fall down his stubbled cheeks.
“No it’s not!” You stomp your foot, your toes curling into the carpet. “You refuse to let me in! Instead you seek comfort in strangers, come together to get high, and fuck it all!” Your hand weaves in the air, angrily gesturing; harshly slamming against your thigh.
“You don’t even fucking know me!” By now, his nose is connected to yours. He doesn’t know why he’s screaming at you, lashing you with his insecurities, but how you just won’t admit that this isn’t helping you either. You’re hurting too.
Jesus, his brain is muddled. Fried. He wants to cry, and beg your forgiveness for what he has said, fall to his knees and just hold you, but instead, here he is, shouting at you. He doesn’t feel like a man, he feels lower than dirt.
“Then let me get to know you! You only feed me scraps, thinking that can subdue me, I want you to open up to me!”
“Why? So you can get some self-satisfaction by helping a charity case?” Mike growled, it was a watery one. “I told you from day one, I’m not worth it!” Mike thrashes trinkets off the drawer with his hand, products and little figurines collide on the floor with a thud, “You don’t need this shit! You don’t need me!” Mike screams on the top of his lungs, now hunching over, falling on his knees, as you sink into yourself; covering your mouth from sobbing too loud.
Have you been coming off as pretentious? Pushing him to keep positive, kind affirmations every-day, reminding him to eat healthy, telling him he’s great no matter what, hovering over him to keep sober? Hovering too much? Pushing too hard?
But you couldn’t help it … you love him too much.
“But I need you.” It was a pitiful sob, his arched spine quivering, his shoulders tense, his fingers digging into the cotton fibers. Slowly, you kneel down, your fingers tentatively rub between his shoulder blades; Mike savoring the touch of your finger tips against his clammy skin.
Seconds felt like minutes, biting your lip as you kept rubbing and soothing him, it always helped him calm down. Finally he spoke up, and what he will say will break your heart, “Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day?” Mike choked on a sob, his head bobs a bit to sniffle.
Your breath hitches in your throat.
“Baby …” You cry, finally a heavy waterfall crashes down. Holding him, your chest against his sculpted back, “Please talk to me. I don’t want to lose you.” Wet little kisses on him, mumbling, “Please tell me.” Fresh tears water his back.
“I love you too much to pull you down. To my own hell. It’s not right. You’re too pure.” Mike picks his head up, your hands cup his cheeks. Your brows furrowing, shaking your head at him.
“I need you.” You whispered. “I will go to bat in Hell, for you. Sock Satan in the mouth if I have too.” You chuckle, and luckily, he chuckles too with that cute signature Weiss smirk.
“I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. I just …” Mike hung his head, sighing. Hating that he lied for months, he was doing good, he was clean for a period of time. But he got hit with a big case, and the stress got too much.
Drugs were easier than asking for help.
“Then why did you keep pushing me away?” You tilted your head, to manage eye contact. You never wanted to push him too hard just to open up to you. Knowing that it only could make him crawl deep inside himself.
“Because I couldn’t bear the idea of you choosing to stay with me out of pity or guilt.” Mike rubs his cheek against yours, “I never had anyone love me, never held anything good.” Mike blubbered.
“I love you for you. Flaws and all. I’m here for the long haul.” Blinking back wet lashes, you lean in more against his face, with a gentle squeeze of his cheeks in the cusp of your hands.
“I love you too.” It was simply sweet. Shy, even. Mike nudges his face against yours, his lips trailing down your pulse point. Your ultimate weakness.
Mike hedges himself at the knees, as he engulfs your nude body in his arms; as you wrap your arms around his neck. You kiss the joint of his jaw, and with ease, Mike lifts you by his palms on your ass, standing upward with you in his grasp.
“Let me take care of you.” You whisper in his ear, “Come take a shower with me.” Caressing your face against his, Mike nodded silently. With quiet steps, and two hearts beating against one, Mike waltzes into the bathroom.
