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blackwolfstabs · 8 months

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“You’re my good girl.”

What if Sam was just like Tara before she met Richie? She said the same things but didn’t have anyone there to pull her out of the trap. What if the reason Sam crashed the frat party was because of a deeper reason rather than just being over-protective of her little sister? - - - - - - - - - - “If I could get rid of every damn memory, burn the book with the chapter of you and me, it wouldn’t be so hard in the neon dark, trying to fight what might’ve got the best of me…”

Sam got on Tara’s nerves constantly. She knew that. She always knew that her hounding and protecting and clinginess to her sister was considered overbearing and neurotic. And every time, Tara would shout at her, screaming for her to leave her alone and let her make her own decisions. After all, it was Tara’s life.

“If I wanna hook up with an asshole, that’s my decision! It’s my decision. It’s not about you! I mean, you’re– you’re out of my life for 5 years, and then you can’t leave me alone for 5 minutes.”

She hadn’t been there for 5 years of Tara’s life. She hadn’t been there to help her grow up and show her how to navigate through her adolescent years the right way.

Her persistence to keep her baby sister safe was much more centered than everyone thought. Especially on that night, when Tara almost got herself date-raped.

So she wasn’t around for 5 years to show her how to live life the right way… but she knew how to do it the wrong way. And had she not been so stupid and naive at the time, her secret never would’ve got out, Tara never would’ve been stabbed, and fate wouldn’t have led them here…

Sam slipped in between the crowd of people like a cat, agile and skilled among the neon lights and rowdy partygoers. She retrieved an open bottle of vanilla & honey whiskey and tipped it into her cup, filling enough for two shots, before shooting it in one go. It went down smooth after the countless drinks that coursed through her from that night, but the burn was still as fresh as the first 5 rounds. She shook her head like a wet dog to get rid of the tang, then glanced up as a young man flanked her.

“You’ve been shooting whiskey all night like someone broke your heart,” he joked as he retrieved the bottle of cinnamon whiskey for himself.

She shook her head, “Nah, I’m good!” She had to raise her voice over the commotion of chatting and music. “I find it goes down better, when you got nothing to lose! You know?”

The newcomer nodded in agreement, then took his shot. “Can’t argue with that.” He set his shot glass down and went to fill it up again. “What’s your name?”

“Sam. Sam Carpenter. You?”

“I’m Richie,” he answered, shooting her a glance like a blue-eyed snake. “Richie Kirsch.” He saw her nod, then went on to ask. “Where are you from, Sam?”

There was no doubt that Sam was definitely tipsy, on her way to passing the lines of being intoxicated, but she had trained herself to answer that question no matter her cognitive state. She paused in her inspection of the different alcohols available to give him a short look, which he didn’t catch over his downing of Fireball. “Michigan.”

“Michigan?” he repeated, sounding surprised. “How long have you been in California?”

“A while.”

Richie nodded with a hum and grabbed a beer, then glanced over to her with a second one. “You want one?” He offered it to her.

She gave him a smile and took it, before flipping her hair to leave the kitchen. She knew he would chase after her. The boys always did.

And he kept that streak alive.

“So,” he began, tailing her closely as she weaved through the crowd, “do you have a boyfriend?”

She loved it when they asked her this. “Of course,” she replied confidently, “one for every day of the week.” She made it to the back door and stopped. “Thing is…” She looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes with a smirk, “None of them have me.” And she disappeared into the dark of night.

Richie followed, “Can’t settle for just one?”

“No, not yet!” He had his own charm that he unleashed, and she sensed it by the tone of his voice and the way he looked at her. It intrigued her more than any of the other guys. And that made her frisky. “But I might rush it.”

Her follower picked up his pace to walk by her side, not bothering to keep his touch subtle when he felt-up the back pocket of her jeans. He was winning her over fast, even though they hadn’t even known each other for 5 minutes. “Oh, yeah?”

She was that girl, the kind that all the guys loved with just one look.

“What makes you think that?” he quizzed.

Sam kept her head high as she continued her rehearsed front, “Well, Richie… when you’re footloose and collar-free… you take nothing but the best.”

And 2 hours later had 2 strangers entangled in a mess of intimacy on the side of the house. 1:00 AM and the wolves had come out to partake in reckless, young acts of make-believe love that only took an alpha and an omega.

Sam’s fingers gripped Richie’s ginger hair, while he combed through her long blonde-highlighted locks to tug her head back and deepen their kiss. She gave a soft moan as he did so, feeling his hands leave her hair to glide down her back and slip into her back pockets. He gently squeezed, which made her jump with a small noise.

He broke away from her lips, but she dismissed it.

“It’s fine,” she promised, then nodded. “I’m fine. I want to.”

Richie gave her a grin, and they reconnected. He tightened his grip on her hind end and pulled her pelvis into him, hearing her moan again as he did so. Then, he took his hands out of her pockets to move one further down and the other across her back to reach her side, further pressing her body against his.

She let out a giggle that was muffled, which led him to chuckle seductively as she moved her hands down his neck and to his shoulders, where she eventually let her wrists hang limp. She tilted her head enough to secure his lips again, before gently nipping his bottom one.

He pulled himself away but kept her body close. “You already wanna go that far?” he teased, meeting her big, brown eyes that were bordered with a thick eyeliner and flattered by mascara.

Samantha showed no sign of being shy or embarrassed, expressing more of an alpha approach, even though she knew the omega position was her strong suit. “You say that like you're surprised,” she answered, then slid her hand back up his neck. She jerked him towards her and went to purr in his ear, “Care to teach a stray dog new tricks?”

“Mm,” her counterpart hummed as he turned to purr into hers, “Only if I can give her a home.”

She laughed. “You think you can handle me?”

Richie smirked, “I know I can handle you.” Before she could say anything else, he bent to secure one arm around her waist and the other beneath her hind to lift her off the ground. The unexpected change of positions made her yelp in surprise, and her legs instinctively wrapped around him. This made him laugh at her sudden drop in confidence. “You better hold on tight, Sam the Stray.” He chuckled as he jumped her a little and felt her arms enclose around his neck, “You’re heavy.”

Sam tightened her grip as she felt his hand curl around her side to slip beneath the cropped hem of her shirt. Like everything else, she continued to use a smart tongue when she replied, “That’s why they always like me on bottom.” Her eyes flashed in the half-light of the moon, almost beckoning him to seduce her to that point tonight.

His own eyes lightened as he pressed her against the brick wall of the house. “And bad,” he added to his former claim. He grinned as she did, finally seeing a bit of flush in her cheeks as she glanced down. “You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” He ducked his head a little to make sure she couldn’t avoid his eyes.

She glanced back up and sighed, the slight raise of her eyebrow and cool smirk speaking for her.

The other leaned in and captured her lips in another kiss. She followed, but when he pulled away, he didn’t give much space between them. “But you can be a good girl, right?” he whispered. “‘Cause you’re too pretty to be throwing yourself away on drugs and alcohol.” He moved to kiss her cheek. “You’re much more than that, Sam.”

These words made Sam pause. No one had ever told her that before. No one had given her a sense of hope. No one had believed in her. Not since she left her life behind 5 years ago…

She’d been nothing, just a reckless stray on the run. She was free to be herself, and she was free to be by herself. That’s what she’d lived by for the last 5 years. But those words made her feel different…

He made her feel different…

Maybe she could be good? Maybe she could be more than what she was? Maybe it just took someone special to help her see that? Maybe it was him?

So, she nodded.

Richie then pulled away from kissing her neck and smiled at her. It was a sweet kind of smile that made her take on a more mellow and submissive position in their roles.

“You’re a good girl, Sam.”