With his fore-arm holding you by the bum, his free hand unzipped himself, the click of his zipper made you quiver underneath your skin. His enchanting warmth shoved your secret in the back burner of your mind, but the journey of it twisting and morphing made you worried — slowly your concern of the possibility of losing the father of your unborn baby was temporarily replaced with touch starvation.
Like a balm to a gashing wound.
It was there but subtle, and quiet. Awaiting it’s time to arise at an unexpecting time, to snatch your heart and squeeze.
The shower was warm and inviting, it helped a little clear Mike’s stuffy sinuses. Your fingers twirling and massaging in Mike’s chest hair, as you both cling onto each other as a life-line. Mike kissed the middle of your brows, as his hands were unwavering from your body.
Silence --- the type that doesn’t need to be filled with unnecessary chatter --- comfortable --- speaking louder than words. His tears blending into the spraying water, and his small tremors were the signs that he was genuinely sorry; and with open arms, you forgive him.
Bathing each other has always been a favorite of yours, so intimate, the soapy sensation of wet skin, the intense eye contact — how perfectly his forehead connects with yours. How soft your touch is against his sex, coddling and cleaning him with care and precision.
Mike rubs the soapy sponge against the terrain of your shoulder blades, trailing down the arch of your spine leaving electric kisses down your spine. A breathy gasp at this welcoming intrusion of Mike seeping the sponge between your asscheeks.
Small lathery cadence intermixing with your wanton moans, as your fingernails scratch slightly against Mike’s back. Mike groaned, it felt so good — the smooth and slippery scratches made him hiss, it was a good pinch of pain.
Cheeky as ever, you slipped your hands to cup his his toned ass; Mike chuckled, mumurming under his breath, his pink lips against your soaked dome, “Greedy brat.” This wasn’t an escape from your issues, clearly both of you need to open the air to discuss your emotions --- a needed shower for two was a nice reprieve from the emotional turmoil.
To clear your heads.
After the shower, and moisturizing, helping Mike into bed, you were braiding your hair, but you were unusually silent. It was time to tell him … now or never. His finger curls against your bare back, fiddling with the thin silk straps against his tips.
You turn your face, your palm holding his fingers. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” Mike spoke quietly, as he laid his back against the headboard. His twirling fingers put you a little ease, but it’s not enough, you have to speak up.
“I have to tell you something …” You trail off, your tone puts him at unease. Your gaze is lowered, Mike shifts his hand away, and perks it underneath your chin.
Making you look at him, with a calm poker-face, Mike insists you, with the soft whisper of your name. Biting your lower lip, his thumb quickly tugging it down. “I’m — I’m pregnant.” Wide eyes gawk into Mike’s own widen orbs, wide as dinner plates.
His breathing got heavy, and soon choppy. You quickly put your hand over his heart, shushing him. “It’s going to be okay. Baby, it’s going to be okay.” A lone tear trails down your cheek, thinking of the worst, you believe Mike is going to bolt out of your life out of fear.
“Is that … ” Mike swallows, “Is that what you wanted to tell me earlier?” His chin wobbles, as you nod, unable to speak. His eyes lower to your flat tummy, hesitantly he cups your belly. His fingers caressing the silk clad skin, he began to cry. Just unraveling in your hold.
That night, you held him tight, and he clung to you tightly; his head laid on your stomach, his tears shedding against your nightie. Mike felt …. scared. Throughout the night, he would mumble that he wasn’t good dad material, but you always tell him, “You’re going to be great.”
That was four months ago, and throughout those four months, Mike was up and down, on and off of drugs, but finally … he stopped. He cried when he first heard your baby’s heartbeat, that’s when he began his rocky path back to sobriety.
Four months of self-hate, sometimes he would leave his journals open for you to read, he couldn’t properly express himself verbally, but in writing, he said it all. He was afraid of the rehab campus’, he preferred your expertise and comfort to nurse him back.
But he couldn’t do this to you, your pregnancy shouldn’t be a stressful one. He knows what he must do.
Mike opened his eyes once more, coming back to reality. Four months and he’s still here. “I’m ready.” His voice was small, yet confident. As if a surge of power consumed his body. His eyes shine with determination.
You were taken back, “Ready for what?” You ask nervously. You bite down on your bottom lip, a little habit you have yet to kick, you would bite your lip till it cracked and bleed.
“To go back to rehab. I gotta do this right.” You hold back a sob, kissing his forehead. “I want to do right for our baby.” Mike weakly smiles, you smile back. You can already envision your shared future, how Mike will protect and love your child. Happy and healthy, no longer fearing the shadow of death lingering near him.
“This baby is so lucky to have you as their daddy.” With the tips of your fingers, grazing his jaw, you lean down for a kiss. It’s a wispy yet passionate kiss. Sending electric waves down Mike’s spine.
“God, I love you.” Mike mumbles against your lips.
Mike Weiss, lawyer, ex-addict, a lover and a father. Oh, how lucky you are to have him, and how blessed he feels to have you.
#angrybirdcr200challenge#buckybarnesplumwhore wrote this#mike weiss x reader#mike weiss#mike Weiss x black!reader#black reader insert
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Out of the Fire (Part one)
Title: Out Of The Fire (Part one)
Fandom: Supernatural AU
Main Characters series: Reader, Lieutenant Firefighter!Dean Winchester, Lawyer!Sam Winchester, Jessica Winchester (Moore), Nurse!Lisa Braeden (Formerly Winchester), Ben Braeden-Winchester, Harper Winchester (OFC), Charlie Bradbury, Firefighter!Benny Lafitte, Firefighter!Jo Harvelle, Firefighter!Castiel Novak, Claire Novak, Mechanic!John Winchester, Firefighter Captain!Ellen Harvelle, Mechanic!Bobby Singer, Doctor!Arthur Ketch, Nick Vaught and many more!
Pairings: Dean x Reader (eventual), Dean x Lisa (past), Reader x Nick (past), Lisa x Ketch (current), Sam x Jessica (current)
Word count: ±2500 words
Series summary: A slow burn romance. Reader is trying to get away from her troubled past and start fresh; a new name, new town, new friends, and a new job. A clean slate. After years of planning and saving, she is able to open her own business. With the help of her best friend and business partner, Charlie Bradbury, and her new flirty firefighter friend, she is hopeful, even when disaster strikes and her past threatens to catch up with her years later.
Part one summary: Fire erupts and engulfs her beloved business, but something arises from the ashes and ignites a new desire.
Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fire or mentions of fire, fluff (so much fluff), angst, eventual smut, mutual pining, alcohol abuse, alcohol intoxication, mentions of domestic abuse (physical, verbal), mentions of miscarriage, mentions of adultery/cheating, mentions of death, dangerous or life threatening situations, stress, descriptions of injuries, blood, hospital scenes, character death.
Author’s note: This is my first series and my first attempt at an Supernatural AU. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I will try to release new chapters at a timely fashion, but as we all know, life sometimes gets in the way.
A special thank you to @that-one-gay-girl and @deanwanddamons for being the wonderful beta’s that you are! Your feedback is always appreciated! Check out their awesome work and spread some love!
All dividers and graphics done by me!
If you like this story, please don’t hesitate to leave a like, comment and if you’re feeling extra generous, share! Your feedback gives me live and motivation!
Thank you and let’s enjoy this ride together!!
Out of the Fire Masterlist!
Interested in more of my work, check out the link below.
Masterlist
It was so hot… Why was it so hot? And why was it so hard to breathe?
You stirred from your position on the tile floor, the long lashes of your (Y/E/C) eyes fluttering lightly as you woke. The first thing you registered was the intensity of the heat that surrounded you, quickly followed by the tightness of your chest as you struggled to take a deep breath. A vicious cough ripped through you with the effort, your throat raw.