This made her heart want to crack. She wasn’t good. She was the daughter of a serial killer. She was a mistake to her mother. She was a lie to her step-father. She was careless to her baby sister. She wasn’t good. She was born bad. But this man that she met tonight was telling her that she was good…

Could she start over?

Richie pulled his arm out from around her back and let the brick wall support her there, while he used his now-free hand to tuck her hair behind her ear and brush the side of her face.

She blinked up shyly, then was met with another short kiss. A genuine kiss. And then she was staring into deep blue eyes with her forehead and his own touching to hold the moment.

“You’re my good girl.”

And Sam smiled.

Sam cursed that night. Meeting Richie taught her two things—one: everything is not always what it seems, and two: never let anyone see that they get to you.

She knew exactly how stray dogs worked, no matter how far she had come since being one. She was a guard dog now, but she never forgot what it felt like to be footloose and collar-free. To be chased. To be the one that got away.

She was a tramp, but they loved her.

She never loved herself though.

Since her traumatic experiences, Tara had cut her leash and renounced her collar. She had indulged in the life of a stray, but she didn’t know the price that would have to be paid if coaxed into the wrong hands.

And that’s what Sam was terrified of. Tara was so much like her, it wasn’t even funny. She just didn’t want her baby sister to learn the hard way… the way she had to learn. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

Good doggie, no bone.

— inspired by “Downtown” by Chase Matthew

#scream #scream movie #scream vi #scream 5 #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #richie kirsch #stray dogs #lessons learned #blackwolfstabs #AU: The Way I Am

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bleachification · 2 years

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hope is the devil’s crux

pairing: chuuya x doctor!reader

warnings: lil bit of gore, not very graphic at all

summary: sometimes life is a bit unfair. other times, life sticks you in an inescapable, abandoned tunnel with the man who hates your guts for betraying him, and who is also bleeding out from a stab wound that only you (the traitor) can heal.

authors note(s): part two can be found: here :*

“Go away. I don’t need you.”

“I am the only doctor in a ten-mile radius; we are stuck underground without a way out; I think you may have a concussion, and—oh right—you are currently impaled. So I would argue that yes, actually, you do need me.”

Chuuya tries to scowl, but it comes off as a stiff grimace instead. “I can handle it.”

You stare at him—a bloody mess leaning against a concrete wall—in utter exasperation. His dress shirt is soaked to the point where it blends into the black jacket wrapped around his shoulders. A foot-long jagged hunk of metal, dripping a sinewy red, juts out from the left side of his abdomen like some kind of sick accessory.

Chuuya’s breaths come in terrifyingly shallow beats, and his complexion is beginning to resemble that of a corpse.

Despite his horrid (and visibly pained) state, he refuses you.

If it weren’t such a tense situation, you would probably roll your eyes.

“Stubborn fool. I’m not going to sit here and watch you bleed out. What kind of doctor do you take me for?” You kneel beside him and begin carefully examining the wound. Featherlight fingers trace the outline of his injury as you assess its severity. The feeling jolts him. You can tell by the twitch of his muscles and the way goosebumps rise from his flesh, prickling as skin meets skin.

Chuuya pulls back, despite the pain moving causes. It is an instinct. A defense mechanism structured to protect and force him as far away from your hands as he can get. He needs space—needs it from your touch, your scent, your voice… from your very existence. Any closer and the throbbing in his chest would soon override every other feeling coursing through his body.

“I told you to get away from me; I don’t want your—“

“If the word ‘pity’ even tries to come out of your mouth, I’ll jam this thing five inches deeper,” you warn.

Chuuya doesn’t reply at first. Instead, he turns his head towards the source of your threat and for the first time in hours; he looks you in the eyes. His gaze is half-lidded, but that doesn’t mask his spite. It also doesn’t entirely hide the flickers of emotions he desperately tries to quell. Luckily for Chuuya, you are too preoccupied with arguing with him to register the brewing sentiments reflected in his eyes.