You winced, your face scrunching with discomfort. You stirred again, needing to get up and move, to get away from the threatening heat, but your body protested with the effort. Your head was hammering, your brain pounding against your skull with every forceful beat of your heart.
What the hell happened?
You groaned as you brought a hand to your head, feeling something damp and slick against your skin. Blood. You forced your eyes open despite their heaviness, a futile attempt to gather your bearings; you couldn't see much through the thick, black smoke that hung in the air around you. Another cough tore from your lungs and stung your throat.
Fuck. That hurt.
You sucked in a rigid breath, wheezing as the smoke filtered in through your lungs. Get up! Move! You needed to get moving and find a source of fresh air, find somewhere safe, and quickly, before the smoke suffocated you and the flames consumed your body.
You scanned your surroundings swiftly, trying desperately to make every second count. Red hot flames licked the southwestern walls of the building on your right, engulfing everything that stood too close. That was where your office had been located, meaning the exit would be behind you, to the northeast. However, the counter separated you from your freedom, standing tall and stretching out and into the north wall, obstructing your path. The layout would force you to find another way around and take up so much of your precious time.
Rolling off your back and onto your belly, you supported your weight with your elbows and knees, making a point to stay as low to the ground as possible. You forced yourself to move, driven onward by adrenaline and the sheer will to survive. You were not going to die like this.
You army crawled through the rubble and debris that was once your beloved café, ignoring the way it made your heart clench with sorrow. Now was not the time to grieve. You needed to stay focused. Your life, literally, depended on it.
There was a loud crash somewhere in the distance - perhaps it was the ceiling caving in from structural damage, you weren't entirely sure - but the sound of it was startling and shook the floor beneath you, causing you to instinctively freeze and cradle your head, bracing yourself for impact.
A small yelp of surprise escaped from your throat as your body trembled with fear. You couldn't move, your muscles refusing to cooperate even though your brain screamed at you to do so.
There was another crash, much closer this time, as the flames ate away pieces of your heart and soul; all the years of hard work, burning to ash. You'd put everything into that little café, and now it was, quite literally, falling in around you. A ceiling beam landed in front of you , engulfed by flames and blocking your path.
You jerked back and shielded your face from the inferno with your arms, the skin burning from the intense heat. "Oh god," You cried out without realizing it, any hope of escape beginning to slip away. Tears filled your eyes and spilled over your lashes, streaming down your soot-covered cheeks as dread began to creep its way in.
Just breath, stay calm, you're okay, you told yourself, trying to prevent the lingering panic attack. You exhaled slowly, struggling to remain calm, willing the tears away. You banished them from your face with a swipe of your hand as you searched for another way out. With your back pressed against the counter to try and ground yourself, you pictured the floorplan around you in your head, trying to reassess where you were and which direction to go.
The kitchen. There was an employee exit through the kitchen. Changing direction and crawling back the way you came, you began your frantic crawl toward the swinging metal door. Your limbs felt like concrete as you forced yourself to move, and even though your vision started to get spotty and dark around the edges, making you feel nauseous, you kept on going, putting one arm in front of the other.
Just a little further. Don’t give up! But it was so hot, and you were so, so tired...
Just then, when you thought you weren't going to make it in time, you heard it… the most beautiful thing in the world.
"Anyone in here?!" He called out, his voice booming out over the roar of the flames. You could see the beam from his flashlight strapped to his shoulder, even through the thick wall of smoke. "Y/N?! Answer me, sweetheart!"
Your heart swelled with hope again as you recognized the man who was searching for you. Even though he sounded muffled through the oxygen mask covering his handsome face, you would recognize that voice anywhere.
It was Dean.
Dean, the firefighter you've grown so fond of these past few weeks, was here to save you.
You shifted on the floor and craned your neck to try and see him. "D-Dean! I-" A harsh cough interrupted you, "I'm he-here!" You cried out, your voice hoarse from the smoke. You went into another coughing fit, this one much rougher and longer than the others. You gasped for air, your lungs tight and constricting in your chest.
"I hear you, (Y/N)!" You heard him quickly respond, his voice gaining in volume as he grew closer. "Guys, over here!" He called out to the rest of the crew before following your voice. "I'm coming, sweetheart! Just hang on for me!"
"De-" You tried again, but your voice gave out. Your eyes grew heavy from exhaustion, and your body began to shake with the exertion and lack of fresh oxygen. Your head spun and your vision blurred as Dean came into view, the counter dividing the two of you.
In one effortless move, you watched through droopy lids as Dean vaulted over the counter and landed on the other side, his heavy boots thudding against the tile. He was now only an arm’s length away from you. You wanted to reach out for him, to touch him and make sure that he was actually there. But your limbs wouldn’t cooperate, feeling like stone at your sides.
He crouched down beside you and gripped your hand tightly as if reading your mind. His glove was thick and rough against your palm, but the material didn’t dampen the emotion or firmness that Dean put into the reassuring gesture.
With apprehensive, yet determined emerald eyes, he quickly assessed your body for any obvious injuries that would raise concern, ones that could be worsened or become life-threatening if he were to move you. He must have been satisfied with his examination, the look in his eye becoming slightly more hopeful.
His actions were rushed yet calculated as he removed his red lieutenant helmet, the mask quick to follow. His hair was tousled and sticking up in odd places. If this were any other, less dire situation and you were able to speak, you would have teased him about the messy heap on his head.
You heard one of the other firemen protest his actions, warning Dean that it was against protocol to remove his mask and put himself, and in turn everyone else, in more danger. "Fuck the protocol." Dean shot back over his shoulder sternly as he slipped the mask over your head, his large hands surprisingly delicate and gentle, even through the rough material of his gloves.
"There you go, sweetheart," He said a bit softer, turning his attention back to you. "That's it. Nice, deep breaths for me." He coaxed, nodding his head. "Good girl." He flashed you a brief, yet dazzling smile as you inhaled, following his instructions.
Your body rejoiced as the purest form of oxygen-filled your lungs, easing the tension inside of your chest, only momentarily. You struggled to keep your eyes open and focused on the beautiful man above you, his forest green eyes filled with so much concern. "Good girl," You heard him coo again, securing the helmet back onto his head.
The building creaked and groaned, threatening them with another collapse. Dean glanced up at the ceiling, his experience telling him that their time had been cut in half. You felt his large hands on your body as he scooped you into his strong arms, protectively holding you against his chest.
"I've got you." He muttered assumingly, trying to keep you calm as he rose to his full height, lifting you with ease. He scanned the surroundings, and you saw a hint of a frown tug at his lips, noticing the scowl on his brow. The fire was closing in, limiting his options and growing hotter by the second.
You made a motion toward the only exit available, lifting a shaky hand to point him in the right direction, and Dean seemed to have noticed your silent instruction. His eyes followed your finger, darting to the window on the metal door that framed the kitchen. He nodded before letting the others know, directing them to head back out through the front. They hesitated only briefly, knowing they’re not supposed to leave anyone alone, before following Dean's lead, trusting their lieutenant's judgment.
The experienced firefighter moved with determined strides, having wasted enough time as more of the building began to collapse down around the pair of you. There was a crack, and a loud pop from the ceiling as the building shifted again. The fireman shielded you as a few clusters of hot debris and flames fell from above, protecting you from the fire. One of the balls landed and burst onto his shoulder, the flames licking at his face. He shrugged it off with a low grunt, gritting his teeth through the sting of his cheek.
He refocused and took three large steps toward the kitchen, his heavy boots crunching the rubble beneath his feet as he closed the distance to freedom. Using his foot to force open the door, he let out a breath of relief, grateful to find that the exit was still a clear shot.
Despite the combined weight of his bulky gear, the oxygen tank strapped to his back, and the extra body cradled in his arms, Dean made good time and jogged toward the sizable steel door, determined to get you to safety.