Beads of sweat trickle down the side of his cheek—all the way down to the edge of his chin—until they fall flat onto the dirt-ridden, moss-infested ground, sinking deep within the earth until all that’s left is a darkened patch. The tension is thick as oil and abundantly apparent—in both his jaw and the air between you.

“I don’t want your fake compassion, Doctor.” The redhead spits out that last part as if merely thinking the word fills his mouth with vile poison. Or at least something vividly similar.

You don’t let it show, but his words pierce the air and cut like a sword through your chest, cleaving your heart into halves during the process. It is a familiar sensation, a tangled mess of emotions that has been following you like a restless phantom since the moment you left—and inevitably betrayed—the Port Mafia.

Guilt. Frustration. A foreign and unpleasant sensation that you aren’t brave enough to put a name to.

“I don’t exactly care what you want. I refuse to watch someone die, knowing I could have changed the outcome.” You feign a quick cough, hoping it covers up the waver in your voice.

Chuuya does not believe you. He believes you would bleed him dry and leave him out to hang. He believes you are the sort of person that would enjoy watching him suffer—as you’ve caused him to do so many times in the past. He believes you to be the same type of scum as that idiot Dazai—a traitor who knows nothing of the meaning of loyalty. But at least Dazai had the decency not to toy with Chuuya’s heart and leave it a bitter, ragged mess. At least Dazai only left physical scars, not tainted marks hidden beneath the surface that are only perceivable to Chuuya and Chuuya alone.

You are lying. Chuuya thinks. You have been lying to me for years.

He almost speaks, a myriad of raw and acute thoughts on the edge of his lips, but stops himself just as quickly. Because voicing that thought will be the same as admitting he cares for your words and the weight they may hold. It would imply that you still occupy a place deep inside his heart, buried underneath the layers of dust and wounds, a weakness he cannot afford. So instead, Chuuya simply asks: “Will you leave me alone if I let you fix me?”

You sigh, and a hint of relief seeps out. “I might.”

What a big fat lie. If you don’t keep an eye on him there is a high chance of Chuuya sleeping himself into a coma, but lying is part of your nature and you will fabricate existence itself if doing so means helping him recover.

Chuuya tilts his head back until it gently rests against cold concrete, closing his eyes in acceptance of what you are about to do. Strangely it feels like he’s accepting you… if only for this one night.

In this damp and eerily empty space, the only perceivable sounds come from dripping water and the both of your breaths; his are much raspier than yours. You hope he doesn’t notice the erratic thudding coming from your chest as you inch closer and closer toward him; until you can feel his body’s warmth wash over you. Ignoring (or at the very least trying to) his overwhelming presence, you begin working.

Chuuya is silent during the whole ordeal. As you peel the rest of the fabric away from the wound and examine it in its entirety, the only hint of discomfort he gives is a barely audible hitch in his breath.

You procure sanitizing wipes from the medical kit that sits skewed on your hip and then swipe them across his skin to sterilize the wound and prep for the next—and most crucial—step: extracting the metal.

“What I’m about to do… it will—”

Chuuya’s voice cuts you off. It's softer this time, perhaps from exhaustion. “Hurt. I’m well aware. This isn’t the first time, remember?”

You do. The amount of times Chuuya had walked into the infirmary with something needing fixed couldn’t be counted on the hands of a dozen people. Back when you still worked undercover at the Port Mafia as their head doctor, half your time would be consumed by Chuuya and his medical incidents. Most of those occurrences were for minor injuries that probably would have gone away with a band-aid or a few hours of rest, but you always suspected he used the petty cuts and bruises as an excuse to see you. You feel your lips lift up in a small smile at the nostalgic memory, back when your relationship with Chuuya was much, much simpler.

Chuuya sneezes, then groans from the motion. It snaps you from your stupor and you start to rip open the left side of your shirt, hurrying as you ignore the onslaught of echoes of the past.