Once again, he grunted through clenched teeth and lifted his powerful leg, the sole of his thick boot connecting with the push bar. The force of the impact caused it to swing swiftly on its hinges and crash against the brick wall.
Smoke billowed out from the now open door as Dean rushed out into the alley behind the café, sucking down gulps of fresh air. He grunted and coughed, staggering briefly before correcting himself. You wanted to ask him if he was okay, wanted to comfort your rescuer, but couldn't seem to find your voice.
The nighttime air was cool against your overheated skin, despite being this close to the fire, and it made you shudder in Dean's arms, goosebumps rising over your sensitive flesh. The firefighter shifted you in his strong arms, getting a better, more comfortable hold. Your head was nuzzled in the crook of his arm, giving you a perfect view of his handsome face.
Flashing red and blue lights bounced off the brink surrounding you and lit up Dean’s face, highlighting his strongest features. You’d never seen anything quite like it, but then again, you’d never been this exhausted before. Surely your head was playing tricks? You gazed up at him in awe, studying the determination that hardened his usual gentle features. His face was dirty with soot and darkened by the smoke, covering the freckles that normally adorned the bridge of his nose. His jaw was lined with stubble, emphasizing just how strong it was. There was a noticeable red patch on his cheek, the skin irritated and angry from the burn.
You were vaguely aware of the familiar, yet frantic, voice of your best friend and business partner, Charlie Bradbury. Her voice, regardless of its urgency, was drowned out by the sirens, fire hoses, and roaring flames behind you.
Sleep was beginning to linger at the forefront of your mind, tugging firmly and trying to force you into the blissful darkness of unconsciousness. You struggled to keep your eyes open, not wanting to give up the extraordinary view before you. But, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t keep them open any longer, and your (Y/E/C) eyes fluttered shut, despite your best efforts to keep them open and on the face of your rescuer.
You could hear the muffled voices of your redheaded friend and the first responders that surrounded you, specifically Dean and Charlie, but you couldn't quite make out what was being said, the drowsiness making it hard to stay focused. You felt yourself being moved, and the noise died down drastically as you were lifted and strapped down to something solid yet oddly comfortable as you fought to stay awake.
You peaked your eyes open, although they burned from all the smoke, you fought through the sting in search of your rescuer, but was met instead with the inside of an ambulance. It was bright, and the fluorescent light hurt your sensitive eyes.
Something warm and made of thick wool was draped over your body, stealing your attention. You refocused and spotted the green eyes you had been desperate to find. You never broke his gaze as the fireman's mask was removed and replaced by a much smaller one. You grabbed at his hand desperately when he shifted to leave, desperate to have him near.
His eyes dropped to where your hand touched his, and his expression softened almost instantly at your attempt to stop him, his large hand embracing yours. “They’re gonna take real good care of you, sweetheart.” He assured, his affectionate gaze turning back to you as he offered you a closed-lip smile. You could hear Charlie’s voice, sounding somewhere close by, but you couldn’t concentrate on anyone other than your hero.
Your vision darkened around the edges, and your grip on consciousness was growing weak. Your hand loosened from Dean’s grasp and fell limp as your eyes fluttered shut. “I’m right behind ya.” He promised as the paramedics ushered him out so they could get moving. His voice was the last thing you heard before the ambulance doors slammed shut, and the darkness of unconsciousness took over.
Thank you for reading I hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned next week for part two!
Read part two, here! -->>
Taglist!
Supernatural
@akshi8278
Out of the Fire (series)
@vicmc624 // @anotherspnfanfic // @krazykelly // @compresshischest09 // @thefamilybusiness
#supernatural#supernatural au#firefighter!dean#firefighter au#firefighter#supernatural fanfiction#supernatural fic#spn au#spn#SPN fanfiction#spn fandom#dean x reader#dean winchester#dean#fire#fluff#series#supernatural series#spn series#katelynw93#part 1#part one#out of the fire
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