Chuuya’s eyes bug out to the size of saucers.

“What do y—what are you doing?!” He sputters, voice rising an octave with every word. Colour seems to have returned to his cheeks as he frantically averts his gaze away from you.

The left sleeve falls off your bare shoulder as you struggle with tearing off the bottom. “I don’t have any bandages that are big enough. Plus, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“That time was an accident!”

The threads finally break loose as you give a final yank. “You ‘accidentally’ walked in on my private bath?”

“Dazai switched the signs. That prick,” Chuuya mutters, face still turned away from you.

His exasperation makes you laugh—a short, sharp huff that draws his attention to yours once more.

Your laugh falters as his eyes meet yours once again. They shine with something foreign, yet so very familiar. Chuuya loathes you. You know it. He knows it. The whole world knows it. So why does he look at you like a world like that could never exist? It is a terrible and false hope his expression ignites—one that pours poison into your eyes and blinds you to the truth. Hope is the worst kind of temptation—devilry hiding behind the mask of something pure—but it is also the only thing keeping you sane in this moment.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

The heat is making you dizzy, or perhaps it's the tight proximity between you and the man who has taken up almost every waking thought of yours in the last two years.

Definitely the latter.

“I don’t have any numbing agents. But here, open your mouth.”

He does as you say, though hesitantly, and you place a makeshift gag between his lips and motion for him to bite down.

“I am really, really sorry,” you whisper.

Chuuya’s groans, even muffled by the cloth, are loud. They echo and bounce off the tunnel walls until finally fading into the distance. It is a long and arduous operation, but he calms down significantly when you successfully remove the source of his pain.

“That was…” He blows out a sharp breath, “that was rough.”

Chuuya is less hostile now. You’re not sure if that’s a sign to be relieved or worried.

“I’m going to stitch you up now, okay?” Your voice comes out low, as if trying to pacify a frightened wild animal.

A curt nod is the only answer you get. At least Chuuya’s no longer trying to pull away or argue, though it’s probably because the night’s fatigue has finally taken hold of him.

You begin to patch him up and pretend his muscles don’t tense every time the needle pushes through.

Always pretending to be okay, even in the direst of situations.

It’s one of the traits he shares with you—an incredible stubbornness that frequently breeds trouble… and a whole lot of grief.

As you finish bandaging Chuuya’s torso, you sneak a glance at him. He is considerably more relaxed, but more importantly, he is staring straight at you.

“What? Something on my face?” You tease, with zero expectation of an answer.

So imagine your surprise when he scoffs and replies with: “I wish. Unfortunately, I find my sight gravitating to your face more often than not. It’s fucking annoying.”

What? Your head spins as his blunt admission sends your equilibrium askew and it takes a second longer for you to completely process his words, and their underlying implication. What does he mean by it? Is it an impulse fueled by his hatred for you? Or does it mean something else entirely… something that gives rise to flickering rays of hope.

“Are you done?” Chuuya’s raspy voice breaks your train of thought once again and grounds you back to reality.

“Almost. I need to double-check something,” you respond.

You spend the next couple of minutes rattling off questions and monitoring his condition. After checking him over once more and finding no sign of a concussion, you let out a sigh of relief and take a seat beside him against the wall.

“You should get some rest for now, your body needs it. I’ll keep watch and see if we can get a signal and call for help,” you inform, already turning on your phone and checking the service. There’s one bar (thank god), and you begin dialing.

Chuuya doesn’t respond until after you’ve called for backup. “I’ll watch. You sleep.” His tone is flat. Final. No room for discussion.

You shake your head, incredulous. “I’m the one who wasn’t bleeding out a minute ago. You sleep.”

Chuuya’s features contort into an expression of annoyance. “No.”

No? No?

You try a nicer tone—a polite one—a tone you use with your more obstinate patients. “Chuuya, your body needs rest. I promise nothing will happen and I’ll wake you when help arrives. Then I’ll get out of your hair and you’ll never have to see me again. I promise.”

He only stares at you like you’ve suggested disembowelment. It makes your left eye twitch. Just a little.

“I said no,” he argues.

You sigh again. “Chuuya plea–”

“I’m not fucking sleeping.”

You explode.

“God, why are you so hard headed? I’m telling you to rest, not cut off a limb! For fucks sake, Chuuya it’s not that big of an ask!” Your chest—much like your anger—rises as you draw in deep breaths.

“And I told you: I. Don’t. Need. It.” Chuuya grits out.

You glare at each other for a rigid minute before the exhaustion of the night takes over and pulls you to the ground, a fair distance away from Chuuya. You stay silent for a beat before voicing your thoughts out softly and wearily. “Why must you keep fighting me?”

A long and hollow silence fills the dark space around you. Not a single sound other than those set by the environment is heard. You quickly realize he has no intention to answer the question posed.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

“I can’t.”

You jerk and practically keel over from the sudden response, but steady yourself just in time to cock your head and ask: “Can’t keep fighting me?”

Chuuya spares you a glance—it has ‘you are an idiot’ written all over it.

“I cannot sleep.” He enunciates each word as if he was attempting to explain quantum mechanics to a toddler.

What an ass.

You swallow down the insults bubbling up your throat (because you are a good person who exercises patience) and shift your body until you position yourself directly across from him. Toe-to-toe, face-to-face.

“Insomnia?”

One simple word; generally it carries minimal significance, and yet it has Chuuya freezing as soon as it is mentioned.

He hesitates and eventually: “...Yes.”

“Medications? Any therapeutic remedies?” You’re in full doctor-mode, poking and prodding in an effort to procure an empirical diagnosis.

“Didn’t work. Any of it,” he huffs.

“How long?”

He turns away from you and drops his head slightly, as if preparing for his answer. “Since November.”

November? Why would that month be such—oh. Oh.

Shit.

Chuuya turns to look at you and frowns upon seeing your expression.

“Don’t. It’s not—“

“My fault?” Your voice comes out shakier than before, but it’s nothing compared to how rattled you are from the realization that Chuuya can’t sleep anymore because of you. Because of what you did to him.

“It’s not,” he assures. His eyes are still fixated on you, and for the first time tonight he’s the one looking worried.

You can only shake your head, afraid of your voice breaking along with what’s left of your resilience.

“It’s not your fault I’m weak,” he murmurs.

That has you snapping your head towards him. Chuuya? Weak? He may be a lot of things, but weak would never come close to being an adjective that describes Chuuya.

“You… you’re kidding, right?”

He must hear the disbelief in your tone because he laughs—albeit sardonically.

“Please. If I wasn’t, do you really think I would have let you walk out of there alive that night?”

You suck in a sharp breath. He’s referring to the night you left the Port Mafia for good. Even after all this time, the image of Chuuya’s expression as you turned your back and walked away with the Agency members is still freshly ingrained into your mind—furious, disappointed, gutted.

“It was my job, Chuuya,” you whisper.

His next question knocks all of the air out of your lungs.

“Was I just a job to you then?”

No. Hell no. Never.

But you can’t say that. So you do what you do best; you lie.

“Yes. You were just a job, nothing more.”

Chuuya bursts out into short laughter, except it sounds too hysterical for it to be genuine. It winds down to a weary sigh as he drops his head into his head, his signature hat falling onto the dirt beside him.

He mumbles something, but his position and your distance makes it ineligible.

“Sorry?” You scooch closer until your thighs almost press up against his, craning your neck in an attempt to hear.

“I said..” He looks up, and you find yourself staring into his eyes for the millionth time today. Long lashes partially conceal his pupils as he repeats his words.

“You are very cruel to me.”

It is the last thing he says to you before the sound of sirens burst from the tunnel's collapsed entrance.

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